Two Bursts of Air

Two Bursts of Air

(“Because you are God’s children, God has sent the Spirit of his Son into us to call out, ‘Abba! Father!’” Galatians 4:6)

She knew what she said before she could
lift herself propped up against the couch;
“mah”.

A single expansion of air, lips and lungs when
she could not find the first nestled retreat she ever knew.

She answered the phone; she was not supposed to;
she heard the voice, the first low vibration her skin had felt;
“dah”.

A single expansion of air, tongue and teeth when
she knew the joy of the first giggling she ever knew.

She wandered into his room, drunk on diapers,
and grabbed his leg to horsey ride;
“boy”.

A new expansion of air, throat and breath when
she knew the playful safety of big brother’s arms.

Dada, Mama, Bubba, Memaw, and Papaw; peanut,
noodle, booboo and bubbles. We all knew who,
we all hear her, we all see around the royal titles
christening our little broods. Dada can be sung like
an ancient ritual, dancing round the living room. Or
“Mama” can be a death wail in the middle of the afternoon.
Dada” can be red-in-the-face stomping stumpy legs away.
Or “Mama” can be the beginning of a sigh snuggled in
The best shelter on earth.

And Abba, I cry to you just the same, I sing. And
Abba, you call me son, or boy, or mickey, or hon.
I have cried, denied, amplified my longings with just those
two bursts of air. And, knowing all, you know I would
rather dance to that rhythm that entices us all to
The best shelter on earth.

April Undefined

April Undefined

(“Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail.” Lamentations 3:22)

April sometimes sits undefined,
a bird who sings and a gale that hides
new beginnings.
We move through it, the square numbers on the
calendar wall. We move through it, black mud,
cotton candy mornings and charcoal evenings.

We hear the next tornado warning,
in the south they start early, like winter in the
north country. We swear there is nothing to fear
until we pass the little house where the trees have
crashed through the roof, with only their roots showing.

Some are captive to their thoughts, still frozen to a dozen
winters past. Some are more active, breathing fire like
summer smashing into September.

Some inspect, others infect; some build siege ramps
upon the walls of the unexpecting. Some suggest quackery,
some just quake. Some cannot sleep, others will not weep;
some ritually send scapegoats over the cliff.

Some suggest wrath has blanketed every enemy, some
imply the enemy is us. 

But the few that view the first rays of morning see further
(sky-up and down; lake-mist and clear; earth-full and washed;
clouds-float and near). The few know that love
peeks through everything and fear hides in plain sight.
April sometimes sits undefined,

But always underlined by appointments with the breeze
that wafts sweet songs to children, oh! dance! Sage
and bluebonnets wear their jewels of the dew.

The Paradox of Clowns

The Paradox of Clowns

(“Examine yourselves, seeing whether you are in the faith; test yourselves. Do you not know that Jesus Christ is in you?” 2 Corinthians 13:5)

We can function just fine, the
windows pasted with rain,
our cups filled with wine.

We can subsist too well, our
porches are well-ordered,
our plates swell with bread.

We know the steps to the dances,
the lyrics to all of Dylan’s songs;
we know what is expected,
Counting all the rights and the wrongs.

But when we are wronged, let’s just
admit it,
the cross was for another man, another time.
And when we are right, lets not

fool ourselves,
we fancy a crown, a ribbon, a promotion,
an honorary degree to show how well we get it.

Still, we are shaken. Within, we are shocked,
(stand by please) and we mock the disheveled shells
of dissenters to our well-crafted lives. Just before sleep
as the last frog in the pond finishes its mating song,
we see the lies, the painted siding, the patched wallboard
and the stains on the rug.

We love Jesus, but we require him to love our loves more.
Jesus saves us. You know, years ago when we wept on the altar floor.
But all we wanted was some remodeling done,
a coat of paint to show whose side we are on.

Just before sleep, if our breathing slows enough, we might
feel the disclosure of scaffolds and hammers and saws
deeper within us than galaxies or stars.

What is the music, the inner racket, the gnawing and buzzing
that at first annoys, then destroys, then stretches toward the
joy

that reimagines everything. Transforms anything.
Invites everyone. Dines with anyone.
Dangerous and transcendent, kaleidoscopic and
transparent,
the song parades like the preservation jazz band
with the same tune played a million different ways.

We would hear him singing if we only listened within,
and heard the music that is
unafraid
of the paradox of clowns.

This Dialogue

This Dialogue

(“Whatever house you enter, first say, ‘Peace be to this house!’” Luke 10:5)

If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to open
this dialogue
again.

I do not need to win.

Your eyes showed the fear within,
and naked anger
bursting
from too many unfinished songs.

If we had it to do all over again, I’d applaud every
lyric and verse
unsung.
I would not need the tune.

Sooner than later I’d like to meet you
for coffee and
first rites,
unscripted with advice set aside.

Just after I return, I’d like to swing
my front door wide
open,
and let within every north and south,
every fair and ill wind

that simply needs to rest on my floor,
on my couch, with silence or without.
Sanctuary.

Turning into Puppets

Turning into Puppets

(Jesus said to his disciples, “Whoever welcomes this child in my name welcomes me. Whoever welcomes me, welcomes the one who sent me. Whoever is least among you all is the greatest.” Luke 9:48)

I’ve seen my brothers turning into puppets,
my sisters into marionettes. I never imagined this spectacle
of recited lines and managed movements.
They are not alive; they are stranded in their own
imaginations. They have made no room for their own thinking,
having crammed others’ brains into their craniums.

A prince was born today, but too few would know it.
In urban Detroit, or a dusty reservation,
in an Alaskan fishing village, or the streets of L.A.
A prince was born today, he eats from WIC and SNAP,
he’s bound to his mother’s back while she vacuums the world.

A princess was born today, but too few would see her.
Her neck is smeared with yesterday’s mud, she does not wash behind her ears,
she gets lost too easily and sits apart in the geometric classroom.
A princess was born today, she plays with ashtrays and envelopes,
she’s bound to her father’s side while he taxis the world.

I’ve seen the puppet shows where you applaud the pompous lectures,
where you adopted conspiracy as your main dish
and missed out on the best. You’ve let an
alien wind, more bluster,
blow away the innocence you learned before you made
cemented churches your master.

Listen to the littles, hear them for once or twice again,
come down off your stage, burn down the curtain,
there is no us and them, there is no actor and audience,
only children and servants who play in a kingdom
where Jesus rides the carousel with them. Undress the
hand that molds you like the rest,
cut the strings and hang limp like the day you were born.
The royalty of the kingdom is found gazing at butterflies
and running outside without their shoes on.

No One Leaves Hungry

No One Leaves Hungry

(“He took the five loaves and the two fish, and looking up to the sky, he blessed them, broke them, and gave them to the disciples to set before the multitude.” Luke 9:16)

I do not know who you are
reading these words,
seeing this page online,
but I want to share my bread with you,
my skin with you,
the tent I live within.

The dirt that I am made from,
the mud that molds my frame
is the same as every other earther,
we are 6 billion and the same.

And Jesus loved the bread of the land,
he love the fruit of the vine,
he shared it like a baker,
he blessed it like a priest,
he divided it like a maître d,
he held it like a grandfather on
Christmas eve.

No one leaves hungry when we share our bread,
no one leaves angry when we keep our skin on,
no one deserves our judgment, no one knows the story
from first to last, from vast lifetimes birthed without
our consent.

So we set the table; no we dine on the couch or
the picnic blanket closer to the soil. We are broken,
we are one,
we are open,
we are children aching for the sun
with our unanswered prayers and losses,
our good fortune and the gossips that talked
out of time.

We invite the one who spoke behind our back,
(our own words were swords not long ago).
We make room for the loneliest widow,
for the offkey and off the mark beliefs
we are certain are mistaken.

But this is becoming too unwieldy,
I only want you to know my story
and listen like it is bread that has been baking
and filling your head like yeast, and filling your
heart to
love the least and just join the band of humanity
that multiplies in the hands of dusty people
who still hunger for a shared loaf of bread.

From mud to grain, there is no better explanation
than a preoccupation with love.

After Lunch

After Lunch

(“Then he said to her, ‘Daughter, your faith has healed you. Go in peace.’” Luke 8:48)

He had just finished lunch and his hands
were still greasy;
he needed to wash them before touching anything.
He wasn’t sure where the pain would take him,
it had struck him nearly dead the day before.
He wasn’t sure what friends would believe him,
or if they would talk about their aches too.
Or would they leave him thinking every word was
another complaint from a faithless mind?

It struck him, a mallet to the head, that so many who
once loved his words,
now barely heard what he had been saying
for years. Certainly, since they could not see,
the invisible pain must be a cry for attention.
(or at least something he should become strong for,
should overcome for the sake of those who walked past
him in phases like the moon who heard the same tune
and nothing new.)

He washed his hands with dishwasher Dawn
And cut the grease, deleted the germs and viruses
just in case someone might hug him back into the world.

Some even asked him, face to face, why his prayers
were not answered or
why he felt God fell silent
when he inquired as to causes and sources.
There must be a reason for the secreted decade
of pain.

Just the same, he wondered too, but with more passion
than suspicion. Just in case, he took to asking, in the
fashion of the day,
what the the definition of love was
among those who stayed away. 

A trace of mustard remained between his fingers;
he noticed the spicy notes as he scratched his nose.
He wanted to spill the beans, empty his heart of everything,
but there was no one nearby who would do the same,
and he feared losing his sanity over silences that remained
when he asked the rest of his friends why God had not
answered them.

But someone saw, the decade of bleeding, someone obscured
by humanity’s crush, someone surrounded by heaven’s attendants,
someone, it seemed, just like us.

He braved the cloud of unknowing, reached past the murky air
into the other world that crams this world complete. He found,
still with pain unabated, someone who knew before
he was known. His hand still stained, he moved in closer,
and remained until he was finally noticed. And then

He withdrew

still laid flat by the relentless plague; still chased by the
the unshakeable isolation of the unclean issue of nerves
he had spent a fortune to heal.

If anyone had seen him reach beyond the veil,
then saw him the next day, and a month after that,
they would swear he had failed, and knock less often
at the door of his heartache.

But there were moments, shorter than lightning, when
he knew
there was less wrong and righting than this world knows,
and only love that heals whos and whys and those
who wait uncurled for the new kingdom,
the new world,
the--your will on earth as in heaven world--

World without end, amen.