More Asking Than Receiving

I recently ran
across this article
on this theological
journal.

It was
about this man
who had a wife,
had three kids,
had a parsonage,
had a church.

But he did more asking
than he had
receiving,
and they say this is
the lot
of every husband.

Is it any wonder
that the man after
God's own heart
fell
from that roof, and his son
from many rooves;
while the man
in the article,
a pastor,
beloved,
now sells cars.

Because he did more asking
than he had
receiving,
and they say this is
the lot
of every husband.

Who Knows

Why you stare
Me at
Me
Stare at me
I stare
See there
Bones

Groans
On the shore
I pick on
My bones

Lickity
And tomorrow
Who knows

Who knows
Who knows
Who knows!

The Movie Worth My Time

I say a movie is
Worth any only if,
Amidst its blazing and dance
With the demigods of culture,
It pierces through
The crud
Of man's depravity,
Breaking through the dead night
Onto light and the day of lust done.

And so the child plays on,
Divinity on hand.

Toward You

To hope in no other.

To see beauty in no sunrise
When my eyes see not You.

To hope for death
As it ends all striving,
And I am in You, and You in me
Completely.

When now all I see
Is me, far and torn,
Your face do I seek,
Your voice I plead--speak life to these bones.

And so I shall walk, though ungainly,
Toward You. By the hand
You shall take me
Toward You.

No Reason Apart

The noise of this age
Is in its insistence
That there is more to be had,
And a reason to be glad,
Other than and apart from
The slaying...

...in every breath.
...in every thought, low and lofty.
...in every thorn plunged, meat marred.
...in every plea, desperate for redemption

From them all.

Reasons.

When all that remains
When these dark days
End
Is the soul

From You
For You
To You.

To be You.

My Shadow Remains

What have I lost that I did not
Lose upon entering this world?

Are not the seasons marked, indelible,
Never to be defaced?

So why do I grieve?

For these dreams that coiled
Around me, now fragments
Of broken bone.

For the light that now
Has its place where the wind
Spirits away its spoils. And here
In this old man of a cabin

Only my shadow remains.

My shadow remains.

Bird Preach

The maya birds preach.

Outside, in the icy envelope of gray,
They preach.

Hits and Misses

Let loose to the wind your many attempts
At divinity, and watch your skin crack,
Your knees fold, your calcifications
Double. You thief. You steal His air,
His grass, His plums--and with them,
His throne. The dust beckons.
The slither of worms call.
You go laughing and He laughs with you,
As His peace is served, your light is snuffed.
It would have been different
Had you heard divinity in the wind.

A Moment in My Pocket

The child and his bright eyes
Beaming

The curling of his tongue
As wrinkles form
On his face
Gleaming

As he smiles at the sight
Of his smiling father

No thought of taxes,
Price hikes
Or the other got ahead

None of that now

Today it's just him
And his smiling father

The Lesson

Oh, yes, it is as if
The final drop of the storm
Has landed; and now eyes,
Dimmed by clouds gray and forlorn,
Can see the working man's sun,
Dimmed, gray and forlorn
No more.

It is so, for seasons teach
That the valleys and its specters
Must give birth
To the hills and its angels.

It is so. It was then;
So shall it be today;
And again in the carefree morrow.

The Stickman

The stickman
He moves
With steps ailing.

He looks
Up to
The yellow sky
As the brown earth
His tears kiss.

He looks
Down on
His shriveled hands,
These hands
Have small mouths
To feed and clothe
And love.

But he wishes
To pierce
The yellow sky
Across the black expanse
For home to reach.

Yet not now.
Not soon.
There are small mouths
To feed and clothe
And love.

The Philippians 4:6 Cat

A black and white cat rests splayed atop the dusty pavement,
The occasional breeze ruffling his otherwise already disheveled fur.
His mind is on the shaking in the bushes that eavesdropping has brought to his senses:
It may be dinner beckoning or just the naughty wind.
But now he's too contented to move a muscle and too busy being a cat
To fret over a lost rat. So he returns to sleeping,
Fretting over nothing, too busy being a cat.

The Daily Joke

Never a day sighs
Its last breath
Into nothing
When I'm not driven
Onto hard ground,
To wet the floor
Cold with weeping
For fresh vision
Of a heart rancid.
Many a time
Have I wished
A departure
From the taunts of the sun
And moon; they shake
Their heads at me
For each sees the same,
The sun and moon.
They scream,
"Shape up, boy!",
And go their way
Shaking their heads,
"See you tomorrow".

Black and White

Madness
Is just a simple hello
Away
When met by solutions
Pandered by hoods and whores
In scarlet and black,
As hands clasp
In agreement.

Sanity, too,
A simple hello
Away
When wet
With confusion
And drenched in pus and sores,
You know
He's got your back,
A firm grasp of atonement.

Quiet Twinkling Stars

The quiet twinkling stars
That litter
The purple midnight,
They each have their songs.

Faces and forms,
Their peculiar graces,
Bound up in a sense
Spiritual in sad music.

The heart longing
For soft, sweet light
Finds satisfaction
In sad star songs,

When the purple midnight speaks
Of quiet fire on blank faces
And lonely forms
Spiritual in sad music.

True Winners of the Race

Wrists and ankles burn and itch
From these shackles hanging
Like red rusty vines
From burned-out trees:
Rats in suits racing
For ethereal cheese,
Clawing,
Snarling,
Leaving teeth
Lodged
On grimy hide.
Some stumble, crushed
Never to bare
Whiskered smiles.

While the wise
On lush prairies
Roam the plains,
With them laughing
Their little ones.

Ash Heap Hearts

The night has ebbed
Into its darkest.
Now flows
In bitter sweet

Down my gut,
Dismal brew
Churns words
For sleep.

Nothing new,
Nothing now
To keep.
Just words

Freed. They fly
And in flames
Settle down
On ash heap hearts.

Wisdom

Toil and a pumping
Heart.

Blood drifting
In a pool.

Tattered hair
On an angel's face.

Beaming like the sun,
My child.

Don't let go
Of my trembling hand.

You are love.

And I am dead without you.

Life and Times

Travel times--those minutes, even hours,
On your ass, seeking a destination.

Sometimes the stroke of a pen
Seats you beside someone that makes
The hands or the sands move or fall
Unnoticed. At such times travel times
Are worth the furrowed brows and
Awkward knees.

But then there are better times
When your head allows for a sweet
Indulgence: the reading of a book
And the gleaning from it of spices
And fragrances, seasoning and spilling
Over to your need. At such times travel times
Are worth the furrowed brows, awkward knees, and
Sore ass.

But a lifetime--those years, even decades,
On your ass, seeking a destination,
Knowing not where where is--
Is furrowed brows, awkward knees, and
A sore ass forever.

Limp and Claimed by the Light

My walk laden with a limp.

Yet One has tread the same
Road, stumbling not a minute
Through pains magnified beyond
What any earth-bound mind can
Comprehend, and claimed
The prize...

...for those acclaimed
By Him from before
The tree dimmed the light.

Limp-laden and triumphant:
Me in Christ.