Traffic Jam (No Longer Here)

 

We move like slow morning

traffic, deep cramming

ourselves into the narrows

the way desperate salmon

cram themselves upstream

in a rush to spawn and die.

We survive on salaries of

panic, and breathe at

the pace of rage.

 

Sometimes God appears

to crawl one subtle pivot

at a time. The air becomes

thick with the exhaust of

our prayers and the scent

of sweat and wanting.

 

We search for better places.

We plead for easier ways to

pull ahead. But we remain

in still rooms where furniture

never moves, where features

around us remain familiar yet

unseen, where libraries remain

vacant and locked. We fail to grasp

the witness of trees who stand

open in their gift of waiting.

 

In our rush to independence

we miss abandoned roads

where freedom turns us into

love for the whole wide sky.

We overlook the edges beyond

our births and oceans who ferry us

past the lands of who we were  

in our wish to be no longer here.

 

Who doesn’t turn to Mother Mary

in times like these: her tenderness

of silences; her wisdom of

surrender; her gift of

uncomplicated fear …

 

Somehow we need to return

to the days of loss and wonder,

the days of uneven pace where

hope and seeds follow

nature’s will.

 

Given time, water

does erode stone.

Given time, light

will surprise us.

Given time, our eyes

adjust to the dark and

we learn by heart the

ways we shouldn’t go.

 

Quench

   

A new light has entered

the liminal space between

our mortal sun and weeds. It

might be a great silver dome,

a shroud of distance unresolved …

It might be a celestial cohort

prophesied by ancient sages

or a gentle wind in the pines

who whispers of unknowable

gifts. This mystery is a promise  

given for us that opens at the

pace of flowers to ponder and

breathe in for awhile. So let us

examine ourselves as we

take our place alongside the

wonder of stars. Not only are we

made of dust, we are part of a

vivacious whole full of halting

language, social fallibility,

hunger for all the sanguine

parts and golden company.

Love and atoms crave the

spaces between us as we

stand alone together. Clouds

carry these moving boundaries

across arid lands that stoop

for a drink at the shorelines  

of unknowing where every

unimaginable light begins.

 

Gloria

 

From behind a shed door came

the muffled sounds of nursing.

A brilliant slice of warm firelight

spilled across the darkness of

the yard. Fresh afterbirth steamed

in a corner. The mother’s eyes closed

in gratitude and relief. The father

kept watch as assigned, kissing his

tightly wrapped son into sleep.

 

It was the scene of every safe birth:

shrieks of labored breathing, blood

stains and wonder, hunger for milk

and sleep, new parents bursting with

pride to tell the whole world. But

the world already knew—the way

arid land knows quenching rain,

the way an eager river churns with

raucous delight, the way flocks of

tiny sparrows warm themselves

in the morning sun.

 

For a thousand years prophets

told this story to all who would

hear. Angels crowed. Workers

shivered in their fields. Even the

dark night bowed down, knowing

this new light would reign supreme.

This turning of the universe was

the fulfillment of a promise of

joyful shimmers in the darkest

deep sky. Even now ocean tides

swell. Sage clouds swirl at dusk.

Every mystery in the created

world wipes its eyes to cradle

the surprise. Every star in the

black sky chimes a little louder

and every child holds a piece

of this divine light shining

forevermore in the world.

 

 

                                  The Boys

        

        Look at them:

        breathless with

        playground conquest,

        flushed with energy and

        the aroma of mischief

        building at their hairlines. 

        Fire in their eyes blazes

        with vigor and glory. 

        Soon enough they will 

        fall still and sweeten as they

        sleep, lost as they are

        to the commotion of

        locker rooms and hallways.

        Bruises remind them

        who they are. Grass stains

        keep infallibilities in check.

        They come home later and

        more tired than they should 

        but return again and 

        again into the world

        until they grow older

        than moonrise, wiser

        than oak trees, more

        receptive than puddles

        and other sacred things.

                         

                        Candle Work

The soul grows by subtraction, not addition – Meister Eckhart

Look, I said, here

we are conducting

ourselves according to

the statutes, according

to nature’s prophecies,

the laws of stumps and

worms and seeds.

It’s the only way we 

can enter the vast array 

from birth to mystery.

We can’t engage what

we can’t breathe. 

We can’t notice more

than what we feel. 

We can’t take on what

has been made without 

first taking on ourselves. 

Still, we feast on 

newborn oxygen 

and daily bread. 

We labor in small 

towns. We fertilize 

faceless ideas no

bigger than weeds

to help us get by.

In these days of angels, 

we strive to go deeper

than we know how

to see. We change 

out of earthly clothes,

our voices turn silent

at last and we learn

from blank pages the

source of all beginning. 

 

Red Flannel Monk

                    I don’t speak  

                       monastic words,

or silence. I don’t

wake til nine. I

rarely make my bed.

Yes, I light fresh candles

to illuminate my

wonder. And cigars.

I worship best

in chapels made

of dirt and pines.

I like to eat three

meals a day. And

apple pie. Fasting

is how I drive. Yes,

I pull carrots from

holy ground. Yes,

I fix garden fences.

Yes, I feed the deer

in season. Also

I hunt. In all this,

God speaks my name

but not in holy ways.

God speaks to me in

earthen languages of

wilderness and weather,

autumn’s first few lines,

the murmur of a stream.   

Brief whispers I need

come from clouds

who help me breathe.

And comprehend.

And sing.