The Wadi

As veiled ones cry out in the desert,
search the walls of the canyon inclines,
do they see in the death all around them,
the longing of well hidden signs?
The red rusted side of the iron,
the green glow of coppery ruth,
while the voice of a whispering wadi,
gives hints of a soft echoed truth.
The clefts in the rock lift the music,
join their tenor to vein fissured bass,
while the ribs of burned brown saguaro,
like tree rings, still murmur of grace.
Once the streams sang out in the Negev.
Torrents swirled and eddied and flowed.
Deep pools of refreshment once lingered,
where the weald and woodland would grow.
But now in the baked barren desert,
when it seems that all has gone dry,
the whispering words of the wadi
cry out that we don’t have to die.
For there comes a deluge to the desert,
springs again will cascade and renew.
Tears that once coursed down a mountain,
now gather in life giving dew.
Then the wadi will strain to contain it,
and the trees will all clap their hands.
The cacti will laugh their good fortune,
as the waters stream out on the sand.

Ro'sh Ruwm (Psalm 3:3)

With downcast eyes,
I steal the shame,
and live the lesser lie,
of who I should have been
in that moment
two lifetimes ago
when I was but a mouse
in lion’s paws.

I did not squeak then
or run to nest,
too scared to move,
but slid past
sharpened teeth
to the rotting acids
that eat me still,
devouring flesh and life.

And now,
with the eyes of distance,
curse myself
and do not hear,
through all the haze,
the timid squealing,
but just that terrorizing roar.

On darker days,
I still believe the lie of ‘if’,
the borrowed shame,
the unnamed sin,
that would hold me frozen
just out of reach
of the lifter of my face.

Rondeau For The Child God

When he began this great crusade
did he feel the blood course through his veins
as he slipped beneath the bright brocade
and crept into our human plane -
a holy child of virgin maid?

Was he startled by the sin of Cain -
our almost lifelike masquerade
when he first met what we profaned?
When he first met what we profaned?

Did he long just then to be unmade,
to feel no more our awful pain
and run to Abba’s serenade,
but chose instead to break the chain,
as child and God and unafraid?
Both child and God and unafraid!

Grace Comes Barging In

grace comes barging in
kicking down the doors
breaking through windows
throwing love around
in floods of mercy

naked, afraid
hand held to the sky
terrified to die
I cower in the corner
trying hard to hide

we never see it coming
in our barred houses
protected places
security fenced world
it’s in before you know it

it grabs me hard
slams me to the floor
slaps on cuffs
then yanks me to my feet
and makes me walk

walks me past my defenses
past my shame
past my compensations
my abilities to cope
into worlds unknown

where I am a prisoner
of a different kind
a prisoner of love
before a merciful judge
who somehow turns me loose

Metamorphosis

Worming its way
along a snaking grape vine,
its muted greens and grays
only half protect it
from the deadly pestilence
of sharp eyed birds
seeking to destroy
a juicy larva inching its way
to whatever is beyond.

Deep inside a rumbling begins.
It tastes the wretch of death.
Cocooned in golden chrysalis,
all begins to die, change, morph
caterpillar DNA liquefying
into shapeless mass,
dying to all it knows,
becoming something other
than what its always been.

Strange appendages sprout,
fine and delicate,
in colors never comprehended.
It bursts from mummified remains
flitting on new found wings
tickling the flowering vines
dancing on sunlit breezes,
diving in, sipping sweet nectar,
shouting gratitude to worlds beyond.

Bobbing, weaving, pollinating
bringing life to all it touches,
it cheers the plodding ones
encased in tangled vines
inviting, enticing, crying out
it distracts the hungry birds,
exhorting the creeping crawlers
to touch their calling,
to find new life in dying.

Prayer 5

Good morning, God,
it is really early and I wonder,
“How good is this?” when I sit
here in the semi-darkness,
listening to my wife, kids,
in-laws all snoring away,
while I discover again the reason
I love their presence so,
is because you give great gifts,
you don’t give like we give,
withholding ourselves,
but you are the gift of life
to us, and to those we love.
You make a way for us,
to love, and be loved,
because you know us
both as creator and becoming
one with the created.
How strange is that?
You are so mysterious.
I cannot fathom how you work,
how you think, how you do
the miraculous stuff you do.
The family comes drifting in
from the corners of the house
trying not to wake Justin,
sacked out on the couch.
Soon egg strata is in the oven,
bacon is frying, potato pancakes
brown in the electric skillet,
orange juice is poured.
We sit down around the table
to the ‘morning after’ feast
saying thanks again
for your goodness, your love.
I wonder if Joseph ever sat
in the early morning glow
listening to Jesus snore,
thanking you for him,
and Mary, and all the rest
of the relatives gathered
in the house you provided.
Of course, he did.
How can we not?
Thank you...

Prayer 4

I want what you have God,
power, glory, strength, impact.
Yes, I want to be you,
but not in a good way.
Somewhere deep inside me
I know that I can’t have it all,
be all that I want to be,
‘cause it is so not good for me
(did you plant that thought in me?)
In the end, it is all about goodness,
your goodness to me, I mean.
You know me so much better
than I can ever know myself.
I hate admitting that.
You kill my independent streak,
make me bow my knees.
It makes me feel so small,
when you decide to remind me,
that I am here today,
and like a field of hay,
cut down and gone tomorrow.
That is the way it is here,
since you are the good Creator and
I, the result of your creativity.
Then, just when I’ve resigned myself
to the fact that I don’t need
power or glory or strength,
that I can be obscure and trivial,
you reach down and lift my face
to give me little glimpses
of how I change your world
in ways I can’t imagine.
It is funny that I can do all things,
but only through your Son
who strengthens me.