February 27, 2009

The last of the snow joined the rain today.
The uneven driveway slabs propelled it through the cracks
and it pools in the path of hurried footsteps across
the sidewalks; a unintended reminder to lack pride,
as the purity of winter now dirties my wet socks.

My son breathing lightly on my unclipped beard
as the snow fringes grass, leaves, then streets.
The dim light of the trucks that pleasantly rumble
through these picturesque scenes, rocking us to sleep.

And now a time, he rocks on both feet, scattered and
crooked, bounding foot after foot ahead of me.
January's serenity has become muddy puddles that he pounds
through, that the cars splash at us, that I scramble
to protect us from so he will keep his smiling peace.

February 26, 2009

Psalm 22 & Judges 16

Wasting strength on the critical,
the reckless and arrogant, has dried it up.
Wasting prayers on guilt and shame.
Save time; poke out my eyes and walk away.

Be peaceful and decisive, quit wasting away
and start cutting off. Don't let the browned
roses behind the garage wither until winter
before the die in the snow. Prune in the spring,
that new blooms may grow.

Wasting words on self-gratifying confession,
details of indiscretion lavishly inlaid with
more temptation. Sacrifice, short and swift.
Help me overcome wasteful, indulgent humanness.

February 25, 2009

Ash Wednesday

Didn't drink my orange juice this morning,
then I didn't finish running and then
forgot my son plucked the deodorant from my duffel,
then stuck it is his mouth, trucked down the hall
gurgling "vroom-vroom," then lost his wares within his room.
I don't know where it is. So I didn't put it on.
On this holy day of fasting, my lunch was rice and beans.
Didn't eat them though. I absentmindedly left them
under the front seat of my car, and my wife drove away with them.
Didn't watch the musical, the babysitter brought my son
and he brought his tired fights (but not the deodorant I needed).
Once sleeping I took him home, and then
the phone rang with questions and concerns that
racked my head until the silence of the imposition.

Something to remember.

But then, I didn't eat all day and we don't have money
to eat with friends at fast-food places. Only spaces
in the checkbook filled with obligations. And I'm guessing
I won't make love tonight, my wife looks droopy eyed, maybe
from the solemn candlelight, or the grinding gears of life.
And so with sleep it seems, my season has begun
as choiceless denial, dictated and dry. It didn't renew me.
So this Lent, I'm giving up on taking it. Giving up on sitting in it.
Giving a Holy middle finger to excuses, to the thing I "must" do.
Waking up tomorrow, I'll make the choice to choose.

February 20, 2009

Isaiah 41

i know i need a frosted cornfield,
wide and quiet, empty and undefined,
with thousands of collasped ears to help me listen.
i must remain still, but there is a
devastating silence in dead woods, cracked branches;
overwhelming and stagnant, needing action.

So i know i must clean and clear,
stride through snowy wheat to fallen trees;
renewed order entering the scattered reaction.
i must move, but some movement trips, slaps,
and distracts. The limbs and leaves are beautiful,
but i lose purpose in this wind and confusion.

Then i know i need a frosted cornfield.

February 19, 2009

As the snow returns in winter,
i return to simple desires;
my wife's head upon my shoulder,
my son's hands through the back of my hair,
Your voice soft in my sleepy ears,
and a deep chair, to watch and hold,
and finally close my eyes until spring.

February 18, 2009

i am the dimness before Your great storm;
the inconsistent, uneasy flicker that is blown
with my back to Your power, hair tossed by the wind.
i am the rusty light that rushes away from
Sinai's base, the rocks that break beneath lightning
rumble over cliffs in frantic escape.
Fearful, i am a flower in first morning; turning
to first nightfall under the sheets of rain,
unaware sun comes again, unaware that roots
grow deep while petals hide their face.

February 10, 2009

Matthew 16

Warm winter with
lapsang and Parmesan,
mac-and-cheese and children;
each one at a different
age of tantrum.
We are the young in You,
we yearn to tell You what to do.
The devil dwells in
our mouths and in our Macs;
behind our backs, beyond control.
Smarties in the hands of toddlers
long to be sweet, not crushed
and ground in carpet,
We rush to stop it, we rush to
say "no," to refuse and remove;
silently unsure what to say "yes" to.
Rules to life, attempts one and two:
close computer screens early and instead
join my lovely wife in her lonely bed,
and then wake early, to cereal
and self brewed coffee,
with wanton sips of priority.

February 7, 2009

Romans 11

i want to be the morning light,
slowly dispersing over hills to
drive the dark off the rocks.

My unbelief burns brighter,
for where You have abandoned
mountains, dug lonely caves

i wish to explore, to invade
these unelected quarries with
my oscillating flame. Underneath

i may find those uncalled by You.
i don't understand. i want to.
Lest i flare indignant, i must admit,

if there are some You do not want
then i will go, offer sorrow, apology,
and perhaps a cup of tea,

then hopelessly hope they will walk back to You
with me.