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.

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.

Conversation

I flop across your lap
feet up, in the big chair,
sunshine in my hair.
I love you Daddy.  
(Be still, don’t bump my hand.)

I pluck a shiny strand
and finger spool the thread
till the tip turns red.
Lookit Daddy.
(I see, hop down now please.)

I make an earnest plea
to cast off every doubt:
poochy lips and a pout.
Why, Daddy?
(Yes, why.  I…why indeed.)

You Were Given

 

You were sewed into me, like initials Mother fastened to my childhood sweater;  even beneath a pile of scarves and mittens, the garment remained my own.

You were sealed within—a poking package wrapped in skin, a growing tremor,
a terrifying wonder—and I was your living envelope, your place of origin. 
 
You adorned me, stretched me, and I was never happier.  But I made a lonely decision: you would be given; my arms would scarcely hold you.  Before then,

          we walked among blooming apples: green leaves fringed in pink,
          discreet and prudent bees.  We were never questioned by the trees.

          I spied a wedding at the pavilion: bridesmaids and groomsmen smiled
          and smoked cigarettes by the colonnade.  They were pictures to be taken.

          I pined to reach and pinch them—to stretch their skin and beat them,
          to syncopate their laughter with my wisdom—but we kept our cadence

          and our rhythm, like the rain that fell as your due date came and went.
          Then you appeared—and the rising river crested—my hidden-to-me girl.

          Your charcoal eyes lit and gripped, then left me wrestling your trace.
          Your vestige burned where you leapt down to my boughs.   

When fall arrived, the park blustered.  The oaks hardened and released
their bright leaves.  I bit my lips and salt dried on my cheeks. 

I prayed for autumn to depart without pity.  I prayed to be like fired pottery. 
I prayed…and an unforeseen reply rolled toward me.  From the sidewalk

an infant cry scraped me.  I shuddered at the sudden flash and strike,
but stayed and waited until a distant rumbled comfort finally came.

Somehow, I asked the baby’s name.  A tiny hand raised.  The Mother
hushed her parcel.  And I stretched myself over the stroller—like a canopy.

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.               

Three words are stuck

when I stand by you in the lot at the end of the night.
Oh, to be the man who need not say it right,

but the creases of my speech are neat.
     Three words could put wrinkles in the sheets,

could put some spice in the cream of wheat—
then the flavor would release;

then you’d taste my feast and want more—
but I fumble my keys; I reach for the car door

and lift.  My heart revs, as if about to race,
but three words are stuck in this parking space.

Self portrait in pencil by Caleb Eells

On Disagreement

These bricks, in our hands,
rise up like storms to wreck our plans
on disagreement—to lay up, or pull down?  
These mortar joints and tools
break the arms of worker-fools.
For us, there is no harbor in this town.

If bricks could attest,
They’d raise a cairn to our unrest;
This post would tell of work yet to be done.
It can only point the way
back to where we quit the fray.
For us, there is no haven from the sun.

These bricks build choices;
they raise questions without voices.
The answers are chisels on a stone.
Bricks can compromise;
they won’t bruise or get black eyes!
For us, deals are made of flesh and bone.

These bricks will destroy—
rise up like lonely in a boy—
while, ignorant, I try to keep my life.
…we can build…we can rise…
there is time to gain the prize.
For us, the shelter stone is in the strife.

cairn: a marker, often a pile of stones

Quotations: Suffering

—This world is full of trouble, umfundisi.
—Who knows it better?
—Yet you believe?
Kumalo looked at him under the light of a lamp.  I believe, he said, but I have learned that it is a secret.  (more)

Beautiful Girl #8

Starry Night Over The Rhone

Beautiful girl, it’s to your sky
I draw my gaze.  Your starry night
has ways to catch and hold my eye.

Though I am often caught in town,
you still appear.  You captivate,
though city light would keep me down.

You beckon to that country place
and, there, decry the well lit streets
and parking lots as lesser grace.

Your sky reveals an ageless cheer:
though stars unveiled by darkest night
are far, they beg us to draw near.

Beautiful Girl

Beautiful girl, you draw me.
I anticipate.  My eyes gaze,
like on a starlit night—they rise
to your skies and remain.

Though I am sometimes stuck
in the city you still appear, still
come through.  I look for you.
You are more than mere light.

So take me tonight, take me
to that country place.
Go with me to that dark freedom
and give me your full glory.

Let us lie close.  Bring a kiss.
Capture me with your bright face.
The stars are at the window;
They are drawn by our embrace.

Motorcycle Memories: One Day A Graceful Rider Caught Me

This poem has been revised many times.  It is getting much closer to what I want it to be.  Yes, I used to ride motorcycles.  I wrecked several times, including a crash where my bike stuck into the side of a Ford Escort and I flew over, landing in the road.  By the time I came back to consciousness, the emergency crew had arrived.  A full-face helmet saved my head (and life).  I had many other close calls.  Clearly, God preserved my life each time as he continued to pursue me by his mercy and grace.  In a very real way, he rode with me.  In an earlier version of this poem I said, “Only he could look me in the eyes at speeds of 80 and above.”  He never backed down or gave up on me.  This poem, one of the first I ever wrote, continues to be an encouraging reminder of my Savior’s faithfulness.  I hope it encourages you as well.  Thanks for reading.

I remember the asphalt…how it let me
live outside the lines on a bike.
I remember a rowdy night-spot
where speed got up to pick a fight.
My bright wheels cannot forget: boots,
a leather jacket, and turns
that made me lean down to the pegs.
The boundary blurred
till hardtop hit like hard times.

I recall the throttle: a twist and clutch
made emblems in the road.
It sounded good, but ditches stood
nearby; the pavement took its toll.
Parking lots demanded wheelies.
I never did say no to them.
Close calls, falls, and crashes…
some could lay it down, but I wrecked.
My graceful arc crossed double lines.

Still, I did not slow the pace.  Then,
one day a graceful rider caught me.
How he chased!  How his engine raced!
He had new tires and tattoos of fire.
His eyes were like mirrors,
and when I looked I shattered.
But to each piece he whispered;
for every shard he stood and shouted.
His voice could not be unkind.

He made pursuit his standard.
His hands, like living stone, never tired.
I rolled with bent desires,
but he anticipated every deviation.
He determined my progress;
he broke my bones, then mended.
I fled, until he pierced and purchased,
until he caught me with the look of love…
a look that saw a man born blind.

He gripped when my will failed.
He healed my road-rash knees.
He knew my make and model.
He saw parts no one sees.
Now I listen—as gears make changes,
as rubber on roadway moves me
and I approach new signs and places,
as chain and sprocket go humbly—
to make a narrow road unwind.

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 there John, what’s going on?

I have an early memory: you’re on Grandma’s sofa,
snoring loud; 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.

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.

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.

---

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.

The Enabler’s Lament

If I should ever stand, it is to
Quick back-over bend.
I say I’m fine, but bear the
marks of torture-from-a-friend.

I want to be courageous, but
I melt like snow in May.
I pray to yet be faithful, then
I fade into the fray.

There is no me, no wall, no tree
To climb above the harm.
There is no time when I will
Reach to shut off the alarm.

This god that I still fashion is
A chain of paper dolls.
This love that I imagine
Holds my hand to let me fall.

The Day We Met

you perched, knees together, in a red pants suit
on the edge of that flabby plaid sofa
and did not make sense of Leviticus
as Sunday breeze roused the sash to warn us.

You stepped outside and I followed with questions.
Perfume and lipstick lit their fires in my flesh.  

Your long fingers reached inside me and made prints—
like an imp who had snuck chocolates then crawled
into my heart and left the happy remnants.