Here

You take me by the hand 
To walk in your gentle garden,
Beckoning me come further
To settle and perhaps sit
Down,
By the chrysanthemums and cucumbers,
Nestled in the corner of your blossoming Spring--
A curious coupling it would seem.

"Come near, my dear one, and rest by my home.
I shall be here your Host.
Learn from me, as you kneel enshrined,
In the hope that I here do reside.

Yet know this, paled traveler, 
Dearest of my heart, 
That I remain here,
That here might become your heart.
Do you think that the God of all that is
Could be so easily caged, 
Held, as it were, in so shallow a shrine?

Though here you must--
As Mother, generations before--
First find me and abide.
Learn to rest, to quiet, to care,
Neither when nor where you will go,
Neither how nor why you will find,
But only that you are, that I am,
That we.
And then you may withdraw."

Laying to Rest a Giant

A week ago we danced into great halls and sanctuaries,
The two-step casket waltz and tears pounding the floor,
And we, we struck our breasts and cried out.
Ushers swayed side to side as they held their post,
And the choir wept, for bitter was the joy of Father gone home.
They'll need more than a few mops to dry this river,
Streams of hope, temporarily damned to the loss:
The sheep have not a shepherd.

And there you lay in your glory, the chantry you built
From ruins, what with your will and prayers.
What could so sustain you, my tired friend?
What ever could bring you such vision and promise?
You have transformed ashes, shards of glass into a palace of hope,
And we cannot forgive you, for you have wronged us not.
We merely tremble at your newfound distance.

Get up! Get up, you wretched actor!
Why do you feign this mortal sleep?
But there you lay, motionless, emotionless,
Yellowed by Hades, a slight smile placed on your face.
And off you are ferried by careful Charon 
Disguised in suits and kente cloth, singing Soon and very soon,
My friend, shall we see you again.

Lullabye

If I could build you a ship
To sail across the seas and break through the waves,
Then I would meet you at the hips
And climb aboard as we washed away.

If I could sing you a lie
To be the lie that you've always seen,
Then, darling, please just smile
And climb atop of my melodies.

All I can say is
I'll still be counting
The ways and the days before I get to you.
Please let me through
Before I slip... away.

If I could just take a step
Right forwards into the past,
Then you'd be back where I left you
And I could stay in all day and know what I have.

And, darling, please forgive what you see
'Cause I cannot paint like that.
Picture yourself when you're old and you're gray
And the lights are all down and the dogs are at bay,
I'll still be wrong, all along, oh all day
And would you go back?
Would you go back...
Again?

If I could build you a ship
To sail across the seas and break through the waves...

And It Mattered Not Which (Three Friends)

I miss you most on Saturdays,
For that was our day simply to sit,
To glory in the morning sun, drear,
Or rain; and it mattered not which.
For your friendship was a delight.
We'd bop around town, or sometimes
Just make noise while we ventured lakeside.
Some day we shall met again.

I miss you most on Saturdays,
For that one day was forever ours,
To take a long breakfast, to bask
Merely in the presence of another,
And wander about rivers and museums.
Sometimes we'd talk of life--
Laughter, beauty, family,
Or problems; and it mattered not which.
For I cared only to be simply
With you.
And the rest was just details.

I miss you most on Saturdays,
For that was your first day to speak
To the hearts of hundreds, each week
As we gathered from all ends of poverty
To hear the proclamation: Word, Spirit, 
And Life; and it mattered not which.
For what I loved most was knowing that
Late Sunday eve you could have rest.
But now your rest is for all ages to come.
You have slipped through our fingers,
Into the hearts of thousands, 
And finally to your home.
Say hi to Dad for me.

26 April 2012 -- Thoughts from Enders

Looking out into the ocean from a little island on the Mystic seaboard, a calming presence slowly washes over me. Much like the Atlantic carelessly churning its way back to us, as the rocky shoreline beckons home the small New England swells. Yet today there are no waves. There is no wind. Only calm. The sea as smooth as glass for at least half a mile, with the shining sun casting down its rays to fill the water with warmth and light. There is a lighthouse on distant rock. A sole lighthouse steering straight ships gone astray at night, guiding them gently towards their destinations and destinies.

What are my lighthouses? How does God send little reminders to keep me on my path of pilgrimage to the Divine? This morning is one of those. Everything is just so filled with awe. Brimming with brightness, bountiful in beauty. It is as if the day is waiting to explode, overflowing all that is good and right in the world. Yet not now, for all is calm. All is at peace right here and now. This moment I would not destroy or simply let slip away, even for the keys to heaven. Because right now this is a glimpse of heaven itself. This is my gift today.  And now I rejoice and exult, filled with the awe of our great Lord and his creation.  

A Psalm for Selma

They've taken away the birdfeeders,
The last beautiful thing in this God-forsaken town.
Now remain only the occasional lark, 
or harsh the mockingbird, haunting the trees,
Spun in Spanish moss, taking on the likes
Of a weeping willow that greys.
And the stale, hot air, so thick 
It could be grasped by the hand or lungs.

Now that the birds have flown and passed,
Nothing drowns out the drones of industry,
The damning blasts of the freight train lines
Yet no-thing is there to manufacture,
For this city is but the ghost of its former self,
A shadow of its shadowy past.
Speckled with the salt and pepper of the earth,
Broken, separate, silently misunderstood.

But therein remains the dream,
The hope to which we hold
In the face of all-humbling hell,
That one day the birds of our youth
Will wander back into the homes and yards
To chant their chirping carols
And bring us back to ourselves,
A reminder of who we are: brothers, sisters.

Perhaps that hour, when we join
Hand-in-hand to re-sound our hymns anew,
We will forget not our broken days gone by,
But shall see that these sustain our new us
In a love greater than loathsome lore,
With a heart, one heart, to bear all things,
To believe all things, to hope all things,
To endure together whatever it is life may bring.

Summer Trees

"Hush," sing the trees 
Gracious in so soft a murmur,
Whispers of a gentle breeze,
Glancing over my coarse face,
Parched by the long days.

As we reach out in words,
Summer splits sideways 
In a slowing sun,
And the heat of a Southern smile 
Slips into my eve.

"Who are you?" they beg.
Yet we know not, 
For the heart still ponders, "Are we?" 
Unspoken silence, unturned pages,
Interrupted by laughter.

There is, I know, something
And yet never could I explain,
Until perhaps someday,
When neither of us need words;
A lost future somewhen.

Of all the words in all the worlds,
You somehow sang into my own.
May the grace of your soul 
touch the hearts of many,
as it has stolen mine.