Monarch

It is all so nice, so me:

The needle on vinyl sound of tires

on pavement,

A radio perfect voice explaining a piece

by Schubert,

plowed earth the color of McDonald’s

coffee, one cream / one sugar.

All of it to recompense this road

I’d rather not take,

To make a cloister of my car

against the cotton fields:

white and ripe with unfamiliarity.

Until I kill her,

the dead monarch butterfly

Stuck in my windshield wiper

Wings still flapping with the wind.

Once, my child’s hand held

A newly emerged monarch.

Careful not to touch the soft,

Wet wings. Waiting, imagining

she stayed by choice.

I drive. Knowing

she stays by necessity.

Ready to be home again. Anxious

to remove her body.

Dust to Dust

(After Wendell Berry)

Whose life is worth leaving

potatoes to dissolve back to soil

or keeping half eaten Seckel pears

from the arms of our children

eager for the snowballs of winter?

Why leave the earth’s breast engorged

for a nipple of latex or silicone?

I have seen the brimming white fields

and I have seen us feed the gulping

mouths of machines and the milk

as it runs down their faces

and into the streets to turn black

under rubber wheels.

“From dust

to dust,”

- it was a blessing.

-------------------------------

The Peace of Wild Things

By WENDELL BERRY

When despair for the world grows in me

and I wake in the night at the least sound

in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,

I go and lie down where the wood drake

rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.

I come into the peace of wild things

who do not tax their lives with forethought

of grief. I come into the presence of still water.

And I feel above me the day-blind stars

waiting with their light. For a time

I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

Breath

Before her first cry

I stand at the kitchen window,

eyes half open,

waiting for hot water.

I breath through the glass.

Like a man with pneumonia

I breath through

the morning-eyed glass

and smell the sun’s breath

as he clears his voice

through the clouds.

Mushrooms

I would resort

to that infamous

poet’s crutch and write

a poem about a poem

but I am sure

you would not be interested

in that, dear reader.

Instead:

the mushrooms

growing in my neighbor’s

meticulous yard among

her vine-wrapped archways

and non-seasonal,

non-indigenous flowers

and how

they are so much like poems –

little reminders that cultivation

is not everything,

and that, with enough

soggy gray days

and a fair amount of fecal material

life can spring up

just about anywhere.

Then again, that may just be

the mushrooms.

October 27, 2009

for Granddaddy

Death is the oil

of God and you

are His anointed one.

Just as the sun

is consecrated

by its nightly

crucifixion

and the roots

of perennials

are sacred

in their tombs

of frostbit soil.

Used

Preacher has his bible open

like the hood of a used car.

The pulpit is his sales lot -

makes his pitch every week.

No takers though,

Everyone wants a foreign number

these days. "It won't last"

they tell him, "piece of junk."

all he can think to say is:

"It'll get you where you want to go."

A Bird on a Fence

If I wrote a poem about the bird

(it is a sparrow) sitting

on my back fence, and how

unsurprised I am to find her

there (it is spring), whose

poem would it be?

Yours, reader? Nursing a cup

half full of tea. Sequestered

(on your couch) with your thoughts

and pillows. Drying your thumbs

on a new book of poetry (lamp on

behind you). Skipping poems

with boring titles.

Would it be mine? Part-time poet

mouthing would-be metaphors

at his back door. Certainly,

there is a poem there:

A bird sitting on my fence

in the spring time.

Maybe I don't want this poem.

Perhaps it would be the bird's

(a sparrow),

who just left my fence.

She is

the early morning -

as I walk through the gate

to my car and see

the mown field, still wild

as uncombed hair

and the stream of rain water

pooling and flowing over

uneven concrete,

still asleep, dreaming

itself a brook somewhere

green and hidden

and I smile at finding myself

so near beauty.

A conversation

I'd ask, "what is mine?"

and you would say

"I am yours"

I'd point to something

like my books, or my TV,

or my wife and ask again,

"Is this mine?"

and you'd say

"I am yours."

Your Arrival

I thought it would all be decided

when you came.

Your hair the color of your mother’s

my chin and cheeks – poor child –

weight exactly what your granddad

predicted: 7 pounds and 4 ounces,

All the genetic variables fighting

it out in the womb

and the winners announced

the morning of your birth

but you

as I stand over

open your eyes against

their vernix sealed lids

and reveal two blue pools

of complete unpredictability.

Expecting

We are mostly home now

sitting on our couch:

she, with a pillow

from our bedroom

over her belly

legs on the middle

cushion as if it were an ottoman,

I, like a question mark,

feet on the ground -

bent over the food

in my lap.

She says,

I had a nightmare last night

I was pregnant

you were gone

leading some revolution

or something

Nightmare? Did I die?

no you just weren’t there

she says,

with a pillow

from our bedroom

over her belly

swollen legs on the middle

cushion as if it were an ottoman,

I, like a question mark,

feet on the ground -

bent over the food

in my lap.

The next best thing

I read an article today which argues that Nuclear Weapons should be awarded the Nobel Peace prize. This poem is written in response.

-------------------

I hide a toy gun

beneath my bed.

Its barrel lost

that orange cap

to distinguish

it from a real gun.

In case of burglary

it's the next best thing.

Just like a bloodied, broken fist

is the next best thing to a bloodied

bat, broken on a skull.

Just like rusty machetes

are the next best thing to assault rifles

for genocidal mobs.

Just like sending planes with troops

is the next best thing to sending planes

with bombs.

Just like us dying here

is the next best thing to them dying there.

Just like tallying the dead

is the next best thing to feeling safe.

Just like a room of uniformed men

with launch codes is the next best thing

to peace.

A Litany

Tables too cluttered for eating.

Feet too sore for walking.

Teeth too brown for smiling.

Pants too tight for wearing.

Towels too nice for wiping.

Eyes too red for waking.

Friends too far for talking.

Coffee too hot for drinking.

Pools too cold for swimming.

Songs too old for singing.

Gas too high for driving.

Shelves too tall for reaching.

Keys too lost for finding.

Fish too smart for biting.

Men too proud for crying.

Nails too short for cutting.

Art too dull for framing.

Baby too soon for keeping.

Nose too big for dating.

Clock too slow for trusting.

Poem too long for reading.

Don't wait

To lay down

Against the seared

Streets. To press

More than thirsty

Lips to cement and slurp

The mirage water.

Eighteen wheeler man

Still thinks it’s a hoax.

Kneel as if proposing

And feel the moist earth

Beneath concrete’s starched skirt.

Behave yourself if you must

But do not wait.

Slam Sermon

Below is a slam poem I wrote for my poetry class. Slam poetry or Spoken Word poetry is characterized by an intense awareness of meter and rhythm. This is poetry to be spoken, to be performed. Unlike some of the "high-brow" poetry we sometimes find in literary magazines, this is poetry for the masses - that is, the poet actually wants to say something and works to be captivating for his audience. The best way, if you want to know what makes a slam poem, is to listen: Julian Curry, Saul Williams, Taylor Mali.

I will try to post an audio version of my poem later, but for now read it aloud and explore the rhythm of these syllables.

--------------------------------------

Slam Sermon

All rise for the reading of God’s word

Berasheath bara elohim eth hashamiam vaeth ha-aritz

In the Beginning God created the heavens and the earth

And he said:

Be! To the light and swing low at night

So that east knows west and stays put unless

I say so, now let the winds blow

The waters back back back back stop!

and let the mountains prop

up heaven’s spot

earth have you caught

your breath yet? Because I need ya

Hyena, cheetah, zebra

You feel me, chimpanzee?

Throw a horn on it call it rhinoceros

Throw a beak on it call it a platypus.

Crows, hawks, cardinals, larks

Perch, bass, dolphins, sharks

Now man from the sand

And my breath and my hand

And woman from the sand

And my breath and my hand

Now I am rest.

Berasheath bara elohim eth hashamiam vaeth ha-aritz

That’s right YHWH the original slam poet

But we can’t hear that subtext

In this context

Because we handcuff God with words

We gag him with our liturgy:
Song

Song

Prayer

Song

Song

Bread

Juice

Money

Song

Sermon

Song

Prayer

Song

Song

Prayer

Song

Song

Bread

Juice

Money

Song

Sermon

Song

Prayer

We’ve shut the eloquent one up until

All we have left are echoes

Ricocheting across scripture

Berasheath bara... bla bla bla

Until justice flowed like a leaky faucet

And mercy like a string of spit

Song

Song

Prayer

Song

Song

Bread

Juice

Money

Song

Sermon

Song

Prayer

You have heard it said:

He who has ears let him hear

But I tell you:

Let he who has a mouth speak

May the words in your mind

be fruitful, increase and multiply

Because I want to break words like communion crackers

And drink the blood that flows from the open syllables

I want to be baptized in the name of the noun, and the verb, and the adjective

so that the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit actually mean something to me.

I want to pull a YHWH and speak worlds into existence when we pray

And if we can’t do that I want to, at the very least, pull a Jesus

And wear words like skin; bleeding, edible skin.

God of the Afflicted

You are God of the afflicted

so this oppressor prays:

Heal my blindness

so that I can see your immanent reign.

Heal these crippled hands

too weak and unskilled to serve

my neighbors.

Toughen my feet 

whose soles are too soft 

to walk upon the places 

where there is broken glass and needles.

I confess my afflictions

to the God of the afflicted - rescue me. 

Amen.

Expecting

We are mostly home now,

sitting around in our underwear

or the elastic waisted pajama pants

we let no one but each other see. 

Heating pad and the blanket

my granny made journey nightly

from couch to bed and in the morning

back again. There are three positions

for sleep - two require my arms -

and only one is comfortable so I

let her stay there until my arm 

sleeps as hard as she does. 

We are drooling with anticipation. 

Loss

The other day

I found your face

in the popcorn ceiling,

but, today, it wasn't there 

when I looked. 

Audio of the Round Rock Sermon

http://rrcoc.org/resources/media

I've attached an audio recording of the sermon I preached in Round Rock. This link will take you to Round Rock's audio resource page where my sermon is listed with several others. 

While I know those of you who read this blog have already seen the text I thought I'd post the audio; it's not really a sermon until it's spoken before the community of faith... enjoy!

Henry's Cafe

There is righteousness?

Yes.

And sin?

Yes.

a conversation

between old and bitter friends.

Sometimes bitter towards each other

and sometimes not, but always old.

They eat breakfast together 

at Henry's

every Wednesday at 7:30,

or sometimes later;

done it for years.

They come in the back door,

get their own coffee, 

sit in silence while one finishes the paper.

Then talk over whole wheat toast and eggs. 

and grace?

Yes. 

I am

I am

a lamb

in wolf's skin.

A Sermon

Below is a sermon I preached this Sunday at Round Rock Church of Christ. Enjoy.

-----------------------------------------

Who do you think you are?

Mark 2:1-12

 

The house is packed on this morning, and I don’t mean just with people, that little house in Capernaum is brimming with expectation. The air is thick with excitement and it’s all because of a traveling preacher (wink, wink). Over in one corner there are two men murmuring: “How did you hear about his guy?” “Oh, I was in the synagogue where he drove an evil spirit out of some guy” “In the middle of his sermon?!” “Yeah, it was nuts!” Over across the room, a woman is telling those around her that Jesus had  healed her just last week, “Yeah, it was the darndest thing, he just touched me and voila! no more cough!” “Did he say anything to you? “Nothing much, it all happened so fast, there were so many people over there being healed.” And a few feet from them there is a couple leaning against the windowsill, the husband whispers to his wife, “You see that guy over there? He was a leper a few days ago, all the guys at work were talking about him. I told Matthias hey, maybe Jesus could get you a date, now that would be a miracle!”

It is curiosity, it is mystery, it is a question that brings them to that little house in Capernaum. And the question on all of their minds is the question that has been bubbling under the surface of Mark from the very beginning of chapter one: “Who is this Jesus?” “Who does this traveling preacher think he is?”

Enter the four friends. Can you imagine how packed this house is that it is easier to get a paralyzed man on the roof than it is to just elbow your way through the door? I’ve always thought they should have just crowd surfed him in to Jesus. “Alright, here he comes!” But no, they go up on the roof, with their friend.

My great-grandfather on my dad’s side spent most of his life in a wheel chair, he was virtually paralyzed from severe rheumatoid arthritis. My Grand-daddy, at about my age, was taking care of his father and the family farm in a region still recovering from the depression. In fact, he was exempt from the World War II draft because of his family situation but he went on to serve in the navy anyways. I remember, some years ago, my parents giving my grand-daddy a book full of questions, designed to help someone write a memoir of their life. One of those questions was this: “Do you have any regrets?” and I will always remember his response. Below the question, in the uneven scrawl of an 80 something year old stroke victim he wrote these words: “It seems like I’ve always had to do things the hard way.”

I think our friends on the roof of that little house in Capernaum can relate. It seems like they always have to do things the hard way. So, after somehow getting the paralytic, mat and all, on top of the roof they begin to dig and pound and tear their way to Jesus. I imagine more than once doubt began to creep in, as they were first starting out and they could hardly tell if they had made a dent in the roof, the question rose up in the back of their minds: Who is this Jesus anyways? When they heard the angry voices below them as pieces of the roof fell down into the house, the question might have been there: “Who is this Jesus, anyways?” And when their friend, after all of their work and sweat was finally laying there on the ground at Jesus’ feet, and all they could do was wait I am certain the question was there, they could feel it in the pit of their stomach, “Who is this Jesus?”

And then there is a hush. There is a sacred moment in the midst of a crowded room. The silence before words, as this broken life is layed bare before the Christ. His eyes full of hope, expectation, wonder, and anxiety all at once. All are straining to hear what words he will say.

            It’s the Christmas of 1993, I am 5 and I have the most brilliant idea of my entire young life. Here is my thinking: There is an old man in a red suit living somewhere in the north pole who, with the helping of eight flying reindeer, is capable of traveling the entire world in one night to deliver presents to every good boy or girl. Why waste his immense capabilities by asking for a tonka truck?! It’s practically an insult. So I decide to think outside the box, to go for the gold, to use all of Santa’s great potential. That Christmas, in a stroke of inspired Genius, I ask Santa for the ability to fly.

            You can imagine how impressed my parents were by reasoning abilities. They asked me, is there anything else you want for Christmas? I was ready for that question: absolutely not, I said, I am asking for a lot already and I don’t want to ruin my chances by asking for too much. And so we went through all of the great Christmas rituals, they took me to see Santa (or Santa’s helper) at the mall. When it came my turn I strode confidently up and sat on his lap and when he asked me what I wanted, I said proudly, “I want to fly!” And he said, Here is a candy cane, Merry Christmas. I sent letters, I did everything my parents asked, there was no way I was going on the Naughty list this year. Most of all I was tight-lipped about anything else I might have wanted, I could not jeopardize my chances by losing focus.

            And then came Christmas morning. I remember running out with my brother and looking everywhere for that greatest of gifts. Although, I really had no idea what it would look like? How do you package something like the ability to fly? Is there a magic cape in one of these boxes? Did he give a little bit of reindeer food? My parents, seeing my frantic search, hand me a small rectangular package. I tear it open and read the front cover: The Klutz Book of Magic. Inside there are pages and pages on coin tricks, card tricks, even an illusion where you make a dollar turn into a piece of silk, but nothing on flying. Then I read the inside cover, there is a note from Santa:

            Dear David,

Merry Christmas! I got your letters about wanting to fly. Unfortunately, Comet ate the last of the magic acorns. I’m sorry I won’t be able to give the ability to fly this year but I hope you enjoy learning to do some other neat magic tricks.

Sincerely,

Kris Kringle

I have never forgiven Comet.

            And in that little house in Capernaum, I am sure you could see the disappointment on the Paralytic’s face. He came in expecting to fly and instead he got a book of magic tricks. After all the work his friends did just to carry him to that house, not to mention hoisting him on the roof and tearing a hole to lower him through, Jesus words come as a slap in the face. “Son, your sins are forgiven.”

            What?! What do you mean my sins are forgiven? What are you missing here? Besides, look at me! How much trouble could I have possibly gotten into!

            But if he is upset he is not alone, the teachers of the law cringe as they hear Jesus utter those words, “Son, your sins are forgiven.” I remember my mom, when she was really mad at me would always ask: “Who do you think you are?!” It meant I had overstepped my bounds. And that is exactly what the scribes would like to know of Jesus: “Who do you think you are?!” You know good and well that we take care of sin at the temple, with a priest, where God is present and can cover over our sins. This is neither the time nor the place! You are out of line young man, above your pay grade, you’re in  over your head. Who do you think you are?!

            And as much as I’d like to dismiss the scribes as thick-headed religious nuts, they have a point. I just started school this last week and I have to be honest. I don’t  know if I have ever been more ready for school to start as I was last Monday. It was a rough summer and you wanna know why? I had nothing to do. I taught at church on Sundays and Wednesdays and other than that, I had no responsibilities, nothing expected of me, and all of my friends were gone for the summer. On top of that my pregnant wife is getting up at six in the morning to work a twelve hour shift on the cancer floor to support us… I have never felt more useless. When you are alone like that, alone with your inadequacies with no way of being productive, it messes with your head. Those monkeys pile on your back because it’s just you, what you see is what you get. I tried to pray but couldn’t. So I read about prayer. And that just made things worse. Because all of those authors say the same thing, that to pray is to rest in God’s love, that’s it, nothing to accomplish, just know, fully, that God loves you, that he is not mad at you. And I couldn’t do it. If you are telling me that God thinks he can come in, know me intimately, and still love me, forgive me even, then he has another thing coming. Who does he think he is? He asks so much but requires so little. Surely this whole God thing can’t be that simple. Forgiveness is a hard sell and I think the scribes are just being honest. They have a point don’t they?

            I remember sitting in a Starbucks with some friends during high school working on a project for school. Eventually we had finished our work but our coffee cups weren’t quite empty so we stayed a while a talked. Eventually the topic turned to religion and one girl, her name was Christina, asked me a question that I will never forget. Her mom had spent time in and out of mental institutions resulting from a mental breakdown she suffered when she and Christina’s father divorced. She would fluctuate from fits of violent rage to passionate weeping in front of Christina when she would visit. And it was in the midst of that anguish that one day, she committed suicide. And Christina’s question to me in Starbucks was this: Is my mom in hell for killing herself? And boiling beneath her eyes, you could see the question: If God can condemn my mother, after all her suffering, then who does he think he is? It’s a good question. It’s a tough question

            And in that little house in Capernaum, Jesus gives an answer.  He doesn’t hand them a resume, doesn’t offer a list of references, he doesn’t pull out his license to heal. No, he says, “This is so that you might know…” and he bends down and speaks to that silent man lying on the floor, “Get up, take your mat and go home.” Jesus announces that God is in the business of making all things new. He looks down upon that man, in all of his brokenness and speaks words of hope, of healing, of transformation. “Get up, take your mat and go home.” This is not just about the paralytic being able to walk again, as wonderful as that is,  this is God stuff, this is who he is, this is so that you might know that God is alive in the world in the ministry of Jesus Christ… Get up, take your mat and go home. We find out who He is… in that little house in Capernaum.

             My step – grandfather passed away a couple of summers ago. A violent alcoholic who came into my mother’s life after her biological father was placed in a mental institution. His presence was viral for their family dynamics and they became the definition of a dysfunctional family. So much so that my mom had to leave to get away from the situation. So she came to Texas to go to ACU and has been here ever since. When we heard about the brain aneurysm Papa had somehow survived, we booked a flight and visited him in a little hospital in Massachusetts. In that tiny room, I watched my mom rub his feet with lotion and roll him over to relieve the pain of his bed sores, I watched her care for this man who had been the source of so much pain to her family. On one of the last days of our stay he told us about a dream he had had. In this dream, he said, he saw Jesus come down out of heaven and say these words: “Son, your sins are forgiven.”

            A few weeks later he passed away, with his family surrounding him. And although he never heard Christ say “Get up, take your mat and go home.” I am convinced he experienced the authority of Jesus to forgive, I am convinced he knew who Jesus was and is. And I can’t help but feel that being in that little hospital in Massachusetts was a whole like being in that little house in Capernaum. This is so that you might know…

            What I’ve done this morning is to try to tell a story.  And the great things about stories is that you can put yourself in the place of the characters.

Today, many of you might be the friends, who see  the pain and the need of those you love and resolve to take them up, to bear their trouble, to lay them at the feet of Christ. And if it seems, at times, that you must always do things the hard way, know that there is no more important work than to bring those we love before Christ, and he will be faithful. Thank you for your hearts and may God fill you with peace.

Others of you might be a scribe, and I thank you for asking the tough questions, and I pray that in the midst of your questions you might see Jesus, in all of his authority. If you feel anger, if it is hard for you to listen to the voice of Christ, I want you to know that you belong here, you are one of us. I am convinced more than ever, that we need saints who ask tough questions.

And there may be a few paralytics here this morning. May you know that there are friends here willing to carry you, to do whatever it takes to get you to Jesus, to lay you down in this little church in Round Rock where you can hear the voice of Christ. All of this so that you might know… 

The builder

There, on the southern wall, above the opening

for the garage door, on the right, along the inside edge

of the outermost rafter, adjacent to where the eave 

awkwardly poses beside the rest of the structure and 

nails, like pictures, still-frame her best effort, 

are three superfluous bolts, embarrassed, 

as his hand, straining at the socket wrench,

muscles a nut into the wood's creaking protest.

Days

They say some days are longer than others.

By which, I guess, they mean on some days 

the sun sticks around for a few extra minutes

or hours or something.

But time passes either way.

Whether there is light or not

time passes either way. 

Further Advice and a Poem

How to tell a good poem:

if it offends you

it is good.

As I hope, someday, to have some of my work published I think a lot about what makes a good poem. The piece of "advice" above is somewhat borrowed from my high school theater teacher who was fond of telling us: if you are not offending someone then you are not doing your job. Also, it is something that struck me as I read a poem today in willow springs (another part of becoming a good poet is reading good poetry, something I am trying to become better about doing.) Below is the poem by John Hodgen: 

Witness

Predictable to some degree that a man with a red and white striped

stick-on umbrella hat

and a portable public address system bullhorn would be working the

heart of Bourbon Street

in the name of the Lord. Telling all the jesters, masquers, Red Death

revelers, the God

will not be mocked, that His patience is running out, that He sees us 

all, unblinking.

Predictable as well, perhaps, that his sidekick, his long suffering

Fortunato, would be hauling a life-size cross up

the street with him on the Via Dolorosa, the road to the Superdome.

Less predictable the college kid, clean cut, a Chuck Palahniuk Fight

Club type,

having to be restrained, pulled away by his friends, physically lifted

off the ground,

his feet moving in mysterious ways. Screaming at the Jesusers that

they don't belong here,

that this is our holy place, our last sanctuary, that this is where we 

come for the sole purpose of getting away from Jesus, that

this is where we worship, that we should be free to mock 

God whenever we want, that someone could get hurt tripping

over a cross like that in the street,

that we should just be left alone, that we are all being crucified each 

and every day. 

His friends haul him away, John the un-Baptist, God's true warrior

in sackcloth and ashes, His burning bush, His voice 

in the French Quarter wilderness, blessed troublemaker,

not to be mocked, not to be saved, crown of thorns messiah

of the way things really are.

-----------------

This poem didn't offend me, exactly, but it does something close. I stand between these two men, the "Jesuser" and "the college kid." I am a fan of neither the kind of Christianity depicted here nor taking lightly the confession that Jesus is Lord. Perhaps this is what makes this poem so compelling to me. The end of the poem is especially weighted by this tension: it is, at once, heretical and reminiscent of the scandal Jesus' ministry was to his contemporaries. It seems to me that discussions on Missionality would greatly benefit from a reading of this poem. 

These are my thoughts and reactions, what are yours? What happens in the pit of your stomach as you read Hodgen's poem?

Some Advice

How to tell a good contemporary poet:

look at their picture on the back flap,

if they are smiling they are good. 

I Forget...

I forget that you could destroy me

quite easily. I woke up last night

to thunder rolling in that deep

sounding way that I like to pretend 

is your voice and I smiled sleepily

to you, "Oh, you are so awesome 

and beautiful and awesome God."

Then, just as I was falling back 

to sleep, thunder announced 

a lightening bolt so near our house 

there was no delay between light and sound, 

and there was the illusion that it was

the electricity slamming violently into the ground 

that had caused such a great bang. 

I sat up, eyes open, hand on my wife,

ready to sleep the rest of the night in my car.

I forget that you could destroy me quite easily.

Look up! Behold the mind God!

Look up! Behold the mind God!

Those clouds, I know their name:

Cerebrum - His wrinkled gray matter.

See His thoughts? Each star a synapse,

sparks of the divine intelligence,

Each constellation a neural map, 

patterns seared into His ancient mind

by centuries of contemplation:

Orion the hunter with his bow drawn,

The Big Dipper overflowing with the water

of Aquarius. Virgo the virgin and Serpens the snake.

And no matter how dark the night

we can be comforted by the light of his thoughts. 

Old

Life feels so old to me. 

A soul lumbering about like an old man

with his cane and crooked back. 

Stooped as if there had been some great weight 

pushing his neck down his whole life

but it was only his mind. 

A spirit caricatured: big ears, big nose -

ironically defunct but covered over

with hearing aids and a forgetfulness

of what she used to smell like

when I woke up in the middle of the night

and her warmth and breath and scent

came to me as one thing in the darkness.

She is still here, the forgotten memories 

just explanations for the peace I have. 

So I go on plodding past our familiar things and I pray.

Oh God, hear my prayer. 

Ayres Men

My Great-Grandfather, Granddaddy's Daddy as I understood him, used a wheelchair for much of his adult life because of crippling rheumatoid arthritis. Granddaddy was taking care of him and the family farm when he was about my age: 21, exempt from the World War II draft because of his father's condition. I never knew my Great-Grandfather, I've seen his paintings though. Because he could not use his hands he would take the brush in his mouth or between his toes to paint. He painted what he knew: a home, dirt road, pecan trees, all with warmth and the deepened yellow hue of a peaceful country evening.

It seems to me that he set the standard for us, Ayres men. All of us painting with those tiny, and patiently careful strokes of ability without ambition - learning to see the warmth and light in ordinary scenes. We paint with the wisdom of a man thankful for his hands. If it seems, to us, we must always do things the hard way, this is why.

------------

"Be careful, son." he said, and emphasized this with narrative:

"Once, when I was a little boy,

I stepped on a nail and had to get a tetanus shot."

"Did it hurt?"

"Oh yes, tetanus shots are the worst."

"I hope I never have to have a tetanus shot in my foot."

"Me too, son."

"Daddy?"

"Hm?"

"Do all sons have to go through everything their daddies went through?"

"What?"

"I mean, because you stepped on a nail does it mean I will?"

"No."

"Okay."

Vinyl Blinds

Light squeezed between vinyl blinds -

you, 

adjust the angle to get a better view

or better yet pull the string, send them 

to the top of the window, and cough 

at the dust you've stirred 

until your hands work the lock over 

and lift the glass to let oxygen 

in through the wire mesh,

and the entangled rain water. 

Leaves

Outside, trees are dried up 

from their old songs.

Dead leaves laid in the road

by a voiceless wind, 

and wind picks them up again,

and pushes them down the road,

and replaces them with more 

of the same. 

An Exposition of a Phrase

"How Sad"

voiced low; just past 

condolences - then silence. 

A glance, 

then eyes to the floor.

inhale, tilt head, adjust jaw -

(as if the silence 

results from improper 

bio-mechanics)

Change the subject,

we both know 

How Sad. 

Moses

Once-

Mother church lifted me 

out of water,

and I was her child. 

Now- 

I am disrobed -

unable to hide what's

buried in the sand.

once a prince -

now outcast.

So I've wandered in the wilderness 

- my own heart charred, 

seared by flame and my eyes

still blind. 

Yet I stagger forth, 

unsure of all but this:

what embers smolder in this heart

are stoked by God's breath

and I will be ash

before my own breath relents 

of saying: "Let them go."

Faithfulness

Sometimes, at the pulpit, I imagine I am

officiating Your wedding.

In our counseling sessions 

I wasn't convinced you two 

would make a good match. 

To be honest, I thought you could 

do better. But I could see you

were in love so I relented. 

Now you stand beside me,

rocking on your feet

and I think

"I'd be nervous too, buddy."

What is it that you see in her?

She doesn't deserve the white dress

she has on, but no one is saying anything.

She waves at ex-boyfriends on her way

up the aisle. 

I roll my eyes --- you are smiling.

"Who presents this bride?" I ask.

but You've already taken her by the hand 

then turn expectantly toward me.

You've written your own vows, 

and I frown as she struggles

to keep her eyes open

as you read them. 

Now her turn comes, and to be safe,

she repeats after me the words she needs.

And I wonder to myself as I hear

the weighty words I am pronouncing,

if it is enough that You have heard her 

say them. 

Coffee Cup

See, the used coffee cup 

melting into the ground.

Could hold the coffee

but not the rain. 

What is a child for?

What is a child for? 

I ask myself driving home,

just hung-up with my parents.

Sun setting behind me,

Makes mesquite trees shorter

while their shadows grow longer.

I listen to a conversation

between tires and asphalt,

murmuring something I cannot

quite discern with the windows up

and the air conditioning.

Like mom and dad in their room 

watching TV after all the lights

are off and a child falls asleep

dreaming in voices without words

and words without meaning

and meaning without searching. 

Uninspired

Sometimes when the poetic portion

of my brain is numb 

I just start a sentence and see 

what falls out of it. 

I put words together like refrigerator magnets: 

"Small 

Ants 

Drink 

Swirling 

Toilet 

Skin"

no, no, no...

"Small 

Toilets

Skin

Ants 

Drinking 

Swirl?"

Oh, give it up. 

Now I've tipped my first line over

tapping the bottom

hoping something will come out.

and sometimes...

if I'm lucky... 

like a star unstuck from 

the dark bowels of space, an idea

unbound by the laws of creative 

physics illuminates

the dark night of a passionless poem

and a radiant beam of 

bright and unabashed 

crap

dribbles forth. 

Faithfulness

We do not attain perfection,

it is not ours to take,

but only learn to be 

with the Perfect One. 

A Note on a Monastery Wall

God is not

mad

at 

you.

Be His.

Somewhere there is a place

Somewhere there is a place

with a porch and a chair and a view

of grass and trees and sunlight

touching flowers bending under

the weight of dew. 

Somewhere there is a place

with room for many friends

hugging and laughing and praying.

With room enough for their 

enormous hearts.

Somewhere there is a place

where light does not enter

without blessing. Where breezes

tussle hair like mothers. 

Where silence is not death but life.

Somewhere there is a place 

where hands feel what they touch,

where feet thank the earth for 

holding them up, where minds 

descend from the brain to the heart.

Somewhere there is a place 

where calluses act as rosary

beads, where grease and car oil

are sacramental elements, 

where souls are cleansed by dish soap

Somewhere there is a place

where the table bears

the sustenance and the chairs bear

the life. Where food has the same 

origin as man: the dust.

Somewhere there is place 

where there is no gain,

where there is no loss,

there is only God.

Somewhere there is such a place,

May God's grace make it here. 

Two Prayers

MY LORD GOD, I have no idea where I am going. I do not see the road ahead of me. I cannot know for certain where it will end. Nor do I really know myself, and the fact that I think I am following your will does not mean that I am actually doing so. But I believe that the desire to please you does in fact please you. And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing. I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire. And I know that if I do this you will lead me by the right road, though I may know nothing about it. Therefore I will trust you always though I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death. I will not fear, for you are ever with me, and you will never leave me to face my perils alone.

- Thomas Merton

-----------------------

My God, hunger is all that drives me forward. These tears cannot quench this throat, so thirsty for living water. I look for you in the faces of family, friends, even strangers, but see only human faces. I strain to hear your voice, but there is no whisper that comes, only echoes ricocheting across scripture. We are lovers, estranged by space, and the dove that you send carries no note from you, but only coos and leaves me watching her, unable to follow. Hunger is all that drives me forward, I will walk until I fall, You are my end.    -DMA

A Rainy Day

Shut the doors against the rain.

There it is, tapping at our doors and our windows

asking, "May I come in?"

But do not let it in. 

Sit in your homes and your coffee shops

and rest in the knowledge

that there is something that wishes 

to be with you. 

An Excursus into the World of the Desert Fathers

Lately I have been reading works on Christian Spirituality and have had the pleasure to re-read (for the third... or is it the fourth time) Nouwen's classic: The Way of the Heart. In it, he draws heavily from the tradition of the Desert Fathers. I found that as I read I was increasingly intrigued by these short parables attributed to the Fathers. So I flipped to the back of the book to find the source from which Nouwen was pulling these wonderful sayings.  Luckily our library had Benedicta Ward's The Desert Fathers: Sayings of the Early Christian Monks and I spent an hour or so reading it today. Below I provide a few of my favorites from my reading today and below them are a couple of sayings I wrote. Enjoy!

1. Of Abba Ammonas, a disciple of Anthony, it is said that in his solitude he 'advanced to the point where his goodness was so great that he took no notice of wickedness.'  Thus, having become bishop, someone brought a young girl who was pregnant to him, saying, 'See what this unhappy wretch has done; give her a penance.' But he, having marked the young girl's womb with the sign of the cross, commanded that six pairs of fine linen sheets should be given her, saying, 'It is for fear that, when she comes to give birth, she may die, she or the child, and have nothing for the burial.' But her accusers resumed, 'Why did you do that? Give her a punishment.' But he said to them, 'Look, brothers, she is near to death; what am I to do?" Then he sent her away and no old man dared accuse anyone any more. 

2. . A brother sinned and the presbyter ordered him to go out of the church. But Bessarion got up and went out with him, saying, ‘I, too, am a sinner.’

3. Joseph asked Poeman, ‘Tell me how to become a monk.’ He said, ‘If you want to find rest in this life and the next, say at every moment, “Who am I? and judge no one.’

4. A brother said to Poeman, ‘If I see my brother sin is it really right to not to tell anyone about it?’ He said, ‘When we cover our brother’s sin, God covers our sin. When we tell people about our brother’s guilt, God does the same with ours.’

5. When Nesteros the Great was walking in the desert with a brother, they saw a dragon and ran away. The brother said, ‘Were you afraid, abba?’ Nesteros answered, ‘ I wasn’t afraid, my son. But it was right to run away from the dragon, otherwise I should have had to run away from conceit.’

6. A brother came to Poemen, and said to him, ‘ I have sown seed in my field, and I will make a love-feast with a crop.’ He said, ‘ That’s a good idea.’ He went away with purpose, and invited more to the love-feast which he was making. When Anub heard this, he said to Poemen, Aren’t you afraid of God that you said that to the brother?’ Poemen said nothing. But two days later he sent for the brother and called him to his cell. He said to him, in the hearing of Anub, ‘What did you ask me the other day? My attention was elsewhere.’ The brother said, ‘I have sown my field, and I am going to make a love-feast with the crop.’ Poemen said to him, ‘I thought you were talking about your brother, who is a layman. What you are doing is not a monk’s work.’ The brother was sad when he heard this, and said, ‘That’s the only kind of work I know how to do: I can’t stop sowing seed in my field.’ When he had gone away, Anub began to apologize to Poemen, saying, ‘Forgive me.’ Poemen said to him, ‘Look here, I knew from the beginning that it was not a monk’s work. But I spoke to his soul’s need, and stilled his soul so that he might increase in charity; now he has gone away sadly, but he will go on with the same work.’

7. A brother came to Poemen and said to him, ‘Many thoughts come into my mind and put me in danger.’ He sent him out into the open air, and said, ‘Open your lungs and do not breathe.’ He replied, 'I can’t do that.’ Then he said to him, ‘Just as you can't stop air coming into your lungs, so you can’t stop thoughts coming into your mind. Your part is to resist them.’

8. Arsenius once asked an old Egyptian monk for advice about his temptations. Another monk who saw this said, ‘Arsenius, how is it that you, who are so learned in Greek and Latin, are asking that uneducated peasant about your temptations?’ He answered, ‘I have a lot of worldly knowledge of Greek and Latin: but I have not yet been able to learn the alphabet of this peasant.’

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1. Brother Dave was once offered a preaching job at a high profile church. When asked if he would take the job he answered, “No, it would cause me to be prideful.” Many who heard this were impressed, but an elder later said to him, “You should take the job, because the only reason you told us your answer was so we would think highly of you. Next time simply say: No.”

2. One day brother Dave asked an elder, “Is it ok for me to laugh with sinners?” The elder laughed in reply.

Skin

My skin is a mystery to me,
a thin shroud announcing my mortality -
a gift to sanctify and solidify
the terrible weight of death;
yet with it, too is a blessing.
As of now, you can still see
my dry eyes peering through the veil,
still smell death beneath the aroma
of spices and perfumes
still hold my hand, though cold
and stiff
but there will be a day when
you visit me
and the shroud hides nothing:
all that is left is the liturgical
remainder of a life consumed by the sacred.
And only the blessing remains.

Scar Tissue

Scar tissue connects my brain to my soul
so I occasionally grit my teeth
and tear them apart.
The pain gives way to disorientation:
the room starts spinning,
colors blur, my eyes unable to focus,
as the borders and boundaries
I have carefully crafted melt.
I have learned to simply
close my eyes
bow my head
and trust
that the floor is,indeed, still.

Truth and Love

Trapped somewhere beneath
my reflexive smile,
my carefully worded phrases,
my patient silence,

Is the Christ
who curses fig trees,
who flips tables,
who sends a rich man home depressed.

I once thought that pulling off
being all man and all God
was his greatest feat
but I am ever more convinced
that we praise him for being,
at once, all truth and all love.

Here is to the one who died
not only because he loved us
but because he told us the truth.

In Honor of Wendell Berry

I saw a slain lamb,
on the highway.
Run over by an eighteen-
wheeler carrying logs
to some place
a thousand miles away.

The Eucharist

On that day,
he will break the seal
Of the bottle,
Let fly the cork,
Spray us with it's foam.

Then we will hear the woody
Mature sound of wine meeting glass;
And he will drink deeply the earthy
Flavor of his creation,
fermented and pressurized
By choice and will and salvation.
Then he swallows, sighs,
And says again: "it is good"

And together we say:
"you've saved the best for last"
And "Amen."

magnificence

We are the giants of Canaan
The enemies of promise
And for the moment saved
by our magnificence

I'll call you Kate, for now

I'll call you Kate, for now,
when waiting gives birth to you
in its precious ways:
by day-dreams and kicked hands,
prayers and poems,
nervous laughter.
And you are known
only in the best of ways:
as your father knows you,
my Kate.

Theology

I, too, come to that tree
and having heard the story
am patient before choosing.
That serpent is still crafty though
and so points to the highest branch,
over to the left, where the leaves
occasionally brush against the tree
of life (on a breezy day). There,
a small dark fruit hangs.
"What fruit is that," I ask with
squinting eyes. The snake replies:
"theology."

Now, the dense fruit in my hand,
the serpent's promise comes,
"You will be like God," and
having heard the story, I am
already swallowing. Then, true
to that serpents word, I crash
into the bushes in search of God.
"Where are you?!" I shout.
His answer comes: "I heard you
in the garden, so I hid."
And seeing his naked body
I pronounce my own curse:
"Put your clothes on, Lord."

Filled

His fat belly fills
his Blue overalls

Her black skin fills
His white arms

They fill my mind
With questions

New

When heaven
Comes down
I believe
We will
Be surprised
By her newness

Not new
Like a child
Or a house
Just built
That still smells
Like paint

But simply
New to us
With carpets
Well-worn
By the feet
Of saints

A Note on Memories

Memories, like birds, take flight
when we get too close

A Prayer on Memorial Day

Our Father in heaven,
hallowed be your name,
your kingdom come,
your will be done
on earth as it is in heaven.
Give us today our daily bread.
Forgive us our debts,
as we also have forgiven our debtors.
And lead us not into temptation,
but deliver us from the evil one.

Prayer for the day

Usually bread and wine are on the altar
to jog our memory
of things done in the past,
to remind us
of the distance left to go,
to bless us
who are so convinced of our unworthiness.
But today there are only white flowers on your table,
in celebration of our arrival to a kingdom
where your will is done.
Today we catch a glimpse of our true and present reality
us: the bride, enthralled and shining white,
you: the groom, wiping tears from your eyes.
We can't help but smile at the awesome scene,
your climactic vision.
And we thank you for being the God
of white flowers
just as you are God
of bread and wine.

I Saw a Rose

I saw a rose on my neighbors door
This morning when I returned from
Some errand, I now forget. Turning
The key I wondered what occasion
Prompted this display of affection:
A birthday, an anniversary? Maybe
He just wanted to get laid. But after
I sat the milk down on the table
Next to the brown daisies being
Vased in a nalgene bottle
My wife entered
and I kissed her.

If I Were Free

If I were free to stop and explore
The wide red field
With curved tin barn and rusted door

I might think of something better to say
Than to ask the farmer,
“I’ve gotten lost do you know the way?”

A Morning Drive

A misted and twisted day greets me
And my green Taurus leaving the apartment
And I, at home in the colorlessness
Am thankful for a drive so similar
To the morning mind

And out of the blandness, like a dream
Appear two ducks sitting in a puddle
Far from pond, or park, or stream
And I in my morose musing
accept the blessing, even if subtle

But, should these two ducks
be some divine contribution
made complete by my seeing them
Still, I am a passer-by
I am but a passer-by

The Butcher

A butcher closes up shop
Turning the sign next to the window
Which reads: “serving you for forty years.”
To then retreat to the backroom
Where he kneels before his livelihood
Hanging dead on a meat hook
And scrapes the blood and fat
from the cement floor.

His scraping like the quiet ticking
Of a clock, unnoticed and heavy.

He works in the cold to avoid decay.

Too Long Without

Too long without is peace itself
Here in sacred halls, where heavy
Hands finger the valleys between
Tiles as if without light or sense.

Who could blame the priest for turning
His face away, not to witness
the flock fumbling towards the font
to spill its contents without joy?

What God desires to wake the dead
Into blindness or despair? But
Grace defends our Lord’s attempt to
dip his head and whisper, “Rise.”

People pass the cemetery

People pass the cemetery
Around

they take a drag from the
smoldering black earth
rolled in white limestone

and their souls escape
from their mouths like smoke

A sermon

“1, 2… One”
Ephesians 2:11-18

If you’ve ever participated in an elementary P.E. class you know the standard operating procedure. After the elephant stretch, 15 jumping jacks, and some cherry-pickers it’s time to pick teams. So, everyone runs to line up and as the P.E. teacher works his way down they each show him with their short fingers the number that he assigns, “1, 2, 1, 2…” It’s meant to create even teams, in theory. But it only takes a few times before the kids get wise and strategically place themselves to be with their friends. “1, 2, 1, 2…” “Yes!” as they give their best friend a high five.
It shouldn’t take long for us to catch on either. Stand in any Irving elementary school lunch line and look for the kid who, in broken English, whispers to the Lunch lady, “reduced lunch.” “1, 2….” Ask teachers how many students were “left behind” when they were forced to take the TAKS test in English when they could have easily passed the same test in Spanish. “1, 2…”
Venture over to Irving high school where F hall is specially designated for ESL students and the mentally retarded. “1, 2…” Or wait till after school ends and walk across the street to the park where Hispanic and Black students beat each other in a massive race versus race brawl while the white students get in their cars and drive away. “1, 2…” Or come to school on the day that Dallas voted on Anti-illegal Alien legislature. The hallways were empty but City hall was full of high school students waving Mexican flags and chanting profanity in Spanish. “1, 2…” Or make mention that the Irving ISD’s student population is now close to 70% Hispanic to someone who didn’t know and listen to them say “Oh, I didn’t know it was that bad.” “1, 2…”
Drive around north Irving and the Las Colinas area before you make your way down below 183, southside. No more condos across from Valley Ranch where the Cowboys practice, just run-down apartments next to a field where children play soccer, or as they would say: futbol. “1, 2…”
Sunday morning, on your way to church, notice the vacant gas station where men sit on old truck tires waiting for someone to offer them a day of work. They cannot afford Sabbath. “1, 2…”
Then, as you enter the church building notice the chapel where the Hispanic congregation meets as you try to find the auditorium. “1, 2…”
If you take notice of all these thing then maybe, by the time you sing the third verse of “A Common Love,” or pass communion to a family member these words of Paul will begin to beat in your ears. “1, 2, 1, 2…”
For so long this has been our party text. We read this and we celebrate, it’s about us gentiles isn’t it?! Praise God we got included, it’s true we are one! And we do our Texas two-step “1 and 2 and 1 and 2 and”
These words start to chaff against us when we put a face on the text. If we have our noses buried in our bibles it’s easy for us to say “Oh, look how nicely they are getting along! The dividing wall is torn down, there’s peace all around, Paul does such a fine job!” But if we look up, “oh…” We get a different impression.
When you are in the Emergency Room with appendicitis and you are waiting behind someone who is trying to find a way around the paperwork so they can see a doctor about their cold, Paul’s words aren’t so sweet.
When you get t-boned by a guy with no insurance and no English to tell you that, Ephesians 2:11-18 doesn’t immediately come to mind.
Take a long enough look around and Paul’s words start tasting sour on our tongues. Words like “is” and “are” and “now” do not make nearly as much sense as words like “will be” and “someday.” “1, 2, 1, 2,…” These words keep beating in our ears.
Paul calls it a mystery but I think I would call it a miracle. If you took Paul for elementary P.E. you’d be surprised by how he does things. He doesn’t just look out over the kids and proclaim “One!” He doesn’t just do obstacle courses or have his kids all play with that big parachute, no he lines them up and counts them off “1, 2…” and it is only then, after the competition starts that he looks over them and says “they are one.” He calls it a mystery but I say miracle.
To make one holy nation from two countries with a literal wall built between them takes a miracle. To look into the dark eyes of a foreigner “without hope and without God in the world” and say to them “peace has been spoken to you” takes a miracle. To bring those who are excluded from citizenship close through the blood of Christ takes a miracle.
One of the most awkward worship situations I ever participated in was a visit to an Episcopal service. It’s not something I would normally do but it was required for a worship class with a certain professor, so I went. I arrived earlier than I had to on that Tuesday night, no one was there when I walked into that small chapel, next to the larger auditorium. As I sat there, worrying about whether or not I was in the right place, people began to trickle in and take their seats. I expected conversation, voices ringing, laughter, anything to let me know that I was welcome, but there was nothing, only silence, faces pointing forward. The holiness was unbearable.
As the service began, all the standing, the sitting, the kneeling, all those unfamiliar words made me terribly aware of my own conspicuousness, I stuck out like a sore thumb. I had heard that it was a healing service and I wondered at what those words could mean, what being healed would require of me. That moment came that I had been dreading: we were all called up to that front rail and invited to kneel for the sacrament of healing. It had finally come, I thought, now I am going to be found out. Everyone here will know that I am a 2 and they are all 1’s, I do not belong here. But I went, and I kneeled and when the priest came up to me he drew a cross on my forehead with oil: “1, 2…” and he said: “I lay my hands upon you in the Name of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, beseeching him to uphold you and fill you with his grace, that you may know the healing power of his love.” Those words beating in my ears.
As we rose together the priest invited us to give each other the peace. And so the first words I heard out of the middle aged man with the bad comb-over were “Peace to you, brother” and the first words I spoke to the elderly lady with the shaky voice was “peace to you, sister” those words beating in that small chapel next to the auditorium. Paul calls it a mystery, I say miracle.
Three months ago, in an enormous auditorium, a one and a two made vows to one another: for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health. If three months of marriage has taught me anything it is how close a one and a two can come to being just one. At the reception we celebrated, the DJ put on a familiar song and we danced. “1, 2, 1, 2…”
It used to make me so angry when I woke up in the middle of the night because of blaring mariachi music that found it’s way over the neighbors fence into my bedroom. Sometimes out of curiosity I would go look out the window and see the multi-colored Christmas lights hung on trees, the smoke from a barbeque grill climbing up the side of the house, and I wondered why they were celebrating. Every now and then, when I visit my hometown, Irving, I will wake up to a distant mariachi tune, that familiar boom chick-boom-chick boom chick-boom-chick “1 and 2 and 1 and 2 and” and though I still don’t know why they are celebrating, I hope that they are dancing.

You tend to break things

We know you as the God who sustains
Who holds it all together
Who is three… in one
And that is how we would like to keep you
Unsplintered
Unfragmented
Whole
But you tend to break things
Nothing is safe in your hands
what we offer you, you break
What we hide from you, you take
What we cherish, you steal
For you would not have us live in the illusion
That what you want from us is wholeness
A people who have it all together
Unsplintered
Unfragmented
Whole
For in our wholeness we are scarce
And you have thousands to feed
So you come to us as one
Who breaks
And is broken
To be shattered into abundant life
And you invite us to be broken with you
So that our wounds heal
So that our scraps become meals
So that our hearts become homes
For you and for others
In truth we need you
You who sustains and debilitates
You who holds it all together and smashes it apart
You who is three… in one… in three
Because you tend to break things
Keep us in your hands, Sovereign Lord
Amen

New Direction

While I am, quite apparently, not a faithful blogger I am intensely interested in the blogging world. So, along with the new look, this blog will take a new direction, one that will hopefully result in more regular posting. From here on out, this will be a poetry blog (along with prayers and probably a couple of sermons...). What that means, I am not quite sure, but we can uncover that as we go. 

The blog genre is typically confined to being journalistic, an online diary which the entire world can read. Although keeping such a diary has not kept me interested enough to post frequently, the idea of the blog as public domain intensely interests me. Blogs are changing what it means to be published - anyone can do it and it's cheap. While we don't all carry the same readership the potential is at least present and that is part of what makes it so exciting. This is one reason for the change. 

The other is this: I like the idea of writing good poetry for an online community. While the web is full of misinformation, melo-drama, and chainmail there is also the opportunity for legitimate and worthwhile art to find a captive audience. To me, the blending of such a "low" medium with beauty is incarnational and a task worth pursuing. 

And so, without further ado, I present my first poem. I wrote this prayer/poem for Stephen Johnson who used it as a part of the liturgy in St. Paul this last Sunday night. The liturgy centered on John 12:20-33 (it would be helpful to read that text before reading the prayer in order to catch all of the allusions and borrowed imagery).

Our prayers give us away

Our prayers give us away:
Beneath our petitions for healthy bodies are
Troubled souls
Beneath our requests for a lighter load are
Heavy hearts
Beneath our pleas for security are
Lives in love with themselves
We would have you know that
Our hour has come, Lord
And we are ripe with need
But You have no desire
For amber waves of grain
You move
beyond sustenance
From life
To death
To life
Towards magnificence
And you invite us to follow
so that: life
ends
in life
and our prayers
end
in giving ourselves away
for the sake of others
It is for this reason that we have come to this hour,
Father, Glorify your name.
Amen