To Memorize Their Song

 

To Memorize Their Song

(“Beloved, let us love one another, because love is of God; everyone who loves is begotten by God and knows God.” 1 John 4:7)

I held the ticket in my hand as long as I could,
I boarded the train, the thunder shook, the rains
explained their course in fractals across the windows.
I sat in the observation deck but there was nothing to see.
I had taken the overnight,
and the plains passed blackly underneath my eyes.

The blindness increased the emptiness sitting
alone
next to the cold gray window.
Just a mom and a daughter sitting behind me,
sweet sixteen and the youngest of three,
their conversation was spotty, like the first verse
of a folk song. Then retuning for the next.
Or more like a Dylan song,
where you don’t know if the middle verse
is the first
and the last is the overture. The words were fast
to start with,
punctuated silence between the breaths.
High school, boyfriends, future plans,
cool mom, hair bands, and dance recitals
began before she was five.
I heard it all, the delightful duet colored
my blue night better. They did complain
(everyone does on a train. At night. Crossing the plains)
The seats were sore, the sights were boring, the food was
bland and not a teenage boy in sight.
But their song always ended with laughter or
the kind of sigh when two people know the rest
of the story
and the listener only knows the patina.

I held my ticket until I disembarked.
I walked past the singers on my way out.
Asleep now, leaning into each other with
a single blanket covering their laps. Two flowers
I caught at full bloom. But it made me wonder
what care it had taken, what nurturing, whispered encouragement,
notes left on the fridge, or rides to practice had
distracted them from all the danger that can drive
the best love away.

I kept my ticket to memorize their song.

Another Unfastened Heart

 

Another Unfastened Heart

(“But anyone who drinks the water I give will never be thirsty again. The water I give people will be like a spring flowing inside them. It will bring them eternal life.” John 4:14)

My heart is not cold, friend,
my heart is broken. It is
wounded and scrapping,
apologizing too often;
just a sapling pretending to be
full grown.

Do you like my story so far? Or have I created a narrative with
no exit or u-turn?
I fear the dead end will now hit me
head on.
That’s what happens on road trips
when conversation turns deeper than
a quick lunch or the tenth text in a row.
The heart leaks out and you cannot restore
what the traveler heard in your moment of
unguarded truth. The truth leaks out, the
memory is burned,
and the story cannot be unlearned.
Many have parted ways after such over-exposure.

My heart is not silent, friend, my heart is old. It is
wrinkled and flattened,
deflated and out of ideas for
a new opening paragraph.
Ask me the same question again,
I will be less honest, and time will bury
the lie.

Many have silenced their fears at such candid disclosure.

My heart is hopeful, friend,
my heart is watered. It is
thirsty and gladdened
by streams of simple words
from another unfastened heart.
Ask me the question again,
I will not lie, and will let the waters
refresh this time.

My Body Hates Me

 

My Body Hates Me

(“Then Esau took his wives, his sons, his daughters…and he moved to a land some distance from his brother Jacob.” Genesis 36:6)

Tell me what it is you want me to choose; what is the payoff,
I am so confused.
It feels like a cartoon convention that might have
turned into a disaster if not for the intervention of bodies in the sun
making short work of a huge backyard chore left undone.
By the end of the day the brush pile had been chipped and sent
over the hill.

I should be grateful; more than I guessed helped with the
monumental task.
Instead I hated my life even more. My body
refuses to do what it should. The pain wraps my face
as I try to set a reasonable pace. The rented machinery
roars in my ears and I do not want to appear useless
as I take more breaks than anyone.

My body is no longer my friend. My body hates me.
Weekends once spent on the tennis court are
now spent in pain on the couch.

I feel guilty, I feel ashamed while this
ungodly pain
keeps me from seeing anything through.
I cannot work outdoors four hours with my friends,
and a single song takes me months to record.

Before the end of the day, I simply quit.
I went inside, drank cold water and tried to sleep.
I hate my body, useless on the couch. Who knows,
maybe I fake all this pain to get out of the hard stuff.
The depression creeps in like a fog thick as pudding.

And then the work is done. I face everyone. They know
I quit. Their eyes are on me, they care for me, but I feel
I must
plead guilty
for not holding up my end. I live as an invalid,
and I am not an invalid.

People are kind, some half my age,
spent half a day tackling a monstrous chore. My brain
knows more than my body will admit. I was blessed today,
but my tears rain on well into the evening; my ego took a hit. Yes,
I suppose that explains it.

So, help me make up my mind; is there a warm front to
dry my idiot tears? I am blessed, I am cursed; the worst
and the best
are ever at my doorstep. The pain has made my body
the enemy. But the friends, the family are
my remedy.

A Ribbon Unbound

 

A Ribbon Unbound

(“Jesus replied to him, 'Truly, I tell you emphatically, unless a person is born from above he cannot see the kingdom of God.’” John 3:3)

Placed around the human psyche like a ring of wildflowers
dancing a round,
there are scents that play completely unnoticed, found
only on the loneliest days. The earth may warm,
the breeze shortly cease, and languid moments
lasting only seconds
speak of eternity as if there is a ribbon unbound by
dimension
that has wrapped us up like a birthday gift.

I confess I need a party to know it.

Spirit take me into the deep, under the waters,
to the middle of the forest and the beat of the
few who gather, though they know not why they
were summoned. I suppose it is life I am after,
denser than the hot air
that imitates resurrection. I suppose these tears
are my desire to surrender like daisies do to
earth and sun and water.
Spirit sweep me off my feet.

I Do Not Refer to Ancient Tales

 

I Do Not Refer to Ancient Tales

Can I please speak the words you fear to hear?
May I please tell the stories that make my veneer thinner still?
I do not refer to ancient tales so old there is no trace of them.
I do not spin a yarn with the motives and suspects disguised.

If you gave me time to unwind it all,
you would soon discover my uncovered plotlines
carry on to this day and the next
from midnight to purple midnight again.

I am not innocent, though I try to hide myself well.
I veil my passions behind philanthropy and my
lusts behind synonyms for love and friends.
Be that as it may, once you find yourself entranced by my tales
you will discover the dirt dug up in the middle of the forest
was my dirt with my shoe prints all over it.

Some I will say are just my dreams and are empty of all meaning.
Some you will see are more than dreams and send your thoughts
careening
down avenues that lead you to the slums where
my darkest stories begin. What you will not know until the
stories end
is all my stories never leave their home of origin.

To say that this frightens some is evident,
but it is too small a word. For it frightened me from birth
to teen to husband to parent and onward. To some I have confessed,
others made a lucky guess, others heard my story from someone
else’s mouth how I transgressed with full phone numbers and
addresses. And though they happened long ago,
and though the storyline travels through the middle of me,
I will not deny someone else’s fable. Why discard their
ability to move my plot along? Their draft might be
much better than my own.

My Secrets Slip Out

 

My Secrets Slip Out

(“You will see heaven open. You will see God's angels going up and down to the Son of Man.” John 1:51b)

I confess there is a vacancy,
a place where love should be found,
but I find no one there.
I’m not cut out for crowds anymore,
I have no more tricks up my sleeve.
but sometimes my secrets slip out
and I fear the few who have stayed will
finally leave.

I confess there is a jealousy,
a place that feels so empty
because I want to be what
everybody else really needs.
I’m just not cut out for rules anymore,
I have no more tears left to shed.
But sometimes I pour out my heart
and delete it because
I fear the few who have stayed will
finally leave.

I confess what I have confessed before,
a place that should sing your name
because I am just that broken
and weary of trying to change.
I’m really not cut out for much anymore,
I have no more advice to give,
but sometimes I fake a few lines
with the hope of hearing a voice
that tells me
why you would never leave.

Something in the Air Flashing

 

Something in the Air Flashing

(“Behold the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world!” John 1:29b)

There is something in the air flashing,
something in the air refracting the
light into a million diamonds dancing on the
unfastened sky.

The River Jordan is muddy and cold,
but the air above it is warm and clear.
The scheduled stoning on the outskirts of town
has been officially cancelled. And so have the barbed
hooks
thrown down from superior summits
to teach upriver swimmers a thing or two.
Shaded in black and white, every hue became
white and red like wine in a prism’s beam.

But there is limitless space where the river
meets the air,
bodies bursting forth, eyes sparkling,
toes still clenched to the silt underwater.
The greens are an artist’s dream where
color occupies every atom: trout, cedar,
ranch fence, cherry, olive, earthworm and
diamond ring.
The atmosphere swells, an overture of
songbirds and saturn’s orbit around the sun.

Some hear it and lay down every sharpened word
used
to slay the enemy before the enemy knew
their own past was darker and vacant. Some refuse, tuned
only to martial percussion. They will not lay
their weapons down.

But the river still runs deep,
the air still dries every drop,
the Lamb still waits quietly, taking up the rear,
following to catch the few who straggle
behind. The Lamb repeats
the heaven song and removes every
wound and blade. The Lamb whispers us toward
the river
and waits for us to hear.