Miscarriage Again

Death,
    you are the enemy, you took two friends,
and if you can hold them you have seized the wind.
We weep for ones taken, and are as shaken
by bleak absence as by your uninvited presence.

At dinner, we sit around the table with living kin.
We pray and, when our eyes open to each other’s faces, 
we linger over life in a womb—with two fingers
we make small guesses—No bigger than this?  Yes! 

    Death, we do not want for grief,
but there is a Wing you may not reach beneath. 
There, your hand cannot grasp fragile forms
and your grip has ceased to close on even these
tiny
living human beings.

August Night

Watched by stars we lay reposed, settled on the sod.
The breeze leans—cinder clouds respond as to a prod.

You ask aloud, is smallness good, I give a little nod
and look up from our cul-de-sac into the face of God.

A thread of light, bluish white, silently is flown—a stitch
to gather tats and rags, to hem our flesh and bones.

Grains of sand ride the sky, a moment they are shown.
We lay reposed and wonder at our longing to be sewn.

Faith, Hope, Love

Faith awakes from ancient dreams,
Calms the winds, hears our screams,
Stands to reprimand the waves,
Speaks—you need not live as slaves.

     But we reside in holes and haunts
     And crumble ‘neath desire’s taunts. 
     Offered playground swings on chains,
     We close the sash and wait for rain.

Hope, a hungry fire starts.
Sparks fly to light our hearts. 
We long for heritage and glory,
To be the hero of our story.

     But pallid lips quaff bitter brews;
     We search the dregs for any clues. 
     The vestige of our stumbled path
     Winds through weeds and down to wrath.

Wearing bold and vital colors,
Setting blazing wild fires,
Love, though we may never say it,
Bests our fine and whited harlot.

     Yet we, our remedy, resist;
     We wipe away our Lover’s kiss. 
     We hesitate before the altar
     Scorning freedom’s final offer.

Cashier

Sunday morning,
after church shopping list:
bananas
bread
bologna
tomato soup
diapers.

At the register
the cashier
runs to grab a flier,
plucks the coupon
for five dollars off
any size Pampers. 

We make our way
toward home—
plastic sacks,
hungry kids,
full air in all four tires.

Let A Rose

Let a rose be all things beautiful and true; let the rain be you.
Let a button be forbearance; let your blouse
be faded blue. 
Let a shoelace be repentance;
let me stop and tie my shoe.
Let a rose be all things beautiful and true.

Let a rose be all things beautiful and true; let a sigh be you.
Let a button be forgiveness; let your fingers
push it through. 
Let a shoelace be a promise;
let me double knot my shoe.
Let a rose be all things beautiful and true.

The Graceful Rider

I recall the asphalt—a blur
beneath—and my days
at the school of tachometry.
All my dreams had chrome
tailpipes and handlebars.
They shone like a vision.
I leaned into the turns
until the foot pegs scraped.
Hardtop suited me just fine.

I evoke the throttle’s spirit—
the twist and release—
and the engine’s heat.
They moved me, but pavement
takes a toll; ditches are replete.
All those close calls,
falls, and crashes hurt,
but I never refused the road.
I crossed the double line

before I slowed.
Then came the graceful rider.
He rode from days of old
on everlasting tires
because the time had come.
When he spoke I shattered,
but he whispered to each piece;
for every shard he shouted.
His voice was bread and wine.   

Pursuit was his standard
and he tattooed me with fire.
I ducked and dodged
and rolled with bent desire,
but he planned my course.
He pierced and purchased—
broke my bones and mended—
then caught me with a look…
He saw a man born blind.

When my will failed, he gripped.
He healed my road-rash knees,
rebuilt my make and model;
he saw to parts unseen
and my gears made changes.
Rubber on the street
moved me to new places.
Beneath chain and sprocket
I saw narrow roads unwind.               

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.
You: a prophet, a truth-teller.
I: beguiled and beguiler.
Please allow me this:
Your name does not befit.
Though you ably scorn,
I but hear you offer hope’s reward.

Veiled in drab plumes you seem
A sort of jest—no man, by sight,
Would guess the gold or azure
Of your voice.  My gaze lifts
To branch or bush by your surprise,
And I wonder if you mean to make
A space—that I might there confess
My need for loveliness, and take
Your gray-brown body for a sword.

Hydrant

An asthmatic stares at a TV.
It warns of red air quality.
Her bathrobed elbow
Is welded
To a smokey table.

She does not rise
To the window, does not see
The dash of children’s feet
Racing to the city’s hydrant
Or believe
In the sun burnt men
Who clench their teeth
And open it.

They tear the hot street
And find the broken pipe
That would have sent
A mud flow rushing
Toward her kitchen sink.

The asthmatic strains to breathe,
But does not reach
Past the ashtray
To the inhaler
Set beside a glass-half-full
Of something clear to drink.

Ten Thousand Times Ten Thousand by Henry Alford

Henry Alford

On the ABOUT page of my blog, I explain that my blog title If You Long For Home…is meant (in part) to reflect my eternal perspective.  This hymn by English hymn writer Henry Alford (1810-1871) is a fine description in poetic form of my eternal hope and desire.

Alford was also a scholar who studied Homer, English Poetry, and the Greek New Testament.

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Ten thousand times ten thousand in sparkling raiment bright,
The armies of the ransomed saints throng up the steeps of light;
‘Tis finished, all is finished, their fight o’er death and sin;
Fling open wide the golden gates and let the victors in.

What rush of alleluias fills all the earth and sky!
What ringing of a thousand harps bespeaks the triumph nigh!
O day, for which creation and all its tribes were made;
O joy, for all its former woes a thousand-fold repaid!

O then what raptured greetings on Canaan’s happy shore;
What knitting severed friendships up, where partings are no more!
Then eyes with joy shall sparkle, that brimmed with tears of late;
Orphans no longer fatherless, nor widows desolate.

Bring near Thy great salvation, Thou Lamb for sinners slain;
Fill up the roll of Thine elect, then take Thy power and reign;
Appear, Desire of nations, Thine exiles long for home;
Show in the heaven Thy promised sign; Thou Prince and Savior, come.

Quotations: Forgiveness

From the book Gilead by Marilynne Robinson.  The character John Ames (a 77 year old pastor) reflects on his struggle to forgive his godson (the son of his pastor friend).  He has previously described his godson as mean.

…I spent the time thinking how it would be if Jack Boughton [John Ames's godson] were indeed my son, and had come home weary from whatever life he had, and was sitting there still and at seeming peace in that peaceful night.  There was a considerable satisfaction in that thought.  The idea of grace had been so much on my mind, grace as a sort of ecstatic fire that takes things down to essentials.  There in the dark and the quiet I felt I could forget all the tedious particulars and just feel the presence of his mortal and immortal being.  And a sensation came over me, a sort of lovely fear…(read more)

November Highway

I drive on hard and hallowed roads
until the blue sky stoops,
until my radio receives
these 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 sidewalks go beside us.
We sing and signals bend to find us.