Meaning

There is an uproar of laughter

ringing along the Cosmos--
"What would you be?" It gasps,

full of mirth, "if not tortured?"


And to its divine credit
I don't have an answer.










May 2023

purpose

There was a plan for you
impacting millions: over time, you see;
a series of small impressions
meaningful as a Monet.


You did it all, but cannot know
any of the priceless results:
not in your lifetime.
The canvas is millennia.


So, what now?
What can the brush paint
after its last use? Perhaps
nothing, by definition--


Cans of discarded brushes
set on the old windowsill
framing a summertime cosmos
must please the artist, I suppose.









November 2022

Psalm

I flee from you

but don't remember why.

I look for you in the moon,

city pumping in my veins;

I stretch my eyes across water

in fear and longing and grief.

I am a shadow watching lights dance,

envious and lonely, formless and void,

the spirit of creation hovering above me.

I would withdraw further if I could,

if any hole were deeper than unmaking.

But still I plead, like the Fathers

do not pass me by

or give up the chase.

October 2022

A Certain Uncertainty

I confess a certain uncertainty
not that you’re wrong, but perhaps
Truth is a multiple exposure &
overlapping like waves of water,
sound, or light. Then maybe God
sees us all at once, not this moment
or that sin at a time; maybe Truth
pierces us like shadows on a door
. The movement may be here, or outside,
the brightness from a sun, a car, a lamp;
maybe I am the darkness. Or, reorient:
what does the light not strike, behind the door,
as it reflects? Could be anything. Still,
though the light would have been here
anyway, I had a part to play, maybe
just being wrong at the right time.

November 2020

The end of a ship

They cut a rectangle in the Earth,
a final harbor for your empty ship,
then poured in dirt above to fill
its windless sails, secured and still.
For we captains do not descend nobly
astern our mortal barks until the end:
but rather leave them on eternal shores,
step lightly on a sandy beach, and pass
on to weightier things. In time, the sea
reclaims these hulls and sails; cells
and molecules we borrowed here
rejoin the planet and her living rhythms,
perhaps to bear another sailor on this sea.
Who knows? My body might possess
atoms that served better men, or worse;
they haven’t any use for these parts now.
In sacred silence I imagine you, unbodied,
pausing at new Eden’s thick tree line
while your ship, now cast adrift,
settles down into its final berth.
Farewell, for now; for I intend to follow
and seek you out along that shore
once Heaven’s tasks for me are done
and its winds propel my ship no more.





September 2019

Death at bat

We all have our turn at bat.
All eyes on you, the pitcher
marks his attack, then uncoils
like a spring! And your swing
connects, sudden and sure,
sends your soul sailing deep
and fast into the unknown sleep.
You run a little ways ahead,
perhaps pause at first and look
back at us--but you cannot speak
nor can we clearly hear. Behind you
perhaps this year or several hence,
I'll step into the pitcher's glare,
my first time at the plate, too,
and with sweating palms
take my place to join you.





September 2019

Letter from the dead

Do not blame yourself
when clouds like eyelids close
upon me, to drape too soon
the Earth with bloodless dark.
The sullen rain gives life,
although it stings like violence
cold and sharp upon your skin;
it thins the gloom for sunlight
patching through in mindful joy.
I journey onwards as it rains
upon you. Behind me, generations
stretch up from the sodden dirt
as I once did. We did not expect this
sudden grayfall cloudburst, not now—
but curse not the rain, nor yourself.
These are the ways of Earth:
you have only what has been,
and promises, undelivered.
To hope is to be laid bare
as the dirt; you know this, now
carry on with hope. Wash in rain
your body of unthroned hopes; part
with me here, amid dark clouds:
let your open eyes behold the light.

July 2019

Phil

when i feel like you, i imagine
you're still waiting in your tan
90s honda civic, parked outside
that hotel in Pacifica; and i am
pretending to go inside.
but actually, that night
after you taught me how
to drink coffee with milk in it
because it gives it—substance;
after you told me how you knew
God when you played the saxophone;
actually, i climbed that hill in the wind
and met God myself on the cliff
watching the Sea endlessly assault
the relentless stones below.
we spoke of you, about the heritage
of grandfathers and their children;
i perched on the cliff, daring death
if the Sea air had ever let up:
i would have plunged like water
to dash on the sharp coast--
you drove home that night,
thinking God knows what, and
before we ever talked again,
just you and i, your body killed you
those many years after.

Array your skies

array your skies
in regiments of clouds
to shrink the Earth.
make your love legible
even for us—we who know
about supernovas, genocide
plate tectonics, divorce
crucifixion and credit scores—
array your white ceiling for us
make our world small
and close us in
so we can hear you.



June 2019

The Giant

The child is a giant
Laying down across my life
A range of soaring stone hills
Around and across which I have built
The roads and villages of my years.
He wrote “I love you” in crayon
To judge and bind his future Self
On paper long lost to time, now
A tattoo scrawled across my soul
For times I would not love:
The giant stirs, tilting the Earth
Toppling castle walls, burying forests;
Slowly blinks huge hillside-eyes
Raised on one elbow, stares
Across the horizon into my face.
I cannot match his gaze; he knows me,
Has expected me all these decades.
He returns to his slumber
And I repair my toppled bridges,
Clear the landslides and
Love again, as I told myself
Those years ago.





June 2019
When I was a little kid, I went through a period where I was concerned that I wouldn't be a Christian when I was older. The problem was that I knew I wanted to love God at that age, but I didn't trust my future self to feel the same way. And what is the point of committing to Christ at 7, if I think I'll change my mind when I'm in my 20s? In response to this feeling, one time I wrote "I love God" in big, permanent-for-a-7-year-old letters in my journal. I wrote it as both a current statement and also, in my mind, to bind my future self to it. For some reason I recalled that strange event recently and I wanted to write something about it.

The most frequent question

As they have asked
frequently: why
are we here?
For money, happiness,
to hear our hearts beat,
win or lose some
thing—anything—
He looks up
blood on His face
the answer in His eyes:
but we look away
and ask again.






May 2019

Animal

Picking my way across a darkened hollow, tenderly following a narrow path, I see him: far up and to my left, shadow upon shadow, a tense profile outlined against the stars.  More animal than man, he pants with fury, spent by rage; then pauses.  I follow his blackened gaze.  From the opposing crest of a moonstruck hill, she is watching him--has been following his every move--hears him howl with shame, and wounded pride.  Their eyes meet in crystallized violence; his gaze shatters first, and with a snarl he disappears behind the hill.

I have been holding my breath.  I draw a shaky slip of air and look back; she remains, bright and pained astride the far ridge.  Faintly I hear him crashing away through the branches and the bracken, a fading cacophony.

Time dilates beneath wheeling stars: years slip past like days within my hollow.  I see him return; I hear the mumbled apologies; I watch the man-beast stumble among the trees.  Some nights there is peace beneath our galaxy.  Some nights he screams, raising his beast's fist against heaven.  I cling to my short path; the hollow's stream swells and dries, swells and dries, in seasonal repetition.  His voice rings out across the valley--sometimes in fury, sometimes in desperate sorrow.  He screeches of mercy; disclaims her; weeping, begs her forgiveness.

Yet she is a statue, the only frame unmoved by centuries.  The hills themselves shift shapes and settle into place, time-smoothed in their edges and their slopes; in answer, my hollow deepens, pulled by the movement of its streams.  Now deep within this newborn valley, I crane my neck to see her remain, a granite fortitude.

Who can believe her now?  The stars slow; he is old.  His bright fury has dulled to bitterness, resentment, exhausted rage.  His yellow nails still scratch the dirt and his eyes shift nervously, senses alert to forest dangers.  Animal.  Within me, a parade of mounting doubts crash through my silent observation.  She will not really save him.  She is not even real.  She is a stone, an imagined thing.  He will perish--thus.  Crippled mortal, with yellowed lungs, his untamed hair thin and weak, his wild gaze dim and unintelligent.  Animal.  His bones will disintegrate before her--an unflinching stone.

Then steadily within the valley walls I hear her different voice ascend.  She asks me how I learned to measure all his damning sins; how it is I separate the animals from man.  Despite his pride and wild rage, he grieves his sins, she says--but why?  And then demands of me--"Whose voice am I?"

Now from her moonlit perch she moves, shaking off a thousand years to claim such vivid heights I cannot help but see her.  I cannot look away.  He sees her too; she fills our view; somehow not with size but sheer necessity.

"I am the ancient, eternal flame," she simply states: "unchanged, and every morning new.  I am dark clouds of terror, beautiful and fierce; deadly holiness; all time's power narrowed to a moment's pierce.  Yet I would breathe to you of grace and love--redemption in my patience and my pain.  So then, I ask again--Whose voice am I?  And who are you to hear?"

All this in silence; heard deep within.  Rustling, I find I am the animal-man; we are the same; so pierced are we with her holy claim.  Without answer, without a name, I hang our heads in shameful frames.

Then a gentle touch, her hand upon the skin of my rough-hewn face.  She breathes of grace; of love--a glimpse.  I know that I shall find myself the animal again.  But now, hope-pierced, I watch his course upon the hill and wait with silent joy.




March 2019

Animals

Again you find me here,
more animal than man,
trapped in my silver cage
of illusions and sins.
I'm proud and ashamed, but
not willing to concede:
Grace may be sufficient,
but I'm not on my knees.
I recoil from the heat
of my own snarling heart--
but how can I hide this?
You forged me in the dark.
Mumbling apologies,
I slip through years like days,
wondering if my sin
condemns more than you save.
Silently, I confess
I also question if
you care, or if at death
I'll find an empty chair.

Then steadily within myself,
I hear a different voice ascend.
It asks me how I know my sins--
are sins?, and how I find I am
not as the animals, but Man?
I grieve my faults, it knows, but why?
And then demands--"Whose Voice Am I?!"
Then from my empty chair You rise
into view: old eternal flame
unchanged, but every morning new.
Dark cloud of terror, beautiful
and fierce; a deadly holiness,
all power in a moment pierced.
And yet, you breathe of grace and love;
redemption in your blood and pain!
So then: "Whose voice am I? And why
do you hear me so close within?"

A glimpse--then find myself
an animal again.

March 2019

This started out as the first stanza, then sat in my notes folder for a few months.  I came back to it this weekend and started up a tortured development process, resulting in this tepid and awkward execution.  I'm posting it so I can stop working on it for a bit.  I want it to be a lot better than it is, but it's not--and, like me, it's resistant to change.

Vigil

Every time I light a cigarette
It is a vigil for Billy—
His face, dim lit by the flicker
Of a match, or lighter,
A solitary image in the dark of my porch
Suspended over his whisky
and a new cigarette
Mid-sentence, as we discuss
The ruin of culture, and theology:
Sin and God.

Then I look up
To watch planes crawl across my horizon
Like stars through the trees.

One time, desperate to hear
My Savior’s voice, I stared
Into the gloomy night, only to see a single star.
It occurred to me how precious it was
To receive these photons, which
Had traveled longer than the Earth
Navigating past distant cosmos,
Through space and even time itself
Missing every star and planet,
Through voids and vast galaxies,
Plunging into our atmosphere, past
Clouds and mountains,
Threading the narrow spaces between
The branches of my trees—
To end their eon’s path
With me.
And in that moment, I heard
His still small voice.

He calls to us,
To me and Billy,
Softly speaking peace and love
Before the human race was born;
And reconciles all our hearts’ distress
With pinpricks of light
Heavier than we ever know.

Dec '18

Desire Desired

It is, but isn't, desire: a longing
to be Longed For, in our core:
not just our uses or convenience,
but our Selves. It is a human
need: to be wanted, as us.

With flaws & shortcomings,
in brutal specificity, we desire
a Desire for Me, inscribed
upon another heart: the
imago dei of a jealous God.

Well, it's not to be. We are
pale idols, lazy worshippers.
Anyway, this isn't Love:
only a broken reflection of
the jealous One’s desire.

All the same, insatiably
we lust to be Lust's object:
cycle endlessly through empty
tangibles; but find this thirst
unanswered on the Earth.

Why would we want this?
Unless, perhaps, our hearts recall
something we can't remember:
a moment of Creation, the
ultimate Desire expressed--

a point of time;
an unknown memory;
an aching echo;
which all Life with its ears alert
stares back into the dark to see!




October 2018

Mystery

How mysterious I find You--
waking from a pale sleep in which,
nameless and privately ashamed
among a roaring audience, I watched
a haughty man lightly achieve
my own secret dreams, yearnings
denied my own fierce efforts--only
in grief to find Your glory
a mysterious comfort to my dishonor.

Before a perfect God, all my victories
and defeats, I suppose, are
cheap trophies & shallow scars
of a misunderstood time:
a Hegelian atheist may accuse me of
the slave's fallacy; cheapening today's defeat
with the promise of tomorrow's victory;
perhaps. But--that isn't this.

Heaven, a glory known in hints and parts,
and much imagination, but expected
in the heart of every Man since birth--
gift of a Creator God, perfect in joy and
mysterious in kindness--
comforts by consuming
all my misplaced desires,
supplanting all my secret dreams.




May 2017

Mercy

Your mercies are new every morning:
You, who desires mercy
more than sacrifice; a gift
I but poorly comprehend.
When my faith is weak
Your mercy remains complete; and
when my sins all but consume me
I find in You only sympathy where I
expect condemnation, only compassion
when You deserve a sacrifice.

Too lightly do I consider You; and yet

still: mercy overflows, floods my heart
where death should be.

A fragile being, I find myself
perpetually broken, and in my ears
hear the solemn command that I be
Holy, as You are Holy. I'm not, nor
ever shall be, and yet receive
Your grace and mercy, shown to me
(and all) undeservedly. But, emptied of
gratitude, I fumble with this gift,
asking why You'd do such a thing, why
Evil befalls we undeserving mortals,
aghast at the condemnation of those
whose sins do not offend me.

Well, my sins offend me. And as
only sinners can, I dimly see Your grace
and fail to comprehend its meaning;
only every morning, shamed by
each night's sins, I stumble back
to Your unfailing Love, and mercy
which astounds me, making
every morning new.

may 2017

Prayer of a stone unto the Earth

You are the Earth
on which i am established:
a rock on which to build--

yet, hear me. these grasses,
the flowering soil, even trees
and great clustered forests:
i miss them as they pass,
giving way to lonesome Peace.

You are more, i know:
are Gravity, which binds me to the dirt;
are Energy, which collects my molecules
into this solid machine, and its endless rhythm.

forgive my prayers, sometimes echoed
from the Beloved, as Forsaken
in the gasp of abandonment.

You are the fires on my horizons
every dawn and settling night;
are the stars in their holy paths;
are Life itself, in all its coursing ways.

we asked for Peace, and Peace
You gave to us. but now at rest,
i grieve the loss such Peace has cost
and ache inside my stony heart
for the tenderness only passing things possess.



November 2015

Outside

We found God in the garden where we'd left Him, sitting in a pleasant day.

"Pretty much perfect out here," He remarked, gesturing divinely. "Wish you'd come join Me."

"We know," we said, irritable and itchy, heading back inside to watch our shows.

August 2015

the hearing

in dark silence, i complain
to no-one in particular
that i cannot stay here.
the space is too small, and
isn't what was advertised or sold;
a grevious bait-and-switch,
and so i'd like to speak to
management--who tells me
nothing.

later on, a representative calls
to tell me in her pretty voice, space
being what it is, i'll have to stay
and try to compact my frame
to fit what's been given me
or sleep outdoors and wait
with no guarantee for better digs,
plus--a litany of other losses and
regrets.

back, and back again i go
hammering on the manager's door,
convinced that somehow all my
pleading (embarassed and indignant)
will change his iron will. no response
is tendered, yet the act becomes
a balm upon this wound: suffering
in noise to salve the painful
silence.

i never shrink, nor compact, nor
move. the space remains my own, and
i fill it to the brim, a bittered tenant
to my own unwanted place. there is
no resolution known nor hoped, only
dismal continuity to my sneering fate.
late some night, i'll start again to raise my
self-pitying declarations, and find i am
alone

among the ruins of this cavernous
constriction. that's always what
it wasn't, i suppose; i never wanted
the management at all--likely even,
i never minded much the space, just
wanted not to be so wronged, to be
so poorly served. but then, alone,
i suppose i'll find i only wanted to be
heard.




february 2015