This and That

People are most helpful when they recognize where they end and God begins.  This distinction is what separates true works of mercy from their insidious counterfeits:  control and manipulation.

Flattery versus friendship:  Flattery seeks to further the Kingdom of Me.  Friendship reaches out even when there's nothing to be gained.

Being known in the right and reasonable ways can be a bulwark of sanity and the greatest consolation.

Looking back (one year ago) . . . . .

Jesus and Me

My conversion to a more rigorous and intellectually upgraded Christianity seems to be fragmenting to pieces.

But, then again, anything that is artificial in me -- let it break.

I'm beginning to sense that real holiness is going to turn out to be far different than I'd imagined it to be.  I thought I'd imagined it devastatingly well, when in fact I'd imagined it devastatingly.

Holiness, I believe, is going to have to begin with some grassroots gratitude for things just as they are and just as they were.  No overcoat of gloss, no sanding over the rough edges, no erasing the splotches . . . . 

September 4, 2010

~ Turquoise

Frightened Bird

There will be days of doubt,

but when the time comes,

you will sing,

not for yourself,

but for God's mysterious purposes;

and, in this, it will not matter
what rank or genus or species you are.
Only the song will matter,

so if you pray for the wind to bring it forth,

God will carry it

where it needs to go,

and the sound will speak

of Him.

Time's Due

Perspective change --

and thoughts cost more,

less able to flit

here and there as before.

More leaden, more fixed,

more concentrated pain,

less able to distract

for momentary gain.

More weighty, more real,

non-negotiable views,

with a strong aversion to

frivolous news.

Get to the bottom line --

don't waste time.

The long, crooked route

is a spiritual crime.

Unmoored

Without the depths of gratitude,

nothing worthy stands.

Persons are dispensable;

words -- just shifting sands.

Value comes then leaves again,

changing with the moon.

Love flows in then ebbs away

from midnight to high noon.

Nothing stable, nothing sure,

nothing fixed in stone --

when gratitude is missing,

man loves himself alone.

Strong Arms

When distraught,

it is good to let the

duduk and heavy strings

seep slowly into the soul,

like the strong arms of a father

bending low to lift his child

     up,

          up,

               up

                    to his shoulders,

                         then, with a knowing smile,

                              gently in the air above his head --

transcendence speaking

in no uncertain 

terms.

All

Knowing isn't everything,
and seeing doesn't bestow domination.
Being in God,
just being,
amidst the knowing and the seeing,
is all
that is asked
of a man.

Waiting

"Something is wrong,"

murmurs the wind to the sky.

Uneasy down here,

I appeal on high.

All is calm,

all is still,

but something eludes me,

pray though I will.

Expectant, I wait

(for what, I don't know),

as I hold fast to hope, begging,

"Please, hope, don't go."

Just Between Me

They like to think they know you,

so they ask no questions,

smiling benevolently

at the you they've decided

you are --

who you are not.

And they would have you remain

that way

as they glide right past you

to greet the you

who doesn't exist --

because it so pleases them

to have settled upon

any fixed idea of you
at all
which, by the way,

is probably much more

manageable and tolerable

than the you

you really are.

Shift

A sensitive nerve tweaked

by talk of weakness and failings,

then a subtle shift inside.

The poetry changes,

as I am left without a script,

agenda skewed,

lodged on a new plane of thought,

unfamiliar.

Tried to glean the last wind of thought

that passed through,

but to no avail.

Here, there is no

map,

and feelings last forever.

Nothing more to say 
on such a disorienting day.

Friendship's Call

Friendship's call can be heard

miles and miles away,

even when one does not

know what to say.

The spirit remains,

though courage be weak;

and when words are needed,

God will help one to speak.

Holding Fast

There are times when a person

can see straight through,

while others rush to chide,

"Only you?  Only you?"

The Delicate Balance

There are those who smash rising truth

without thinking twice . . .
who, in the name of love and duty,

flatten wonder,

awe,

and dawning realizations

with the tacit supremacy of
the intractable,

the material,

the practical . . . 

and something is lost,

perhaps forever,

when tender infant thoughts

must fly away abruptly

to make room

for another's brusque concrete and immediate.

Is this truly the flowering of mutual charity,

or is this a tragic

misunderstanding of duty's sweeter way
whose flawed spirit --

tainting its best works with the blunt force of a hammer --

will most quickly crush the soul?

Native Hunger

There is something up there,
out in the open,

beyond the lies and evasions

and the million little cowardices of man;

and the ravenous hunger draws me

away from walls and ceilings and doors

to the 

great Out There,

where freedom is a garment 

I can feel

blowing against my arms,

whipping back and forth in the wind,

widening my eyes

from tunnels to skies . . .

and I try to remember

this feeling of Free,

so that I can bring it back with me

inside the walls and ceilings and doors

and never lose me

again. 

Montage for a Beloved Soul

Roses for your memories,

scattered with glee at a New York curb,

shower of petals

drifting gently down

upon a soft small face in a carriage,

a toddler pulling a tricycle,

a young child skipping past the Coca-Cola playground,

ice cream dripping on a park bench,

legs dangling.

Roses, fresh and blooming,

roses, pure,

roses, innocent,

roses, bursting with color and life.

Roses, sweet roses, for your

memories.

Quiet Demise

Into pieces trust crumbled,

silence enshrouding
the breakage,
that tender point at which
trust,
crestfallen,
buckled and snapped,
showering splinters into the 
depths
of a spirit
already shattered.

Injustice Severe

Out of sync,

raw nerves triggered

by a blast of unknown scent

inhuman, unfriendly, unbearable,

wafting through the trees,

tainting the sweet forest

then gone, gone . . . 

except for what is left

in me,

pulsing through my head

unnaturally,

pounding for over a day,

stealing my time, my life,

belittling intentions,

erasing plans,

mocking the calendar,

setting obscure nerves into

frightening seizures of motion,

and tilting my world

beyond my reach.

This, the destruction wreaked 

by harsh and unforgiving

molecules

thus rearranged and approved by man

then borne away with the wind

to no account.

Being

A daunting, terrifying

thing it can be

for Present to embrace Past,

saying, "This, too, is me."

Perhaps

Hope . . . 

a sudden flicker of light,

blanket of calm down deep,

mystery whispering to the soul,

"Perhaps all is not lost, after all.

Take my hand."

No Surrender

World preoccupied and deaf, 

I will not surrender my meaning

to your oblivion.

The truth in me will endure.

There is no small truth in the universe.

It is all as majestic as the

mountains,

all bathed in God's glory,

even if no human eyes

ever see it,
even if no human ear

ever hears it.

My cry is real.
He hears.
He knows.

Humility

Out of this chaos,

make your plan.

     How on earth?

     Is this a joke?

No, and please,

make that plan.

     But with which pieces

     of the chaos do I start?

     Top first, or bottom?

     Left first, or right?

A plan will solidify,

impart direction.

     But which way?

The plan,

don't you know?

It flows from you.

    It does?

Like this --

     I don't see anything.

Try this --

     Nothing's happening.

OK, let's start at the top.  Got a ladder?

     No.

OK, then, let's start at the bottom.

Got a dumpster?

     No.

Why are you dusting that lamp?

     Because it's dusty.

There are thousands of dusty things here.

This is not a strategic choice.

Why, out of everything, are you starting with this?

    Because I can reach it.

The Odyssey

Still so confusing,

a superimposed awakening by degrees,

visually jarring each time

as I steal second glances

(keep it smooth, smooth),

and it's just so unheard of,

this Rip Van Winkle feeling

of "'conscious' but still 'coming to.'"

Can't grasp how they've aged this way -- is this real?

Yes, yes, the wrinkles are real -- it's serious.

Now 20 years have passed

and there was this big bridge over this big gap

which I obviously missed crossing (no bridge left for me),

so in the last five minutes I quickly leapt over the chasm.

Late, I'm so late,

don't want to be left behind

(although I really am),

and here I am,

rolling, rolling, 

grass, twigs, and dirt

stuck to my hair and clothes (clean up -- you're a disgrace!)

like a parachutist just

landed

after an emergency exit -- 

20 years ago.

Good luck to me.

Exclusion

They speak to each other,

they acknowledge each other, 

but not you.

They talk around you,

even mentioning your name,

but not to you.

Perhaps they have forgotten to remember

that you're as real as they are,

that their erasing of you does not also

erase the pain you feel

at being rendered

invisible.

Ode to Garlic

Dearest Garlic,

How I thank thee,

sweetly sulfuric friend,

dome-shaped "Russian penicillin,"

stalwart annihilator of germs,

hardy bulb enfolding all

in the pungent embrace of your scent,

lifter of mood,

bringer of warmth,

strengthener of bonds,

nurturer of families,

giver of robust health!

Those of delicate nose, sadly,

run from you,

and now they will run from me!

But how can I not sing

your praises?

They must not know --

those who try to mute your perfume

or deodorize you out of their homes --

how sweet and tangy you smell and taste,

roasted in the oven,

lavished as butter

upon potatoes!

Ah, you are exquisitely preferable

to all the plastic scents of the

synthetic world,

which prefer themselves

and their toxic glitter

to the chubby, stubby,

wondrous creation called

"Garlic." 

Contact

Today, in the course of an ordinary life,

an ordinary person

lit up the ordinary way

with ordinary words,

somehow more eloquent

than the most brilliant sonnet,

wiser for wear than the most learned philosopher,

with a reality

that didn't circle the perimeter of my mind

but reached in with both hands and grabbed

my heart.

Synthesis

A shift to the left,

and the present came into full focus,

herself abruptly inserted back in it --

after months of dislocation

when she'd found herself standing

just to the right of present time,

watching it fly by,

helpless to feel a part, 

unable to claim her place,

lonely for her place,

lonely for herself,

aching for her time --

because this was not her time.

Her time, instead, had merged into that of a

much younger self,

raw, unfinished,

nudged precipitously out into the present

but not part of it,

an energetic fragment

with fervent wishes and dreams

and the vehement "I won't" of youth.

But tonight, all is calm and clear

in present time --
young and old side-by-side,
no decades clashing,
no battle of wills.
From the benevolent heights of peace,

older beholds the younger, willful and alive,

and knows now, as a mother learns her child,

the impossible wishes that can

never be granted.

She knows,

and the knowing must become

the fulfillment.

Shadow Play

When dawn is not complete,

the furtive creatures of the night

with increased stealth pursue their goals

under cover of partial light.

Stung

There is a certain kind of omission

which feels not merely as though
something lovely and courteous is missing,

but rather like a slap.

Stunned,

one can only reel within

until God chooses to mitigate

the sting.

Warrior Bond

There is a kind of truth

indelibly fierce and alive

which flies through the air like

lightning,

an arrow piercing the mind

so deeply,

no passing illusion

can ever pluck it out.

Thus wounded,

the mind confronts

its match

and, in a split-second of knowing --

a flash of unflinching precision --

truth forges a bond.

Do They Cry?

Grownups learn that

sometimes people just go out of style,

worn for a time

like trusty old coats or sweaters

then, one day, tossed aside.

But as a child,

I firmly believed that my

discarded treasures

cried.