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.

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.