John 11

Are there not twelve hours of daylight?
Too many to salvage the sleep I've missed,
listening to the crying calls,
my sleepless children.
Too little waking hours to spend time
with them that they will remember, building
tracks for wooden trains, building
blocks into wobbly towers, building
beds in the living room to pretend
to sleep.

Advent: Day One

Isaiah 1

"When you spread out your hands in prayer, I will hide my eyes from you; even if you offer many prayers, I will not listen. Your hands are full of blood; wash and make yourselves clean."

i scratch through december grass,
gathers in small patches,
gathers to stretch toward sky
with green hands groaning for snowfall.

Unraked ground cannot receive
the purest of precipitation,
the crystals will cling to the edge of the leaf
and leave muck in wicked mounds.

To cry to the God of heaven
and clear what remains beneath,
that is the waiting,
the joining of remorseful removal
and bowing for the expectant approval,

i churn out the wet and decaying
while praying for purest renewal.

Day 45: Morning

i do a lot of speaking,
saying nothing,
asking much and praying little.
And even as i break sticks
to symbolize release,
i realize i rarely
ask that You would hear
my rambling speech.

i do a lot of speaking,
but little hoping,
and less trusting. if i must
be honest,
You teach lessons too often
for my liking. Instead,
answer my supplication
with vindication, or victory,

or success, or blessing,
not simple listening.
Your frightening lack of
predictability makes You
frighteningly difficult to fear.
Give me more than ear;
respond, react, move.
Make me recognize,

still my speaking,
spread my eyes over
the fullness of glory.
Reality is only spoken
into being by the Word,
by Your breath.
Nevertheless, i continue to speak;
this morning, hear me.

Day 23: Random

A Short Meditation for the Hours

At sunrise, we praise You.
In morning, free us.
At noon, sustain us.
In afternoon, work with us.
At supper, we celebrate You.
In closing our eyes, we rest in You.

Day 8: Evening

Matthew 8

"For I myself am a man under authority, with soldiers under me. I tell this one, 'Go,' and he goes; and that one, 'Come,' and he comes..."

"Just say the word."

i wasn't even in attendance, but
that sermon sang as memorably as
Mary. And though her Magnificant isn't
wordy, it's still not quite as distilled as
the word. Jesus used the same word
when He spoke to the demons that
He sent into the pigs. It seems good faith
and good poetry have something
in common, power in one word. One
word gives sturdy simplicity. Go.

i can see why the centurion wanted just
one word. It was more powerful that way.
We remember smallest speeches much
more than a multiplying of words. Pagans
believe that there is more force in perpetual
babbling, that they might be more heard with
use of more words. Jesus says no, We know
what you need. Use less, be simple. He could of
compacted the Lord's Prayer into one: Come.

i think i'll erase this poem. It could be said with less.

Day 6: Mid-Day

Isaiah 6

"Holy, holy, holy is the LORD Almighty; the whole earth is full of his glory..."

The Romanian room was meager, and we were moderately worn
out from a day of holding. We met God at the cradle, and from our lips
He ordained praise in awe of infants. Now lightning was striking;

they were alone and we were alone, we perceived. But in a grave bass,
dread welled up within us. Holy! Holy! Holy
Fear! Intense and bottomless, ringing these beds, round our feet,

and climbing. We felt at one, in sparseness, with our quarters
and quickly looked to conceal ourselves amid garments, pillows, and
blankets. We lay as helpless as crying babies in cribs,

and confessed to our lack of knowledge. How presumptuous we had been!
Holy heaviness covers those who we leave with hearts in tears. i have failed
to trust that You are there as You are here.

And then where does that leave hands that can no longer hold? Folded,
i suppose. Intercession is a lesson taught in times of terror, grown
beneath overwhelming, awful love, that we can no longer think so little of.

Day 3: Morning

Psalms 5 & 6

"I am worn out from groaning;
all night long I flood my bed with weeping
and drench my couch with tears..."

Lord, my linens have not been imperiled
by a flood of coursing tears. My pillow,
at its core, is parched for tactiled

sorrow, weeping it could feel. No, hollow,
unspecific pleas drown our conversation;
my soul is not in anguish, although

i do lament, "how long, how long!" Reaction
to what i have found more awful than agony,
the place of muteness and the unspoken

that my soul dreads eternally:
distance. It appears all my wailing
and groaning are a prepackaged dirge, easy

to program with exclamations failing
to evoke response: neither from You
nor from me. Should i deliberate exhaling

or quickest action, what would these do?
Bowing, becoming low to the ground,
laying petitions down and waiting for You...

but i expect You to answer this humble sound,
these practiced replies and rehearsed lies.
You should answer, it should be profound,

but it should be as i desired. All the whys
of my prayer, arrogant beliefs, lacking amour,
will You consider my bored sighs?

Will You accept this common prayer of the poor?
Of the one who should fling himself on mercy
but instead sits detached in the downpour?