Day 66: Morning

Psalm 131

At the end of this day,
i will lean back on Your breast;
and i will rest. Father, i will not

ponder politic or purpose,
but my fingertips will rise and fall
like gentle breaths, softly

across Your bearded countenance.
i will bury bloodshot eyes,
rubbed red, raw, and stressed,

into the crook of Your neck.
i will run grasping hands,
opening and closing in pursuit

of affection, through the lightest
locks that fall from Your hushed head.
i will lay down in that bed

and neither toss nor turn,
as You lay a blanket over me,
renewing me with sleep.

Day 65: Morning

Isaiah 65

"They will build houses and dwell in them;
they will plant vineyards and eat their fruit..."

My hand longs to lift
off these keys for weeks.
My eyes long to look
away from other men's sons.
i have long been brother,
finally let me be father.
i would gladly trade in
struggling to stop the talking
for struggling to understand small
babblings, tears, and waving hands.
Am i putting in the work?
Or am i plowing fields
that i do not own,
where i don't see harvest,
do not taste the fruit,
do not enjoy the rest
because i have my own home
where i must move stone
lay sand, pave it flat,
and watch the wheelbarrows haul
the dirt back and back.
There is still a lack
of blessing of my choosing.
Losing time and losing sleep
and losing chances to play
nursery games, say his name,
catch his head, put him
to bed, jump and smile,
all while building love in
the home where i dwell.

Day 65: Morning

Isaiah 64

"Oh, that you would rend the heavens and come down..."

She speaks becomingly,
with youthful common sense orthodoxy,
in these diagonal halls of change
we must rearrange our books
and look to do the impossibly dull.

She listens unbendingly,
but like the rigid twigs leaning
by the thousands on the rails,
being uncompromising only breaks
and cracks her, each piece smaller
and more inferior. That's the
feeling that makes her speak.

She prays a universal paradox:
If You are here, where are You?
She cannot see You rallying,
drinking Monster, getting dared,
being close like a sleepover night
that has been shared. And if
she can't see You, You're not there.

She is the request,
a cry from the drained soul
of change, a prayer for presence.
They reach up but You must
unveil heaven to simple us.

Day 62: Mid-Day

Isaiah 62

They will be called the Holy People,
the Redeemed of the LORD;
and you will be called Sought After,
the City No Longer Deserted.

Clinging, desperate, empty.
Between my eyes, i can feel.
Your appeal is that you walk;

drags me to scramble after you.
Head up, eyes forward,
seeing streets of green promise.

Environmental renewal or
energy inefficient seaside resorts,
you have a vision

and i am always seeking one.
i consist of depths, walled in
muddied sand, colors bland

and blending together in continuing
labyrinthine cascades of
self-searching contemplation.

Am i so sure? For i need
knotty hands to join with me,
nodding heads for security,

even intellectuals who agree.
i can stand separate, but even trees
grow in groves, can we not

cleave ideologies? Can you not
believe? Can you not stop
and have some coffee,

and stay and talk with me?
Can you not see the empty
hope i have, the hollow joy?

How can i hold my head
above ground if it is not
held by steadfast hands?

You might. But what
would you call me?
What would you call me?

Clinging?
Desperate?
Empty?
Redeemed?

Day 60: Morning

Psalm 119

"Turn my eyes away from worthless things..."

Dualistic options of who to be
faced with ancient written word:
believe, be warned, find sustainability,
or believe after suffering similar failure.
Nobody listens, we all pursue
Solomon's same path, running the ruthless
ruts of gain, aspiring to the repetitive new,
unsettled to find everything still worthless.