A Blank Page

a blank page
        stares back at me
    as if laughing
        as if mocking
            as if a reflection
    of my mind

blank

without words to express
        or articulate
    whatever swims thorugh my
        body
        mind
        heart
without words to share
        with others
    whatever occupies
        the deep parts of
my soul

then, as blank as it may be
    this is where
                 I trust
    divine creation finds work space

Offering Prayer

last-minute scrounging from
couch cushions or auto ashtrays
to put cash in the plate

cans of food delivered weekly
and almost-anonymously, filling our shelves today
so that tomorrow someone can eat

checks, written carefully
the first of each month,
leaving other bills 'til later
    
a couple bucks, emptying my wallet
of all but credit cards
so the cardboard-sign-guy can eat

school supplies on a sanctuary table
destined for kids whose parents
may need to write their own cardboard sign

an elder kneeling beside a preschooler
for just a moment on the patio,
to hear her immediate story

bank transfers,
digital ones and zeros magically lessening
my account, strengthening our work together
   
grieving parents offering
their dying son's organs
to bring another family new life

All These We Offer To You, O G-d

Baptism

Living Water

as in a shower,
    warm and cleansing
    therapeutic to the body

as in a summer cloudburst,
    warm and refreshing
    cleansing the air and giving life to the earth

as under a waterfall,
    strong, powerful,
    eroding the ground beneath

as winter sleet
    abrasive and abusive
    chasing us back to shelter

as a mountain stream
    abundant with elusive life,
    frigid to the touch

as throughout algae-covered lakes,
    seemingly stagnent
    yet alive at the surface
        and at every level beneath as well

as in the ocean
    vast and encompassing
    pounding relentlessly on the safety of dry land

Baptism, Living Water.

Incarnate Word

I get lost in language;
liturgical repetitions
theological machinations
religious incantations

too much is repeated too often
and I ignore, or don't see
the Divine right in front of me

we tend to get lost in words
buried in our precious books,
clever theological manipulations
of language pointing to ourselves

words have power, to be sure
in the beginning was the Word ...
and words, language, theology
tell us who we are

Child of G-d, Beloved of God
Given, Shed, for You

sticks and stones may well break us;
words can tear us down

and Incarnate Divine Word
can, and does, rebuild
what is now broken

Sunday Lunch at the Deli

I snuck in for a quick sandwich

in between Sunday obligations

they occupied a few tables,

family groups pushed together,

community spilling over

after morning worship

occupying physical and social space

their clothes, their look

gave them away ~ different from

how the collar gave me away

teenage boys with belts at their

waists (instead of knees), &

girls more fully vested than

at last night's dance club

dads in uncomfortable suits

and ugly sweaters, moms in

(sorry to say) really big hair

as I finished my sandwich

and they lingered over desert,

I knew I'd have been welcome

with them at worship

but it looked like there was

no room at the dinner table

On the Road

On the Road

Kerouac wrote compellingly

linguistic paintings

of the places they travelled

liturgical articulations of a

generation's ethos

On the Road

Willie sings a familiar

nomadic melody of

musicians travelling highways

where rhythm and life and

rhyme collide

many roads define culture, and the

borders of nostalgia

while Jesus' road

leads to suffering

   to death

      and then (& now)

to fullness of life

Incarnate Word

We get to see, on occasion
      the face of G-d
   usually nothing more
      than a glimpsed,
   "was that ... ?"

We get to hear divine vocalizations
   ancient chants echoing
      from cathedral stones
   hawks' screeches, diving
         toward prey, echoing
      from canyon walls
guitars through amps as
      culture meets Christ
   or a still small voice in the silence

We get to smell, often
         (but do we know it?)
      holy aromas
   incense rising with our prayers
      and body odor from society's margins
   freshly-fallen rain
      and the warmth of bread in the oven

We get to touch,
      hold in our palm
   the hand of G-d
      as we shake our neighbors hand
         embrace those beloved to us,
      "Peace be with you"
   and as we touch the world
      we are ourselves embraced
         by G-d's Holy Spirit

We get to taste
         (honey on our lips)
      Incarnate Word
   in berries' sweetness,
      tomatoes warm from the garden,
   peaches, melon, rhubarb,
      sweet corn, apples heavy on the tree
   now burdening summer's table
      as friends gather around
         eating, creating community
   And we taste Incarnate Word
      Bread and Wine
         burdening tables with
            Body & Blood ... given and shed
   we eat together, being
      made ourselves into
Word Incarnate

some mornings

that one moment doesn't last forever
        a few minutes, maybe
    as the rising sun
        begins to warm the ground
an aroma, infuses my senses
        fresh & clean
    from evaporating dew
        or last night's rain that
            soaked the ground, just enough

Memory of the Future

at breakfast, by myself
    eggs & toast, pen & paper
I saw my daughter
    walk by on the street
(she was, I imagine, actually
    in a middle school classroom)

the woman crossing the street
    (going to work, or on
her way home after last night)
    is already grown;
my daughter, not yet. 

                                  But
    there she was, catching the
corner of my memory
    vaulting me forward in time
as if I'd skipped a decade ~

    and now, seeing her grown
I recall those middle school years
    so long ago.

                         and so I sit
pen & paper, eggs & toast, nostalgic
    for what has yet to come to pass

Traveling Before Sunrise

yesterday, out the rv window

clouds hung high in the sky

above our heads

their dark underside

contrasting the lightening sky

today, the horizon is hazy,

but the sky is clear, and

all I see out the window,

hung like a child's mobile

from the bedroom ceiling

is this momentary vision,

before the sun comes up

and overpowers

the waning moon, now

just a few hours past full

Waking Up in the Winter

morning beckons,
calling from
beyond the down and
patchwork of
sewing scraps & history

thick down and a
heavy quilt
hours ago tucked tightly
under my feet and shoulders
have loosened overnight

creating the security and
comfort of warmth, which
despite a beckoning morning
my nearly-awake self
will not vacate

Perspective

budgets and bills
politics and policies
conflicts and conundrums
and
all the other concerns
filling my
consciousness

are put in
proper perspective
by the girl
in the next car, with
her tongue out,
joyfully consumed by
consuming
her ice cream cone

Touching the Divine

half-round, the moon hangs
low on the horizon
I catch a glimpse, look closer, and
am taken back a week to
when it lit the sky full,
round, clear; when it seemed
close enough to touch, as in a
mountain lake on a
perfectly calm night when you
reach into the water,
touching the moon, and sending
ripples across the reflected sky
just as the water ripples
across the bowl ... font ... ever time
I touch that storied, holy
water
          as I touch the water,
tentatively or boldly, I reach,
perhaps longing to touch the divine
just like children, in awe,
gingerly approach our
crèches, seeing the shepherds
surrounding Mary and Joseph, but
reaching directly to the center
longing (as maybe we all do)
just to touch the divine

New Year's Day

a turn of the page on the wall
the tick of a clock hand -
this one, especially
as it made its way around the globe
seems more significant than the others

setting aside the old, and
embracing the new -
is it more notable today?
more meaningful on the day
when the third number
(__/__/**) changes
than any other day ...
say, for instance, May 23rd?

together, though, we mark this time
with hope and expectation
the New Year
    not yet having explored its potential
offering the hope of new and better
    (habit and pain, too, but we choose
to hope ...

remembering (or not) that
new year's day is always,
    still
        Christmas

Advent In the Wilderness

up against the desperation of the
     holiday season
we set spiritual desperation, as we
     ourselves
are found in the wilderness, where a
     voice is crying;

a voice cries amid the wilderness of
     shopping malls,
the wilderness of holiday parties,
     of credit card debt
of the loneliness of the dark, and the
     darkness of the lonely

a voice cries, cutting through, though
     still and small
with good news: the Word of life is
     among us, bringing
comfort, comfort, even into this
     holiday wilderness

Advent New Year

new year begins swathed in a
surprising quiet of blue, as if
I am suspended, neither buoyant
nor leaden, but simply still still
still.  I feel no need to breathe,
nor even twitch; everything I know,
in this moment, is trust.  And I
come to see that, perhaps, this
Advent suspension reveals the
blue waters of baptism in which
I am constantly suspended,
enwrapped in unmitigated
Grace, needing to neither breathe
nor even twitch, but simply Trust.

Full Moon in the Morning

light colors the sky
brightening the morning
darkness, adding depth
to my perception as I walk
out the door, preoccupied
with the work day

as I walk out the door, any
preoccupation vanishes,
replaced by wonder at an
almost-full moon, hanging
(suspended as a lamp from a
rafter) though, as the sun rises
the moon begins to seem
out of place, surprising
in its superfluoucity 

November at the Concert Hall

outside, rain turns to
snow as autumn's grasp
weakens, succumbing slowly
to winter's impatience;

winter disappears inside
the warmth of wood
vibrating sympathetically
with metal pulled taut;

as snow still falls, sound
fills the room, bouncing
off the walls and into our
souls, warming us from within

brief ode to the cello

toned and tuned from the lowest to the
upper range of the human voice

and played with the whole body,
sound emanating from the
heart of the player's being

the cello may very well be
the
most
sensual
instrument

diner conversation

alone in a diner
surrounded by conversations ~
new lovers behind me; and
at that business meeting
over there,
a ceo's quiet confidence
belies middle school taunts
which surface every time she
smells chalk - but it doesn't
stop her from closing the deal
while the waiter ignores the
lovers, who never notice him
sneak into the kitchen to
pour black coffee over
his hangover ~
but they're not my conversations ...
I've been talking with eggs and
tortillas; but they're gone, their
interest having waned long ago.
now I'm left to wander, still alone,
out into the continued
anonymity of the city street.