I Sing a New Song

The hymn has not submerged, for once,
these splintered sticks and slabs,
these boards more fit for trash,
have scarcely and trepidly held tin above,
and below escaped the thickening mud.

You have raised up and held this strength,
this salvation through this house.
From Hungarian plains may come rain,
thus the ever-threatening mud, or through it
plunge the wheels of messengers. Please come.

The satellite sits, rattles in Spanish,
preparing the way for words.
Speech intermittent, prophetic, pathetic,
curious and pushing, a chance and a promise,
"Please, take my picture now."

Sebastian, I can't pray for you.
The unknown, but you've been left on a step
just paces away from the open market,
where deliverance is offered for less than a cent.
But in spirit, these only come out in prayer.

We could whittle away time at the cave,
but I've been up all night, and trinkets might
be the least of concerns. Tim, how do
we let him into us? Into God? With nothing,
no connections, what will you grow in?

Sebastian? I have held watch for you,
I've held you when you couldn't ask or answer.
The opening in the heavens, they finally broke.
Six months old, this pressing down,
this lifting up, this tearing off, you'll never know.

In the desert, in the weight of the mud,
with faltering, foreign lip, doubtless misunderstood...
Abel could live but he is dying,
and on the tenth floor, she should die but lives.
In my presence let them know: He is.

My camera still holds the site, the little girl
with Irish hair, wide open, begging eyes.
My knees have got a list of longings, but who
must I prepare the way for? Only coming through
prayer, the one I've nothing but prayer for.

A Kingdom of Leaves

A silver maple guiltless,
silhouette against industrial sky.
Still but neighbor to the pillar,
Manufactured cloud, directing life.
High, unholy hands, a twisted community,
limbs in bending wind that
imparts the river upon the roots.
Roots that grasp, intricate beneath the grass,
sewn and interlaced, like prayer tassels
in holy knots, fastened in holy soil,
and though we did not know
the ground here is never ungracious,
never dry.
This body of unhallowed parts, set away
and set apart, intentionally separate from the
sated hollow, vacated, for gods of these woods
believe not in the life of the water.
Oh… the city dies as well,
painting gray the green in monotony of gain.
With production, the instruction becomes to straighten,
to contain beauty to rows
that do not wind or weave or contemplate or believe
a tale of overwhelming canopy.
Cities and trees, they do not leave
surroundings of self, saturated with ease.
Along these paths, both shallow and ragged,
success springs quickly and is scorched.
The freshness of water, life to all seeds,
instead suffer along parched pavement,
roll into the weeds, and there, in agony,
they forget to breathe.
Shall we call you with creation, with color,
with blessing bloomed from these crooked stems,
promising bright and light, but pale against gloom.
Ah single leaf, alight for relief,
call others to beautifully line the streets.
All pile together, decompose to compose
a cover in hot weather, a love proposed
in refreshing new soil, a deepening of prose of
the words which ground us, the water that flows,
now over the dam, now up forest hills,
now flooding with life all it seeps in and fills…

On Giving Up

Aware of altars, there is much I would compel
into the binding. Into ropes,
into knots, entanglements of selfish scopes
revelling in lusts; may they dispel.
Weak, I admit, sin does not submit well.
Oh my zealous knife, invitation slopes
away from coercion, banishing hopes
of forcing pain to meakly wave farewell.

In splinters, in spite of the face of the word,
In sacrifice, dryest breath misheard.

Cords lie untied, imperfection finds
itself paved into souls on the way;
enlivened by paradox that binds
both Spirit and life to redeem the enslaved.

Returning from the Church

An artless brown fence sits against the bland
Indiana spring, half and half, green and tan.
The black lab sprung up proud and ran
in stark, brash contrast to the gentle land.

In the breaking, this blessing, the morning sun began
to enkindle meditation and a mild appreciation
for a blessing yet to come and a strong anticipation
of a love sprung up and running throughout our age's span.

Broken but distinct, the tail light's illumination,
flushing imagination with the red of reflecting,
the dog, the brakes, a collision without detecting.
Tragic and torn; reality mocks manipulation.

Tossed against the fence, and down in imperfection,
head meekly lain on the tamest grass, hollow as sorrow.
I slowed my dreams as I passed, a pause in my tomorrow,
but swallowed hard, for upon paws, a swift resurrection,

darting back across its death, with eyes of fear now knowing;
the colliding of our lives with life, uncontrolled but never slowing.

The Stain

The question is endlessly insistent
upon entrance to this hall without decoration.
A bland, blue wall necessitates conversation
that pushes blushes into unshaven faces,
but prevents worse fears, though the worst will come.

The eyes of my quiet desperation, endlessly pacing,
posing the question, then erasing and rolling on
in frustration. Persistent in lacking participation,
a stubborn generation must want to be taught,
as my beard is pulled, though short, young, but wrought.

Shabby t-shirts and jeans, endlessly worn.
More faithful, more remembered than friends they hold
in bonds bound with laughable things, for deeper
connections may move in maturity, which is fear...
for it is thoughtful and loyal, silent and sincere.

And seeking isolation in noise that is endlessly slinging
the stain of entertainment against pure walls,
and standing on the line, for boredom is banished
by the exciting threat of my terse attention
and life that is richer when wrapped up in tension.

In the Waiting Room

Your chatter, loose and enormous,
numerous depths, wondrous heights,
and weight. The chatter of wanderers,
chairs and walls, crammed with aesthetics
competing for the glory of the eye,
while all too softly falls the weight.
While we wait, we grow old,
for our wait if heavy with worry,
and that won't add what nothing can,
yet I know that lest Your hand
be cover we would all kneel, then
all but disappear as we
spill upon each other in breaths of fear.
Here is plenty of explaining and
unexplaining, hands wrung and deals done
and muttered prayers offered lightly.
For pretty pictures, black and white
and unevenly spaced, bring not peace,
but instead the forceful image of it.
Under all such lie the opposite.
Under silent talk lies louder chatter
of many a more weighty matter,
And beneath this haunting sticky film;
this airy fear of death belies
a still heavier fear of life.

The Beauty of Tension

Off wooden beam ceilings bounce readings
nervously holy with rolling meaning.
A tightening in the beauty of tension,
between the yes and the yes,
between bowing and relaxation,
of strained continuation till
we’re drawn to the space where the Lord,
the Lord God is one.

And thus being undone,
being like a shamed man flung
in all disgrace between the One
who holds the justice of life and death,
the same One who with every breath
hopes to graciously harbor fear.
The promise of heaven drawn near
despite the reverence from always offending,
of rending ourselves from the unending
wonder in Your balance sincere.

God of covenantal reality,
the God in the paradox, in actuality
the unity. The completeness of all things,
the restoration Your blessing brings
rings in praise and penance, knees bowed,
heads down and hands peacefully high.
The God of the sky, the ashes, the earth,
guarding the grave, giving forth birth.
Both hearing and acting, present now
and afar, in the sound of pews creaking
and the orphans bleak cry,
in organs ascending and the circles beneath
the bare widow’s eyes, empty relief,
on my coldest hands or all hardened hearts.
A beckoning cracking and bounding within
liturgical groans, a Lent filled with sin,
but never escaping the stained glass of men
and forever coming despite separation,
forever longing to lead in salvation.