Friday, January 23

A Mary Heart

Your children are of vocal stock
One thing that they can do is talk
And fill their face with laughter lines
That overlap and intertwine
But I was born to stand apart
And ponder these within my heart
To wander in the yard and see
To dream, to get to know a tree
And so amid the word-filled air
You may not have known that I was there
But sight may be a thing we shared
And you indeed may not have cared
That I was somber, staid, and terse
And slow of tongue and filled with verse
You may have known something at least
About a heart that holds its peace
But in the end you had no choice
When sickness took away your voice
And I would sit beside your bed
And not regret the words not said
While all around were laughter peals
While words were whittled, wheels in wheels
But in that raucous holy place
A Martha practiced Mary grace
Within, your deep would call to deep
And you would blink and drift to sleep
And I would note the cherished depth
Of holy secrets that you kept
And now that death has closed your eye
We sit in silence, you and I
And dream a dream of sainted throngs
And bellowed praise and angel songs
Where loud reunions fill the air

I think you’re going to like it there

Tuesday, July 8

One of these days

One of these days
I may decay
And fizzle instead of flourish
If I decay (and Lord, I may)
If I decay,
May I nourish


Saturday, May 3

Ready and Waiting

I’ve read all the books;
Now I’m waiting for life to begin.
So I’ll just watch TV
While I wait for the joy to kick in.

But a stepstool never taught me height,
And a candle never taught me light,
And this world never taught me sight–
Just enough to crave.

And assurance never quenched my fear,
And logic never made things clear.
Invocation only brought you near
Enough to just behave.

So I’ve checked off the list,
And I’m waiting for sanctification,
And I’ll sit by the door
‘Til your message is preached to the nations.






Friday, April 11

Kiss the book

Kiss the book
But read its writ
All that is and shall be said
About love
Is nothing
Is no thing among things

But reify the deified trait
By clarifying your rarefied state
For God is love
And God is a verb

So bite the bitter book
Swallow that script-scrawled scroll
And when it strikes you sick
Know that that means love
Action it

And all shall be well

Friday, April 4

In Hall

The words from the wilderness taught us to live,
But when we grew weary of their wildness
We went to the man in royal robes.

Gold had gathered in icicles that hung from his beard.
They chimed each other as he talked,
Sketching out the way he had for us.

The music was alluring, lulling us into his words,
Though they were only I-cycles that echoed nothing.
But we would learn the hard way.

He was many.  The hall was filled with him.
And no one thought of the single voice that had cried,
Calling us in, making the first mark on our souls.

We were hungry to listen, to follow a word,
And his felt so free in its shackles.
We gave his words our actions.

Actions echoed out of the wilderness, knocking words on their knees.
The wind had come to reap its wild children.
But we were seated at royal table

And felt nothing.

Friday, March 28

“Let there be light.”

And the Word said,
“Let there be light,”
And so few of us
Followed the command,
Full of our own designs.

But we, the blind,
Were sighted by light,
Who brought our own
Darkness to the well
And drank of His brightness.

And let it be.
Let it slither and crawl,
Stride and leap,
Swoop and soar
Across the nighted world.

In our spaces, let it be.
In our places, let it be.
Let the music of our
Spheres of influence
Be light.

To not seek to create it
But simply to let it be
That we may say,
“By this I see,”
Even uncomprehended.

Friday, February 21

The Mouse and the Vole: A Fable

Once upon a time, there was a tiny ill mouse who lived in a tiny mouse house with a beautiful garden. When he was feeling particularly well, he would sit in his garden and drink water from a teacup.  
One day, while sitting in this way, he felt ill again and went inside.  From the window, he could see that he had left his teacup of water in the garden, but he did not feel well enough to go retrieve it.  Later in the day, the mouse saw a housefly alight on his teacup and drink the water.
“Even flies must get thirsty,” he thought, and he was happy that the water had been there for the fly to drink.
The next day, the fly returned to where the teacup sat, only to find it empty.  Feeling bad for the fly, the little mouse stumbled out to the garden to get the cup, refilled it with water, and set it outside again.  That evening, the fly came and drank.  Once again, the mouse felt happy for what he had done for the fly.
From that day forward, the mouse would fill his teacup with water every day and place it in the garden, where the fly would stop and drink.  Some days he felt very ill indeed, but even then he managed to put out the water for the fly, for he knew that the fly was used to getting his water in this way.
Several years followed, and the mouse died, as all mice do.  On the great bus to the afterlife, he sat next to a vole.  
“Where are you headed?” asked the vole.  
But the mouse didn’t know the answer.  “I have been ill for a long time,” he said, “with only one distraction.”  He then proceeded to tell the vole about the fly and the water.  “I supplied water for that fly for three years,” the mouse concluded.
“But houseflies only live for a day,” the vole replied, “so you must have helped over a thousand flies find water.”
“Yes,” the mouse said, “but it is such a small thing.”
“Not to the flies,” said the vole.
“But do flies even matter?” asked the mouse.  
“Do mice?” asked the vole.
“But, I could have pushed myself harder, taken better care of myself, gotten out of my little mouse house and done something truly great,” said the sad mouse.  “How do I know if it was enough?”
Just then, the bus stopped, and the driver yelled back, “Mr. Mouse, this is your stop!”
The mouse took a deep breath and stood up.