Friday, March 24, 2017

mouseheart

mostly for me, and also for my mother

dear mouseheart trembling
in My hand
stitched in your grey silk pocket-skin
huddled in it
covering your eyes--

dear oyster, curled
around your grief grit
hold and worry it
into a polished world
walled up: I know you nearly,
dear, your
hidden liquid quiver
gray and clear

dear mouseheart: stand
and speak: in lion's roar
or timid squeak
Truth remains sure--

I give it to you: fire
in your core--
little trillbeat you are
(I say it -- I)
You are transformed

(perhaps the three sons felt every flame
bite at their cells
felt every intolerable hungry claim
on their frail dust-
and they--
I standing there--
remained):

I name you, dear one
salamander heart:
burn, and endure

and in the fire find yourself,
dear self, reordered
not dissolved, but more
who I say you are--

find in the shatter
space
to speak My name

go, little heart--
grow, little tree--
when streams are deep sunk
and dry dirt chokes your thirsty feet

dear heart, burn
as the three:
of, beside, for, speaking
Me

this, dear heart,
unbearable as flame
I gift you:

your name now
wrapped up in splendor,
in My Name






Monday, February 27, 2017

eyelids

My idols are eyelids (mine)
I can turn the world pink
when it's too black and white for me to look at:
Blink

and I don't have to ask why this is such a big deal
for you. You're grieving over nothing.
It's not even real.
I don't have to see it.

Wednesday, February 1, 2017

stones

"Blessed are you when others revile you & persecute you & utter all kinds of evil against you falsely on my account. Rejoice and be glad, for your reward is great in heaven--for so they persecuted the prophets who were before you."


We have Christ's mind. Shut it up in a box.
Made a test for the rest.
Is their doctrine pure?

Do we even understand what it means any more--
or what do we think the traditions are for?

We preached the whole counsel
but we slid over James
an epistle of straw
watch him go up in flames--

We didn't want to listen.
We didn't like weeping.
So we hugged our own selves
and called ourselves suffering

kissed our own boo boos
Sat still in our pews
and lived quiet lives

Unbearable Love,
the world hated you.
It casts stones at us too.

Are the stones true?

sticks

God draws straight lines with crooked sticks:
it doesn't get much more twisted than this,
halt leg limping, sin dragging my ankles,
trying to keep my eyes on my Righteousness--

Old sin casts long shadows. It's dark in this heart.
There are times I feel blind, stumbling in darkness
tripping over old loves I thought I'd left behind,
stealing kisses. Oh, you children of light!

Walking through the valley of the shadow of hesitation--
can't feel Your Spirit with me when I hear that temptation:
A little sleep, a little slumber, fold my hands up to rest: 
You can stop and rest a while here, in Unworthiness.
It's a quiet town, everyone keeps to himself.

There's a house to lie down in. Pull my knees up. Say
I'm an unworthy servant. I'd better stay
by the roadside, silent, and not harm the witness.
A little time to lie down, let my weak knees rest.

Boards over the windows. Count the specks in my eyes.
Lie down in the darkness to listen to lies.
Lullaby, sleep now, close your eyes
on goodness and glory-- they burn like poison--

There's a crack around the frame though,
a crack around the door
it lights up my eyelids in crimson and gold.
If I wait till You straighten me out all the way
I will stick here mud musing till the last day.

Halfhearted, make me faithful--stick my feet to this way--
So the old man's got my ankles. I was made for daylight.
Don't let me turn backward, or twist to the side.
You can use a bent stick, Lord, to make a straight line.

You broke up stone with a stick and frustration
and gave sweet water to a desperate nation.
You hung, Atonement, on a tree and some nails
Your promise: sin and death shall not prevail.
You are making me holy. I must walk down this track

and love your Church, imperfect:
I cannot hold back.

Tuesday, January 10, 2017

introspective. ironically.

When grief grew too great, a grey weight on my chest
that crowded out first gratitude -- then hope -- then breath --
I buckled. Grey pavement scraped my knees. Blind,
I lived alone with the grey weight on my back, the cloud
crowding my mind, seeping to poison all my bones.
Crushed there I took your trade: new heart for stone
 (I could not pay).

This heart, I thought, receiving it, is strange--
not crushed to coal, to diamond, to blank inturned rage
but crushable. You could scrape this new, soft heart
on toast -- strawberry jam -- You wouldn't even have to chew
to eat this heart. So permeable, April-full. It felt
like the pink space when your tooth came out,
in second grade. It didn't hurt (not then), but it was tender,
strange.

It is a heart, I thought, for rest. For joy. For peace --

Oh, it is scraped and sore. Pinned onto promise and belief--
raw, nailed to someday rest and peace.

My own stone heart locked up my private pain
my own walled world. There is no lock on this You gave.
There is no skin. I might be changed
into a sponge. My eyes are lidless, wide. I drink
more tears than I can count.

Yet soaked, this heart grows broad with sorrow shared--
and grieved hope grows its roots deeper in God.

Drowned, then pulled up, I thought to gain relief,
but find a heart enlarged holds larger grief.