The Creation

Elohim bara, the Spirit, the Word
Spoke light and dark,
The ending and the beginning.
Spoke sea and sky,
The ending and the beginning.
Spoke land, fruit, and seeds,
The ending and the beginning.
Spoke the sun, moon, and stars,
Filling up the light and dark.
The ending and the beginning.
Spoke fish in depths, the birds to fly,
Filling up the sea and the sky.
The ending and the beginning.
Spoke living creatures and fashioned man,
Filling up the vastness of land.
The ending and the beginning.
Spoke of goodness and working hand,
Of joining spirit and matter in man,
Then sighed in content at creation’s span.
The ending and the beginning.
Elohim bara, the Spirit, the Word,
Movement erupts when Your voice is heard,
Hearts, hands, and dust joyfully stirred,
Returning to earth in the virgin birth.
The ending and the beginning.

- part of "The Christmas Spirit" released December 25, 2006

The Gospel

The Spirit of the Sovereign Lord
wrestled daily with strongholds of shame.
We, drenched in sin, rich in the stick
and the stench of regret.
We abide outside yet, in a rain of lament,
not rinsing in Your garden rain.
Deep purple sunsets burn out,
doused by the darkening clouds,
beauty and royalty covered by pain.
Proclaim release from disgrace,
for us prisoners pitifully dark.
Your grace had to know this dim place,
but how absent the blood on Your hands.
How, bringing garments of praise,
have you grappled the depths of shame?
Where, without wrong, did you battle despair
from a wrong that You could not change?
How many years did you pass,
bluntly biting your lip, shrouded in ash,
beneath worries that will build humility,
that will start the movements of the weak?
Mourning for a mother, for a father,
for obedience, for suffering in reverence;
mourning for the will of Your Father,
still sprinkling the oil of gladness.
Planted in such a situation, brought
through such a background, blushing
at the thoughts of the unknowing,
crushed by every mental stoning.
From this soil, its texture and feel,
sprung this spirit of poverty and zeal.
Oh, how the roots that bring life
to the towering tree influence
the waving and brightness of leaves.
Yet only when sting of winter enters
the stems does true color blaze.
And under what sting did this rose
begin blooming, what imminent pain
did Christ ever sense looming, ever so
closely, ever more reddening
the tint and temperament of family cheeks?
And the effect of the whole tree afire
With branches directed with righteous desire?
My broken heart cries, through empty field,
through autumn nights, wisps like smoke
though the tree of life. My heart known,
it was His own, now it is His to bind.
And all shame my soul shall find,
He will now push aside, and instead
rebuild, restore, renew, once-ruined life.

- part of "The Christmas Spirit" released December 25, 2006

My Father in Unfolding Story

My father in unfolding story…
The word, the cup of coffee he sips instead.
With coke bottle glasses, he read and read.
Five-thirty A.M., uncovered, still uncovering
My Father. Before candles, before
The dawn, before this space, before
My needs. And without speed, no haste
In a fast and steady hand.
Waste not the day, redeem the morning,
Alone and unclothed, before
And below, my God, my Father.
Dad, you sewed my favorite sweater,
The one that is so warm in winter.
You never knew you knit,
And yet, you never really quit weaving,
Weaving, pushing, leaving, giving.
And now that it is well worn: receiving.
I remember folder fingers. Around one
Another like two needles together.
How each stitch, morning and evening,
Unseen and foreseeing
Reason and intent, and I would be content,
To sit on my daughter’s bed and pray.
To hold my wife’s hand,
To now understand
To graft heavy plans into spirited vines
And when the light of delight declines
Breathe joyous ones into more somber sons.
My father, how you wrapped that family
Around my shoulders, around our shoulders,
Around my heart.
Of my Father, the growing glory
Of my father in unfolding story…

The Tide

Rinsed in commerce, wings of gold and silver
Carved into rings are rarely worn.
Rarely guarded as expressions – barely recognized
Inscription diminished and scorned:
“Pull me o’er your heart in heavy rains.”
Rolls mournfully round a rusted,
Vanity sink and rattles regretfully through the drain.
Heaven falls so heavy these days.

Union

At it’s holiest, this communion…
The body and (Oh!) the body!
How I eat of it everywhere but here,
Here at this silken altar,
Here I lay resigned, sacrificed before,
But no more. Brought bread to bartar
For water, for survival, not at all for
Remembrance. I used to dance like a child,
I used to run like one too…
Slow but imagining speed, desire imagining need,
The body and (Oh!) my broke down dream.
This table of intimacy, laid out for me,
The bride and the only.
A soft confessional for unity,
For the holiest of holies to meet.
So close now but so long between.
I tend to stay away.

Refreshed by the tint of the wine,
The lingering sting on the tongue.
Convening my fears, my vanities.
Away blood, alcohol and nudity,
Away chance to live one honestly.
(The chance to live with honesty.)
Perhaps always flowing penance
Prevents a growing celebration flood.
What good is commemoration that doesn’t cleanse?
Wine that doesn’t ease?
A story that doesn’t hold memory?
Anticipation that does not tease?

Swirl that glass, pull back those covers.
Cease distant confessions, become a lover.
Become one who does not leave the Tent,
One who is not hesitant…
(Oh!) The body, oh so smooth to call.
(Oh!) The blood still so gritty to tell
The realness of a life in salvation,
The texture of an invitation,
To a holy table of lived communion,
To my God, my One, this sweet reunion.

September 3

The promise of the honey poured
And pulled across my tentative lips...

It’s turning fairly sour and a bit sticky,
Words that smack of such
Passion and Pain...I let them lay
Bound and untasted, sweet but wasted
A tongue talking is too busy to lick lips.

Honey and coffee, maybe…

What holy words of me?
Speak like a fragrance
And long listening would leave
Incense burning, stomachs churning
And golden brown layers under snow.

But what holy words of me!
(I am undeniably impatient to see…)

Come now, come now, move.
Write with a pressure, words with purpose,
Yes! Motivate with scrawled signs,
All dots and lines, all symbols divine,
All pointing the path of my mind to…

You, please! Touch my tragedy…

Your breath my pulse, my motivation.
That feel, that beat, my full emotion.
Breathless when without,
My fingers stretching out,
For rain to end my drought, none falls.

Sit inside a windowless room
And wait for the wind to blow through…

This text tells a promise
Of conversation sweet and leading.
Through which closed door? (I’m pleading…)
Give weight to a movement, give conviction to a thought,
Give flavor to it fullest, and substance to what’s sought!

Be more quiet now…

Quiet

Train and skin and sin and I am sleeping,
Out of routine, splashed with caffeine
And the repeating and more repeating.
Blow through open windows, backyards, broken doors,
Empty streets, O Lord, blow.
Wind and horn, wind and rain, and explain
The difference between the light of night
And the light of day…
It’s only night is a little further away…
Like the difference of the clock and the train.
And the noise of the twilight is fear.
A droaning fear that Phinehas’ spear
Will slide through me and my thoughts.
I fear, I stand, I walk, I fear,
I sit, I turn all the lights on.
I fear: my thoughts. I walk.
If she knew she would not be sleeping.