A Garden Walking

Weak knees, ankle deep in the mud of my planting.
Cracking shells of seeds with a clenched jaw,
all the while we’ve been bent low, dug in worship,
rows sowed with humble woes, you simply weren’t.
So what will you water with, with what will you draw
the strength of remembrance? Oh, our common griefless
altar, peppered with whisper and laughter.
Oh! Clear this temple of blasphemous talk,
of those who simply will not walk with intent,
with lament, of those who drown out the soil,
of those who recoil from the unpreventable touch,
intimate, unsettling, refusing painful wrestling with a fearful Presence.
Approaching fields of wheat, of substance,
there is a seriousness to the harvest, and to the planting.
Ah, you’ve beaten a shameful path through our slower garden,
choking all the growing wheat with faster, popping, pretty weeds.
So now who will this field feed? (And certainly my
idle hands are not producing) still,
this is not what I planted.

I Cannot Stop

Do not cup Your hands,
for the overflow You will receive
is naught but baby screams,
rain, worry, and drenching insecurity.
I should not be alone,
for the stream of self-focusing
is neither remotely useful
and is, in fact, intensely unhealthy.
Oh, why do not Your hands move
to stop the sins that I cannot.
Daily tempted to tell temptation
I am on top, or at least in thought,
my dedication such that I can cry
when in confession, when in conscience,
actions hold bitter oppression
but my selfishness requests Your silence.
For if You speak, it will be
like a pouring, enduring rain.
The dryness cannot resist,
overcome and by the essence,
the presence, of change and texture
runs, soft to mud, and moldable since
You have let loose a torrent,
and with hands above head, umbrellas,
prayers and shouts, I cannot stop it.
Only a storm to sit and to tell
that all within, all discipline, not well.
Despite the way I press on,
despite the goodness of the song,
I fear my thirst will linger on,
for only You can quench it.

Opening

Consolation is to look out,
and solace is to see.
Celestial in the slender,
the common impacts heavily.
When heavenly hands swing
simpler here below,
when looking up is to open wide
and taste the falling snow,
when celebration intimate
is to caress your fault filled wife,
when forgiveness is to forget
the wrong that wrecks your life,
when the flawed substance of creation
collides with Eden’s hoping,
then selfish stress subsides
at the clouds of heaven opening.

Silently

But You seem significantly silent.
Distortion, clean, switching channels
sensing tautness of panic, switching
fears that overflow my dams of
poetry, sleep, Scripture and mediocrity.
Assured that with intentions good
my fear would dissipate, abate, would
bring revelations and motivate. Could
I be wrong? Could psalms and songs,
tin cans and moving hands, morning
readings and restless evenings
not be the way You lead. I have
felt this thought, but I forgot. I have
taken the Spirit for a passenger, a
long-limbed gentle friend graciously
forced into my dirty little accord.
Has fear of tightness snapped the chord?
We want You to walk, but salvation,
we still want You to remove situations
sharp and hot, and if You will not,
we still worry and fear and grow
silently cold, senseless and resenting.
But You seem significantly silent today.
And in silence what remains?
Stay, Presence in wrestling, and fight
fearful, timid spirits preferring night
and all the black and white, scared
that living in questions might never
bring the answers we cleverly expect.
Silence, do You call me to take steps,
or wait, wait, perfect love of redemption
reclaim my doubt, remove shouts of dread
that drench and drown out,
and re-teach of fear, of reverence in
living, praying, acting, reacting
silently and listening, saving my mixture
of love, future, fear for my G-d,
my Rock of salvation come near.

Down : Face

My Father, my question,
who drives the snow sideways,
and life, in motion or in pause.
My friends, my temple,
this altar is life itself.
Opposite of depths, astride
wingtips, cautiously covering
the temptation to control.
Extol my God, my heart, my soul,
in wisdom of intention.
With robes, with order, with offerings,
in worship all-encompassing,
purposefully lead, deliberately design
time, if only Your desires mine.
Where my prophet, my unveiler,
with eyes of stone, unenticed
by the promise of spice, unbought
and unaffected by my aim,
ascertain the plain call,
the simple plan, henceforth
I follow and follow fain,
prone and extending fingertips
under wingtips gold in flame.
Seeking never leaving, my heart
in a constant display,
stretched with face near
to the silvery door,
the carpeted floor, to Your ear.
Oh, Name above names,
I dare not call You to insist
on audience for my claims.
No, instead, in Spirit, silence me.
In truth, let me hear You
speak to us, speak through us,
amen.