The self-inflicting wound of bale
embraced in mucky baggage
while you were good all along
of your very own song
You, forgettable in your space of stones
Blurred throughout the years, wind
Have erased thought or any remembrance
Only grand, sweeping columns of wealth
Chiseled in the books of their life
You, forgettable in your rags of rough
Aged beyond the years of the years
Carry the weight of worry, the inescapable
A duration cast in dust unable to hold
Destined to carry the slab since birth
You, forgettable in your slight space and
Who claimed to love this marrow of
The craftsman of wind, the rain and
Says Up William! Join a celebration of
Where grand monuments vanish
You, unforgettable and beloved through
Well-known for a steadfast tread on an
No more ache or tattered sorrows bound by
Lifted high in unfailing hands— look and see
Your name written in the book of life
I surveyed the sunflowers
threaten to hug and squeeze
tight to keep
them from getting any bigger
laughing, shrug it off and run
outside to play
the sunshine of spring helped
them grow a little more
an open window my heart of
diffuse in the breeze draping
a bittersweet veil on every little thing
I inspect the overgrown yard in
need of care
a leafless azalea vacant
among the unfolding green
a honeysuckle wrapped
around the tender bush
squeezed hard and never let go
mine couldn’t be suppressed
and burst forward ready to bloom
the children run in the springtime air
covered in pollen
The light shone in the
And he rises
The darkness put to flight
He rises so we, too may rise
Into the full
Of a stone rolled far to the
East and west
Follow his finger along
He rises, a faithful
Illumination of who he is
So we can remember
Who we are
Walking into daylight
This year, I’ve missed out on the liturgy, and the simple songs repeated until they sink deep within. Stripping the altar. This holy week has been a bit off-kilter. Today I will pause and seek God in the quiet moments. A good day to listen rather than speak. A fast of the writing hand.
I’m posting the words written last year. May you, too find God in the unsettled and still.
Silent and still.
The air without breath.
Holding it in.
Rocks that could cry out
The sun still rose for the
And in silence.
Perhaps the sun only rose
Because God whispered, “I know—
The grip of sorrow the others
Felt kept them soundless and
Silence feels the way dark
However, fear and confusion
And it drowns out the sound
Of a Heavenly Father
Quietly filing away the
Of a daring
So far, unheard and unseen.
Weaves a weary path through
Hearts and minds,
A hushed reflection
Of what they thought they knew.
The voiceless second day.
The 22nd chapter of Genesis, imagined.
Silence fell over Abraham as he placed sticks on young Isaac’s back, “Not my boy, Lord— but your will…” Internal dialogue drifted off as he drank in beauty. The shine of his hair was excruciating. Abraham knows of God’s best. He gazed to the stars the night before so he wouldn’t forget. The mountain was waiting and the child asks, “Dad?” His father mutters that all we can do is trust.
In Abraham’s mind he wonders how painful the best may be. The old man lifts his eyes, and feels a holy pause. Breath catches. It won’t be this son. Giving a name to the pause, silence fell over Abraham.
The Lord Will Bear It.
It’s not the burning hours of failure
My face awash in a radium light
Nor the ageless moments of regret
The minute hand telling me… be contrite
Rather, it’s that same old tick, ticking, tick, ticking
Fear of mediocrity
That keeps me up at night.