Identity Tree

Deep bitter roots
anchor a furrowed trunk knotted
gnarled and split from growing round
old rusty lies and barbed words

entwined below and above
dying bloodlines slowly pulse, choke
from grafted resentment
anger and exposed wounds

but Hope breathes life
shines light into hidden spaces
where Faith gets on its knees
to reclaim this territory, inch by broken inch

Truth digs deep through hard-packed soil
trampled under years of neglect
makes a channel for Love to soak
loosen resentment's tight grasp

Prayer waters the earth with tears
whispers in petition, thy kingdom come
weeps release, thy will be done
and finally Forgiveness breaks free

The trees of the field clap their hands
in every rising branch, buds burst into blossom
begin to thrum the Tree's true name -
Beloved.

Truth in Strange Places

I find truth in the strangest places.

The back of the newspaper buried in an obit. In middle of a medieval movie cloaked in the king's last-ditch pre-battle speech. From late night Facebook posts by renegades and rebels with long hair and deep roots. From celebrities getting awards for depicting horrible things. And in the stark, screaming silence of an unanswered email.

And though more rare, I still hear truth in tradition: sung from the choir, whispered in flickering voice by candlelight contemplatives. When long-haired music rises like a wave on the North Shore, dashes against the volcanic rock of my soul, formed when the world was born.

I see truth in the sweat of horses over fresh plowed earth. And I stand mouth agape, split open at the selfless setting sun, the clouds all gathered round in glowing admiration.

You leak truth out your pores, give it graciously in thumbs ups and likes, in coffee dates and broken bread, the way you bring the shards of your heart in your unwrapped shoebox and we put that let-go puzzle together again, sometimes with the help of the King's horses and men.

Truth makes its own path. Walks hand in hand with wisdom. It's spoken by old bald men and tall blonde women, bounces happy in a child's eyes and pulses in the laments of colleagues new and old. The next generations, from a troubadour father, pen it in videos, stage and song. It cheers in the come-from-behind win and weeps healing in crushing defeat.

Let the one who has ears to hear, listen. And never, ever, be afraid to let us see you sweat. You are tilling the earth in truth and we will feast together on the harvest.

Soldier On

 

Well-fitted armor

the shield of faith

helmet of salvation

and all the rest

not heavy 

Most days it buoys

helps me stand

protects in battle

makes progress 

possible

But there are days

when from behind

an arrow of sadness

released 

long past

flies

from a comrade's bow

strikes soft flesh

an unarmored part

a chink exposed

A strike

in defence or offence

I do not know 

for I thought we battled

the same enemy

The pain is theirs

the wound is mine

but a prize awaits

for those who overcome

so I press on

Think on These Things

Only a mother knows what it is like to wait for her child's return.

Relief that first day you walk home from school alone kicking that pebble ahead of you.

Little did you know that she was on her knees half the day praying your heart would not be crushed

And it wasn't, not really, until that day in junior high, and you rush past her without a word, slam the door of your room. But her voice pries open the door and her arms around you accidentally bump the Niagara faucet of tears, her pulse a Richter scale for shattering sobs erupting from a ruptured friendship.

You start leaving in stages, stay away longer each time. Pack less. You touch home base, eat quickly, gather treasures and go learn from other mothers and fathers and brothers in arms. And a mother knows this is why she raised you, praised you, prays for you, stays for you. Waits for you in empty rooms once filled with your light.

She loves life too and lives it well. But it's never so full as when you fill her sight, walk by her side, share with her your other loves. She waits for this.

A mother loves you first and longest.
Perhaps history and kindness will show if she has loved you well.

Be Still

In the crush of all that is internet
The noise of all that is media
Relentless pursuit of better faster stronger prettier
Perfect

I stand in awe
of quiet simple gifts:
the sigh of my aging dog
comfort of a handmade quilt
soft snow on pine bough and eyelash
voice of my Beloved calling:
Come away and rest for a while
You are my joy

And I am carried.



Picture: sourced online

Heirloom Courage

She leans against the black granite counter
over white cupboards garbed in black sweats
under white t-shirt, head still covered from running
in face-slicing cold that frostbites fingertips

A twin to the girl with a pearl earring
she waits with sunset on her face for quinoa in the cooker
pours out her soul, a milk white strand of pearls
scattering across the hardwood

I recover the pearls, store them safe
in my heart shaped listening room
receive with awe the gift offered
try not to be swine

Not Iconic

Jack of all trades

master of none 

this is my terror 

to be okay but not really 

good at anything

It takes hard work

to be really good

Hard work

and I am soft

I work in software

I wear soft goods

I speak softly

love soft things

Let me be good 

at love

For this is worth

Hard work

Amaneciendo

Amaneciendo

He draws back the curtain

across a wakening sky

Earth curves the arch of her back

stretches arms of light

to take up the baton of morning

conducts the deliquescence of night

from indigo to amaranth bloom

while I absorb in awe and silence
embraced by a higher love

No Gift at All

Curse the plaintive cry

a lava dome rising 

from the bottom of my selfish crater:

"After all I've done for you…"

Unleash steam vents of guilt 

a chimaera draped around 

the slumped shoulders of obligation

Sacrifice with expectations

is a twisted tire iron 

a crowbar forged to pry

compliance from the hands of free will

A gift with strings is no gift at all

We drag down sacrifice to the dust

make it sad 

weary and despicable

It is not 

"giving up things"

but the opposite

I give with joy

my very best

to the one I love

A spectacular eruption

of unfettered worship

...

(with thanks to Oswald Chambers)

Surfer King

Surfer King

Sunlight hits peanut butter skin
over muscle mountains
running north south, shoulder to glute
a valley between cradles the spine
which holds this surfer
centered and whole

He stands on old lava, board in hand
times his heartbeat to the incoming wave
As foam licks his feet, he leapfrogs forward
board like a shield
lands first on the water
becomes his ship

Arms are paddles up and over
through the surge, foam, the wicked
rocks submerged under harder current
He pushes out and on, joins the loose
line of laid back loungers
tag team of water walkers

hair or not, male and female created
different but equal on aquamarine bed
He points board nose back to shore
matches paddle speed to incoming wave
springs up to slice the belly of the rising water
until it folds him over and under

spits him out to go again

The Way to Work

Five magpies
hold a board meeting
black and white rules
bosses all

Black and blue bins
full of themselves
refuse and reuse
march two by two
to the curb

Can you smell the peach
compote in the pink morning
or is it over-ripe apples
as they lose their grip and fall?

Green blades gather on golf links
freeze at the frosty command
of the cold killer
yellow bellied leaves tremble
fall faint to the ground

I walk with a long shadow
urge October to throw coal on the sun
wait for winter's white wonder
dream of a Christmas beach