Leftovers

“Anything from the ordination ram or from the bread that is left over until morning you are to burn up. Don’t eat it; it’s holy.” Exodus 29:34 (The Message)

Sacrifices accompanied the ordination of Aaron and his sons as High Priest among the Israelites. This sacrifice of a ram was eaten by the Priest during the ordination ceremony. Whatever was left over was to be destroyed by fire; both the meat and the bread.

Going to Drown

Going to Drown

(“So the disciples went over to him and woke him up. They said, ‘Lord, save us! We’re going to drown!’” Matthew 18:25)

I don’t want to fight the squall all alone,
or wake to find I feel I must beat the storm back down.
I heard Your words, memorized others, know the stories well,
recite them to the waters that roll, pitch and swell
reminding my only that the angry foamy is
under divine control.

Whether You are awake or alert, the floods spill
and I cry for You to still what I cannot endure.
You did it for them, a cork on the rage,
a bobber on the roar. While I sleep waiting to wake
without the pressure pounding my eardrums blind.

Must faith always be without sight, trust without
audibles massaging the bellow until I reach the distant shore?

Is my faith so miniscule it cannot move the simple dirtpile
upon my brink? Is my trust such a hallucination that to see is
never to touch?

I hold the tears violently within, cannot bail fast enough
and I give in
to the tirades cascading from memory to now; the flood undammed
and the tidal wave bulldozing hopes in the sun.

I am such a whiner, I know. Everyone else, I know,
has troubles more than mine. And so I am caught between
a storm untouched by the divine
and my own refractory mind unresponsive to
love’s comfort said.

I would step across time, or boundaries, or memories if I could,
to revisit more golden days my mind says were stiller than now.

Because my companions, once bailing left and right, clever
and center, are beyond my reach. Perhaps once they read
the labels I’ve acquired, they would walk arm’s distance
unbailing my daydream during the siren screech of the wail.

That is one thing I know, You have not bail or jumped ship,
but I would, please Dear Sir, for You to stop the waves

Now

Whether climate’s stew
or my broken mind’s vast
imagination.

Calyxes

Calyxes

The rain batters between shutter bursts of sunshine,
the buds bow their heads in reverence, protection.
While puddles fill, mud clods break, and
light punctuates the occasional hiatus,
the sprouts and not yet blooms are covered, protected;
Calyxes keeping delicacy for summer to observe.

Headline: Good News!

“I am proud of the good news! It is God’s powerful way of saving all people who have faith, whether they are Jews or Gentiles.” Romans 1:16

 I am so glad that I can always have good news. No matter the weather; darkly wet or scorching dry, the good news remains the same. I am glad there is always a headline to each day that reads: “The Good News is still available.”

Of Pearls and Pigs

“Don't give to dogs what belongs to God. They will only turn and attack you. Don't throw pearls down in front of pigs. They will trample all over them.” Matthew 7:6

We love to be right. And, we love be right about what we thing is righteous even more. If we are convinced we are part of a good and just cause, we tend to argue that point stronger yet. And why not? Any fool should be able to see the worth of our belief as well as we do.

I Long to Hear

I Long to Hear

Sleep I do not fear, acquainted with its tow that
sucks me below consciousness. Sleep is the safest place
I’ve found, night or day, no matter the sounds around my
ears. Only my back can wake me sure with its electrical slice.

I miss the day, I miss the hours, I miss the walks, I miss the
daffodils peeking from warmspring dirt more faithful than
my recent attentions to duty.

I do not want to write another dirge, and would be happy
to interpret birdsongs as salutes to the sun; dogbarks as
percussive dances with the windchimes. Dots like rain,
underline the day; green like clover, sings the refrain;
sapphire skies complete the chorus,
but my days remain porous, holding each circuit within
spongy combs. Everything new has been done
and nothing wakes me to see what no one
has seen before.

One occasion in a million, and I talk to a friend,
still 18 in my faulty memory, when neither has seen
our sagging faces for 30 years or more. I do not recognize
even my own.

My dog still would romp, and I simply shuffle, leaving
shavings from my sneakers in wandering lines upon the asphalt path.

I cry, rarely tears, I used them up a year ago; but still
I cry, fairly often, between dozing and praying that
sleep would leave. But having been shoved out the door,
sleep leaves pain in its wake, and I want to go to
sleep once more where pain cannot reach me;
where trust and dreams speak
the language I long to hear upon awaking.

The Wild Ox

The Wild Ox

(“Can you depend on (the wild ox) to use his great strength and do your heavy work? Can you trust him to harvest your grain or take it to your barn from the threshing place?” Job 39:11)

There is no way to train your strength,
yoke you, cajole you, lead you, plead with you.
Your power is greater than mind,
your attention boasting, nostrils flaring like
a fire-breathing dragon.

Why would I try to tame, sun or rain,
the elephant’s cousin, the rhino’s comrade,
the stomping that grinds the earth to powder,
the pawing that turns the prairie dark as arctic winter;
as dozens of paws make the sod roar applause
leaving clouds upon the flatland, clouds upon the
razorbacks, clouds upon the buttes, clouds contending
with the sun.

Nets cannot collar and clatter annoys,
smoke rings comply with blue instinct alone.

Wielding microscopes and parsing DNA,
dissecting brain matter and genealogy
only take me to the cliff’s of Ocham’s razor
positing what I cannot posit by
reason alone, while I look within time

For That which time cannot contain.