Junkyard Dog Retires

A large brown dog’s rear end, visible

through the chain link, says, do not come in.
She perks, moves from sight, then
appears again: wide jaw and dark eyes
heeled behind the coverall jeans of
a sun burnt man, her master.

She waits while he checks the gate.
Their long shadows cross the earthen lot as
a flatbed truck backs up, stops,
grinds to first, and turns to blacktop.
A red-dirt flag of dust unfurls and

worn out tires rest in regal heaps.

The two friends walk to a yellow trailer.
He fills her bowl from a spigot
and places himself in a lawn chair
beneath an oak’s vast arms.  She laps,
then settles on a smooth bare spot.

He lights a cigarette and leans back.
Her gray muzzle drips and
eyes begin to shut as

kudzu vines stretch their broad leaves over
a crumpled blue Volkswagen, on its side,

unseen, in a corner of her yard.

Broken

Between us, on a tabletop of glass,
a working hand becomes a hammer.

A man wants his way.
He won’t take no.

Blood, though not spilled, boils.
Shards ring out and sing

the ways we will not mend—
how the heart, like a fractal,
repeats a pattern of breaks
and splits when magnified.

My heart rages.  It pushes blood
along a crooked line of strife

until I heed the rattle-crack
and attend the bang of anger.

The embittered rackets rise until
the broken pieces lay at rest between us.

Winter Walk

The silver paths beneath me rise, they brighten and sustain;
and I, by measured stride, rejoin their whited old refrain.

The snow—like fairest company—this night, has come to call
till barren branch and evergreen are heartened by its’ fall.

Till, luminous, the moon reveals the way upon the row
and I, in bright reflection, lose my burdens as I go.

Till boots conceal their little plots of white upon the track
then rise to leave their mark upon the polished silver back.

The silver paths beneath me rise; the night is bright as day;
and I, my measured stride, release beneath their drift and sway.

Amid Old Friends

Amid old friends, a working hand
comes down hard.  Fear falls on the land,
as a fist becomes a hammer,
a glass tabletop to shatter.
A man, afraid, will take a stand

when, not according to his plan,
he receives a humble brand
and is loath to drop the matter
amid old friends.

Shards sing out how rage will expand
into violence, will demand,
with a loud rattle of anger
and a bang of bad behavior,
that we heed a fool’s reprimand
amid old friends.

The Violence Bearer

3.  The Violence Bearer

To recap, there is no virtue in me that changed the meaning of violence in my life.  But there is Jesus, who was subjected (in humble reliance on his Father’s goodness and loving-kindness) to the collective brutality of every sin.  On the cross He absorbed every violence that ever was, and ever would be.  By doing this he enabled the forgiveness of every sin (past, present, and future) for everyone who would call on him for forgiveness.

After all, every violation of God’s good law is ultimately against God and his son Jesus (and the Holy Spirit).  The historical figure of King David makes this very clear in his response to the prophet Nathan’s rebuke of him for killing Uriah and taking Uriah’s wife, Bathsheba.  (Continue…)

Elegy For An Uncle

Your second death, this.  The first you cheated—
buried alive, then resurrected to describe
paralysis beneath a cave-in.

They dug you out, but no hands reach you now.
Your story is complete.  The tumor pressed you
down in ways no one could defeat and

I despise it.  You would have wanted to
assure me that you’re in a better place;
I want that for you.  But here,

I fight the enemy of your absence.
I can’t get another handshake or hardy laugh.
There is no father, no husband,

no uncle who donned an apron and cooked
chicken halves at picnics on a giant barbecue
he welded in the garage;

no quick joke or story to bring a smile;
no soft voice—the sound of a Vermonter—asking,
well hi John, what’s going on with you?

I have an early memory: you’re on Grandma’s sofa,
snoring loudly; I am only five or six and
a bit afraid of the great rasp.  Now,

I just hurt—God gave you for my Uncle;
I’ve known some love through you—I miss you,
but I’m willing to believe that is good news.

The Denial Of Violence

2.  The Denial Of Violence

It was in a seminary lecture on violence that God spoke, quietly and clearly, “John, violence is a problem for you.  You need some help.”  I went to my professor after class and told him about some of my failures.  Later, we met and he told me to participate in an anger management group and other counseling if I wanted to continue taking classes at that school.

I was embarrassed and alarmed again.  But I followed his recommendation and began to see how my angry, vengeful violence could be changed; that, in fact, the very meaning of my violence could be changed.  (continue)

The Violence Of The Cross

1.  The Violence Of The Cross

Late one night, over Dunkin Donuts and coffee, I made this offhanded comment about the crucifixion to my college roommate, “At least he [Christ] didn’t have to hang there too long.”  My friend was indignant, “What?!  John, let me tell you a little bit about a crucifixion!” And he went on to describe the horrors of the cross in great detail.  Everything about a cross-death was designed to cause maximum suffering.  It is, perhaps, the cruelest tool of human torture ever devised.  The word excruciate is derived from Latin words that mean “out of the cross.”

At some point during the description, I cut him off.  I was embarrassed and alarmed.  (continue…)

The Rising Of The Lake

Early morning, the lake is rising.
A shroud of mists veils
sullen surface tensions and conceals
murky passions.

A cold and weary night withdraws
from the slight granite moon
hung high, despite approaching dawn.
The hunkered sun, provoked and taunted,
once again confronts the darkness;
languid vapors, daunted, turn to run.

A forlorn host winks shyly
and nods to the yellow spy
now preparing to reveal
blue bright sky.

Generous, drab, the lake donates
an evolving portrait:
The Triumphant Return
(of wind and light, cloud and song).
Strains of “No Night There” are ringing
twixt the glints and ruffles of the offered painting.

Dickinsonbird

…not a creature failed–
No Blossom stayed away…
~Emily Dickinson

Mockingbird, where do you begin?
What deep source feeds your spring?
No matter,
I will listen—
Flawless chirps and whistles.
You, a feathered prophet,
a truth-teller;
I, beguiled and beguiler.
Do you have a word for me?
Please allow me this:
Your name does not befit.
To scorn or imitate is not your wish.
How about Dickinsonbird?…

So great is your reward.
Fly to a high branch.
Your drab plumes lift my head.
Though I am a little hurt,
I cannot deny you are fine.
You glance at me and I stare,
surprised by each pensive, lofty line.
Then, wiser,
I once more spread my wings
against the counsel sky.
I do believe.
It’s with my given voice
I will finally be content.

Robert Buchanan, Hindenburg Docker

Robert Buchanan waited
on the field, in wet clothes, to dock
the Hindenburg.  No shadow marked
its’ place beneath the heavy
morning sky.  The airship
came close, then, POOF!—

strange enormous light, a bite,
and suffocation.  He wondered,
is this the end?  Heat shoved him,
outran him, jumped down on him.
It was the hottest thing
he would ever live

to tell—rain came twice
while he had waited; twice
its’ grace fell on him.  He escaped,
but had to run a long way
before he turned (to see from what
he had been saved).

Robert Buchanan was interviewed for the PBS program History Detectives (Season 6, Episode 5).  His testimony of how he avoided severe burns and possible death at the crash of the Hindenburg inspired this poem.

Sidewalks And Signals

I drive on hard and hallowed roads
Until the blue sky stoops, until
My radio receives these bright and
Strong November days. They

Transmit Dylan’s boot leg
Release number eight. The
Buzz of amplifiers rises when he
Breathes. “Once,” he says,

“I had a pretty girl, but she did
Me wrong. Now I’m marching to
The city and the road ain’t long.”
I join the sacred melody; I join

Everyone who moves over these
Highways. We drive, and the
Sidewalks are beside us. We sing,
And the signals bend to find us.

In Tenderness He Sought Me by W. Spencer Walton

Jesus said, “I am the gate for the sheep.  All who ever came before me were thieves and robbers, but the sheep did not listen to them.  I am the gate; whoever enters through me will be saved” (John 10: 7-9).

In tenderness He sought me,
Weary and sick with sin,
And on His shoulders brought me
Back to His fold again.
While angels in His presence sang
Until the courts of heaven rang.

Refrain:
Oh, the love that sought me!
Oh, the blood that bought me!
Oh, the grace that brought me to the fold,
Wondrous grace that brought me to the fold!

He washed the bleeding sin-wounds,
And poured in oil and wine;
He whispered to assure me,
“I’ve found thee; thou art Mine”;
I never heard a sweeter voice;
It made my aching heart rejoice!

He pointed to the nailprints;
For me His blood was shed;
A mocking crown so thorny
Was placed upon His head:
I wondered what He saw in me
To suffer such deep agony.

I’m sitting in His presence,
The sunshine of His face,
While with adoring wonder
His blessings I retrace.
It seems as if eternal days
Are far too short to sound His praise.

So, while the hours are passing,
All now is perfect rest;
I’m waiting for the morning,
The brightest and the best,
When He will call us to His side,
To be with Him, His spotless bride.

---

Suffering: A Poem To Joel Osteen

Joel Osteen you are a Champion.
Even your name sounds like
esteem.  You are reassuring,
unable to offend, and I cannot
help but like you.  Yet I wonder,
where do you put pain?  You
manage headaches and American
depression, but what about big
suffering, like that mentioned in
Hebrews five, verse seven?  Are
people who obey God happy and
content?  Sinless Jesus learned
obedience by what he underwent.

Well meant are your admonitions.
You believe in good decisions and in
Jesus by whom promises are given.
Don’t forget, as Christians, we
confess best intentions as hankerings
to be a mannequin or a magician.
Listen, one pastor said, you’ll know
you’ve encountered God when
you limp.  We are inexorable.
Happiness feels foreign.  Oh, to be
sleek like plastic, to live with
faith-expectant.  If only our ragged,
souls were not so bent.

Words are power, but
we don’t hear them.  Coaxing
can’t turn us, we must be caught!
We have a worship problem.
We won’t receive a gift until
our hands are shaking.
Ask the poet, ask Bob Dylan—
behind every beautiful thing
there is persistent aching.
Where are your sick, your sad,
your malcontents?  We read
your books to become smooth and
stiff.  Prop us up behind plate glass.
We want to be convinced.  But
we must

ask ourselves, do we love the poor;
do we pay attention?  Imagine
you visit the slums of Kolkata with
Mother Teresa.  You are
both smiling.  She sees
the people, you look at them.
You stand straight, full of promise.
She is crooked from leaning into
their faces.  You want to
help them, but you’re stuck in that
position.  The masses are borne up by
her cracks and creases.
Gleaming teeth shame them.  So

let’s close our mouths for a season.
You’ve built an empire on
your congenial smile.  Swap it
every so often, for a look of
desperation.  Do you want people to
be like you or be forgiven?
If the idol fell you would
get bruised, but you might
stop encouraging belief in
a god who gives his best only
to those who follow the rules.
That god is ruthless and his
face is never at rest.

On The Early Miscarriages Of Two Children

Death, you feckless enemy.
In vain, you took two children.
You cannot hold them
anymore than I can grip

the wind.  We are good parents.
We will endure miscarriages
and family absences.
We long for the ones taken,

but you are defeated.
Their names—Speck,
and Pickle—were given before,
given because, given, and

you cannot claim them.
You were uninvited, but we
still took our seats for dinner,
with our living kin,

to pray, to see another’s face,
to consider life in a womb
and form a space
between our digits—About

this big?  Yes!  Can you believe
it!?—We do not want for grief.
O Death, you made us weep.
But here, beneath the Wing,

you may not reach.  You’ll never
grasp the strength that forms
the frailest tiny living
human beings.

Help My Unbelief by John Newton

Albert Finney as John Newton in Amazing Grace

I know the Lord is nigh,
and would but cannot pray,
For Satan meets me when I try,
and frights my soul away.
And frights my soul away.

I would but can’t repent,
though I endeavor oft;
This stony heart can ne’er relent
till Jesus makes it soft.
Till Jesus make it soft.

Help my unbelief.
Help my unbelief
Help my unbelief.
My help must come from Thee.

I would but cannot love,
though wooed by love divine;
No arguments have power to move
a soul as base as mine.
A soul so base as mine.

I would but cannot rest,
in God’s most holy will;
I know what He appoints is best,
and murmur at it still.
I murmur at it still.

Elephant

The elephant, the thick-heavy
Wrinkle, shows no movement.  He
Stands in the room like a defendant.
Like boots put in a box, he may
Never walk again.

I’d like to read, or watch TV, but
Everywhere is his—the crushed
Sofa, the love seat; there’s
No place to be—so, busily,
We make the elephant a pet.

Busily, busily we ignore; and
He remains.  Once,
I reach around him.  Twice,
You try to find me and (I know)
There’s almost-absolutely-no-one

There.  The ghost of my shadow
Tells you to not worry the beast;
To not even think of mice or
Make a move that might disrupt
The elephanty peace.

And though we want to forgive,
We cannot forget HIM.  So,
We go on tiptoe; and he stands
There: a sad-sturdy brow and
Four enormous feet.

Catch Again

I’m ready.  Toss the ball.
Grounders.  Pop-up.
WATCH OUT
FOR THE BABY!

Whoa!  Nice one!
Good arm!  That
knocked the dust
off my mitt!

Whoops, crazy hop!
Hey, switch sides,
I’ve got sunglasses.
Get your glove up.

You throw what
I throw.  Now I’ll
do a jump catch.
That’s too high!

Dad, watch this…
TRICKED YA!
You didn’t even know
I had a tennis ball.

Suppertime?!  Just
one more—I mean
one of each—grounders,
pop-up, fastball.

Do we have to go in?
Okay.  Hey, Dad?
When can we play
catch again?

Pacifier At Night

You wake in the night and sit there.
You can’t make it better
because you know
you’ve lost it.  You need help, so

you weep and wait.  By and by,
hands fumble through sheets
until they locate the hidden
place it came to rest.

Those same hands find you,
find your face, your
lips…okay, there you go.  Now,
lay your sleepy head on the pillow.

Easy Friends and Hard Won Enemies: A Proverb

Making enemies requires effort.
Slack and rude won’t accomplish it.
These are anticipated and
Not nearly despicable.

You must listen…carefully.
Respond.  Look at whom you
Address.  Give them the benefit
Then give it again.

Play.  Wrestle.  Don’t mention
A good deed you did.  Dress
In honesty.  Delight in Peace.
Expand space.  Build a bridge.

Persist!  The betrayers will arrive.
They will despise, and you will
Be dismissed.  Clenched, their
Face will form a fist.  But

Making friends is a cinch!  Find
One who is equally chafed by
Your enemy.  Together, take aim,
…Steady…Fast you will remain.

Of course, that friend is like honey
That turns bitter in the belly.
A true friend will always be
Your potential hard won enemy.