A Single Layer

Right as my hope comes crashing down, I pray I might be hopeful still from every angle. I pray hope overcomes dreams with better things, And the sight and the shiver, the taste and the sound Go out from me, and come back new. Clean my memories, build them with better wings, Root my feet to the earth and wake me up well, For I have dreamed many dreams, and not one of them true.

Featured this morning in our church bulletin, a recent Advent poem of mine. Though the version for the service had one line adjustment for the sake of its context; this is the original. More often than not they arrived on foot,  like travelers come a long distance. Think of the three at which Sarah laughed. Think of the one standing in Balaam’s path. The shepherds, aghast at the one, then suddenly surrounded face to face with a host,  looked angels in the eyes. Scattered among the sheep— not suspended—stalking toward them purposefully  with peace to those on whom . The shepherds were not the first. All of Israel followed the angel to Canaan, and it was the angels who brought fire to Sodom. An angel alone led the ram to Abraham. And we haven’t yet mentioned the cherubim, divine dragons, guardians of the throne, strange beasts. This is the company the angels keep. The messengers say do not be afraid , and often lift men from ...

Both—one at the oven in the square, one at the sawhorse— build from the warm earth, shaping with calloused hands. Joseph in the woodshop,  always a quiet man, now grave in upturned admiration, guides the hands of the boy  (the one who caused such a stir and set the town fathers talking and the unwise wives clucking) bearing the sharp blade over the wood. The boy says, ‘teach me,’ and the quiet father steps back in fear. The man has lost a finger in his day— and almost lost a hand. There was a Sabbath when the boy returned from the Rabbi (the unleavened bread sat cold in the corner). The father thought to ask the son for healing— it had been a helpful finger. But by the time the sun had set, the father had forgot the need— and though his faith  (hidden as it was on the edge of Nazareth) was firm and sure, he was a man of simple plans and could better bear the weight of a cedar branch than aspire to miracle. ...

i would beat the dust from her like a rug at noon-- like a rug in the yard against the sun hanging. i would beat her with racket or with rod and, like the dust from a mummy, all that is not-her will fly like so much sand into the forgiving air, the breeze like balm breathing the not-me away. this is my mercy-- (what i really want to do is touch her forehead with the gentle tip of a finger, gently push, and from her skin see blow these particles, as though this small gesture were an unforeseen gust.) 250905

i would beat the dust from her like a rug at noon-- like a rug in the yard against the sun hanging. i would beat her with racket or with rod and, like the dust from a mummy, all that is not-her will fly like so much sand into the forgiving air, the breeze like balm breathing the not-me away. this is my mercy-- (what i really want to do is touch her forehead with the gentle tip of a finger, gently push, and from her skin see blow these particles, as though this small gesture were an unforeseen gust.) 250905

When the water hits the tips of my suede boots, speckling them with unwanted rain, damaging their seams, their soft, with storm, I smile. I life my face to falling heaven and laugh. Who will ride through storm thinking to suffer not will wear a flinching fear for person and possession. Who will wade through water holding high the precious things, lifting above the stream the dear things, knows not how to love them. He loves who holds amidst the suffer, who hand-in-hand allows both comfort and decay to come. He loves who worries not, nor fears, but smiling at the gorgeous Good, lets fall upon the smallest of concerns the great unconcern of Nature. Even so far loving life, laughs slightly, though with pity and with pain, when the great Race of Man hits heavy, beats and falls upon the body or the heart. Yes, even so will I, though small and weak of frame, with much or slight to lose, wear wide upon my heart the happiness of rain. (written in Edinburgh, after being caught in a storm - Fe...

Something happens in the waters of baptism. Something happens when the Eucharist falls down our throats. We don't know what because we are Protestants, and the spirit of the age makes us slow. But the man who gives mercy avoids our ignorance. He doesn't wait for awareness to send Spirit. If we do not know in the halls of our churches, if we fail to approach the cup with care and with fear, still - he will deign to show us in the shades of a forest or between the bright folds of the ocean's surface. Because his delight is in our briefest moments, He will give up his own man for us. He will give a god in exchange for our lives.

Buildings crumbling from the blast and I'm staring at you. Stones and bones a thousand years old and I'm staring at you. The tapestry, the tombs, frescoes, catacombs, and you, blonde and blue. The hair falling over you, hiding your balding, and in the corner of your mouth a sore slow to healing. I've never been so captivated, simply enervated, by your simple staring. (never mind it's to the camera. not to me.)

I trim the roses like a vampire. First I kiss their petals, then I ask permission. With their last beauty, they thank me. Then, gripping with a care for thorns I graze the blade below the head down the stem, looking for the bud of the bud. then snip. click. and toss into the pile. Today I asked a rose, and she said no. Not yet. Her petals were browning and her center was falling beneath its own weight, yet, the dignity of death is in the love of life, the last clinging, the 'I think not,' regardless of state, drinking in breath and the smell of the earth, the tiny patter of aphids. The reaper, not grim but gracious, gives her a kiss, smiles at her certainty, then walks away - the smooth of her petals still on my lips. I'll come again soon enough.

and God said 'Let there be light' - and it was good. and he said 'Let there be land and water' - and it was good. and God made all the animals for the earth, the fish for the sea, and the birds for the air - and it was good. then God made Man in his own image and Man was very good. but God was a romantic. so he let the heart of Man roam free.

all the nights that i confuse the 76 sign for the moon, wondering if hours ago you saw the same and thought of me - unexpectedly. only to remember yet again: it's the dimming beacon of the gas station. do all my sentiments seem like this to you? the glory made gaudy - the luminous, ludicrous - my love song out of tune. drive down the 605. forget my mistakes. pull into place beside the curb. sleep like a baby. wake to the cat in the window. read at the piano. hem haw and hustle back to the grindstone till darkness fall, i pull out again, glance up through the trees into the night sky. see the 76 sign.

Precise o'clock, waiting at the window for me to arrive, knowing I'll not wander to another room, but with my coat over my shoulder scooping the stuff to silence the wail and the wiggle round my ankle, then scratch, then leave you be. An hour later watching from the window, another cat shivers in the road having borne the truck over its dashing body. Quick as a wink, still it lost the game. Kept the cat on my lap as long as I could - unfriendly thing squirming beneath my hands. Be still! I saw you die beneath the wheel! Be still. She wiggles her way out of my grip making her own choices. Fool. Foolish fool of an idiot, fool. He kneels on the dinner floor, wrapping the towel around his wrinkled tunic. Not me, what? Unless you wash, I'll not be part? Then clean the whole and let me drink in all of you. Sweet sentiments. But watch me squirm, run, and feel the weight of my mistake pin me to the floor. Be clean! Be still! Gather my parts to be present here. Set me down in one pi...

Give me something real for we are broken and breaking still and Oprah and Phil and all the President's men can't begin to heal us again. The dead cannot resurrect themselves - a curse! a curse! for it is the One Necessary Thing! (Praise be to the God of my salvation who, though he shared his bread with sinners, also beat the dust with angels. He alone among the humans could live and die and live again - one resurrection to drag us all out of the dirt and into the ever-glory of the rising Son.)

Come, if you will, on a Friday night, whether or not I am paying attention. Break me from my reverie, rend earth from sea and sea from salt. Separate the self and shame showing them two not one, then name me - the better half - after yourself, the Son. Come, if you will, in any form. Preferably not that of a woman, lest in my pride I pretend to understand you. Lion or lamb you have been. And as man I have loved you both less and more than I ought - for love is not an easy word. Child and criminal the same, your Spirit a dove and a flame, water and light and the breath of life, barefoot, berobed, bejeweled, begot. Come if you will, appear as you ought - only stop me in my tracks. Still the cycle. Break the back of the beast. Release the wolf from my mind. Temper the time. And whether or not it kill me, show me your face - swallow me like a seed into your breast or your belly. Bury and carry me, embryonic, with or without rebirth - only Come.

I rode the devil's back - or perhaps he rode on mine. The trees were hung with arms around While I held on with vines. The leaves they fell in fingers, The grass grew up like teeth, The shiver from my horror didn't stop the imp beneath. And as we ran I felt his hand Dig furrows in my motley skin - Fishing for worms between the bones, Fondling my organs till they were all exposed And sprouting - toadstools, lichen and moss Making much of my body a great, twisted fungus. 'The horror!' I cried, but it came like a croak - Something was crawling up from my throat! A black millipede with uncountable feet - My eyes rolled like rocks - I choked, hacked, Spewed, sneezed, puked it out. Please , I whispered, wake me up from this dream. I will learn how to live. I will do anything. The devil turned to smile - he was wearing my lips - He leaned to my face for a kiss, a caress. Do you bargain with me ? he seethed in my ear. My market's of souls. I barter with shame and fear. Do y...

thankful for the taste of coffee new each morning and for clementines and oranges, citrus in each varied form thankful as my sister sits upon my slumbered feet thankful as my brother barrels through the sea to me the clouds lumber bustling barrels across the sky grace, expanse, and breath, and rain - stupify (my mother used the word flummoxed in a sentence) (and chris discusses agave nectar across the table) big dogs and bad cats - cornucopia hats apples for candles - bottleneck handles blankets on my angled bed bobbypins netting across my head wind for weather, walls blow down merry and honesty rebuild the town thankful for pages for binding and books for worlds that remind me how he looks when he offers saving grace with his eyes love with his smiles, patience with sighs in this world it comes in the clouds and the rain, the bad cats, big dogs, and citrus the same love in measurable things, in weights and in flavors the tangible kisses of the concrete saviour

i've wandered and wandered far over the bens and wandered still further through cavernous glens because i was told with enough fortitude that you would find me or i might find you. but i've waded through rivers and drunk from the ponds, i've hunted with wolves and i've sifted through loam for my food and my bed - and then came the rain, that soaked me right through till the sun blazed again. once my skin shone as pale as a moon or a rose - now i'm burnt to the marrow, i am red to the bone. and all for a promise i could not achieve, you'd no power to keep, they'd no right to give. these twenty-five years of growing steadily wild, i know i should've spent some as a child, but i had no borders, no frame to stand in - no walls to define - no skin determined. now i hide and i hedge. i shift and i skulk. when hungry, i forage. when tired, i drop right where i am. take this heather off, this heather off of my lap. i'm tired of trying to find a softer way th...

watching the clouds across the sky soak up the spectrum of the setting sun, i cannot agree with you, milosz, that words have anything to do with these things. enough with naming. the clouds confound my vocabulary, dancing as they do in twos and threes toward the hills. the peninsula appears like a volcano denying itself, all things being sucked into its peak as quiet fire and smoke, a happily repentant pandora's box. i want no lover here on the beach to admire the scene with me. i want a gaggle of children, wide eyed and open mouthed. they would not distract but understand. they would see the panther and giraffe, the distant dragon lit with its own breath, tongues of fire, a beautiful woman, and at last a flock of giant storks, weaving and wending their way into the mouth of the mountain. i went to the beach to cry a little (or a lot), being unnaturally tired - nothing more. but this was more than me by far, and i forgot to tear until beneath the panoply above i saw two kayaks swim...

out in the darkness a lighthouse flashes on the point. my heart goes out to it, battering toward it against my ribs like a startled bat. the lighthouse, my lover, all things indistinguishable. i hover three inches over the earth, all things refracted through my distraction seem surreal, unreal, being temporal. not that i grow any nearer heaven, only further withdrawn into my own imagination, now tired from lack of fruition. all things favored or feared, otherwise unacknowledged: the yellow mug, the severed limb, and the myriad of faces i religiously forget - these categories rule me. while under it all (or over, or choose your position, your preposition) this strange flotation making a mockery of my material - calling out from the earth like a mythic beast, teasing me with alternating delight and perturbation - should i enter a monastery or an institution? is this mysticism or delusion? (incidentally, i still sin like a Gomer, laugh with my mother, grow tired and hungry, forget the hou...

Eve, or september 12th. i know it's a shame, the proportion of the pain, but there's one thing i can do on this day that has both name and gain. i can take this bitten body warm between my two palms, and cleaning house from top to bottom, give her balm. what's one more mourner or less on this day of second deaths, and what has my grief got to do with the towers and the rest? i have not lost a soul, just the trust of this small thing warm and shaking, claw and purring from the pain - not from the trains or the rains or the memories of mayhem one september - this twelfth, all i see is the calm misery pouring out of these two animal eyes as she twitches and whines with hives and parasites between my palms. good grief knows when to weep over one thing at a time.