Ambiguous Intention

I was going to be grateful,

I really was.

I breathed into a new day,

And got distracted

By the bacon and its applause,

By the smell wending to my

Nose while the eggs cuddled

In its campfire grease.

Then I looked away

At the bird perched across

The field under the strands

Of pinkish, blueish, grayish

Morning light,

And I wondered how the grackle

Got so lucky to sit and be.

I got jealous of its ability

To defy gravity,

While I drank a bit of coffee.

Gratitude will just have to wait,

While I sit with my feet

Over the register under my desk–

The furnace kicked on…

I’ll be thankful later.

Sunday Psalm

Morning Dew

Unfold my arms,

Relax these tight shoulders.

 

Come, this wide-eyed morning

And lay these hesitancies on the dew.

 

Soak them mercifully, and grace

These fists in their clenched resistance.

 

Palms up, lifeline exposed

In vulnerable sweat.

 

Break upon my heart

Like the broken light,

 

Shards all around.

Toilet Paper. Three Sheets to the Wind.

Skimming through some old posts this one caught my eye. I was on a roll.

Gerald the Writer

Toilet paper. That was the first thought that rolled across my mind this morning. Then I tore off the sheet and got out of bed. Toilet paper? Would it be over the top to write about it? It was stuck in the wrinkles of my brain last night. Frank McCourt in his memoir Angela’s Ashes told the story of going back to his father’s Ireland. He had to go the 2nd number and that required him to use his grandpa’s outhouse. Nailed to the wall of the room-with-no-view was newsprint. His father had to instruct him.

I am a father too. I had to instruct too, butt  but not like my post-depression-era father—he used three sheets only, (single-ply, double-ply, or triple) only three. Sorry to put that image out there. Exit this post now and wipe it off. Geez.

What I really want to focus on is the empty…

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A Severe Mercy

Of all the seeds which fall,

Catch this one beneath the soil.

 

Beneath the soul

Where darkness blinds.

 

Where darkness binds

A willing confinement.

 

A willing refinement

Until the shell breaks open.

 

Until the shell breaks upon

To push up and down.

 

To push up around

The stem and the roots.

 

The stem and the truths

Of all the seeds which fall,

 

Even one.

 

Zip-tied or slipped tide. (Sorry, I didn’t know what to title this one.)

My eyes welled up yesterday. I felt hijacked by a compassion stored in the fruit cellar of my heart. A nice surprise.

Over the last few years of my life I’ve been doing some soul shifting. That’s right, soul shifting, not soul surfing, or even soul shaping. Shift happens. Well…not so fast.

I didn’t slouch on the sofa waiting for life to slap me across the face. I did, however, put my will down, and backed away slowly. What seemed like striving to free myself from zip-tied hands was really fear manipulation. Every time I attempted to wrangle out of the cuffs, my wrists bore witness of the struggle. Funny, the more this happened, the more it appeared as if I brandished a razor blade on them.

Is true freedom a suicide pact of sorts? May I be bold enough to say I was afraid to live and scared to death? How dramatic!

Anyone who knows me, knows my life is full of life, yet for years (Decades? Even before my thirty something years of mid-life crisis? Since my mother’s water broke?) I settled into a fallback position of sorts. My therapist described it like sitting a hundred yards from the house in the tall grass observing my family’s goings on. It’s what I knew. It’s what I was shown, father effect you might say. Father affect more like it. My Dad had the affect too, at least that was my experience of him. I miss him and wish we could talk about the similar wounds we carry. Our heart rates seemed flatter, not flattering.

Now, my thumper is fluttering on occasion. I feel, and in the feeling comes water tension on my eyes–A vision-smearing lubrication reminding me I still have a heart, and not to be afraid of it breaking, even breaking into joy. In our family there are plenty of opportunities for both kinds of breaking. Who am I kidding? I’m fairly sure every family fractures their hearts in wringing life out in close proximity.

“Oh the humanity!”

I think that might sum up this little stream of sub consciousness micro tome.

I’m feeling more human…more humane, and by the grace of God my heart will break open more frequently. The zip ties are loosening and I’m not as afraid.

Peace and prayers peeps.

Indented Doors

Comma’s in

The pedestrian way.

Pauses, like cells

In a monastery–

Call us to pray

Out of the fray.

 

Slip in

The perspective, stay.

Queues in which

To stand when

You can’t stand it.

A momentary huddle.

 

A set aside,

Alone, abide,

Piece of peace,

Space of quiet

Out of the riot.

Would that I try it.

Freedom from Information Act

Information age. We’re in it. There’s still writing on the wall, many walls to be exact. We have real news, fake news, and real fake news. 2016 was full of it, and many chimed in to spin it to be in it.

I want out. Where’s the sand in which I can stick my head? Where is the place I can be informed, but not over-informed, spun to death as it were. Even my thoughts here are on this little platform are waiting to be picked up by a passing tech-train to the cyber-out-there.

I recently read a blog about using social media in a positive encouraging way. I get it, and I want you to come away with lighter hearts and a more encouraged outlook. I have to face it though, Facebook gets the better of me sometimes. I made a not-so-smart move and picked up my smart phone in the middle of a conversation. I thought Facebook had more to say than the person sitting across from me. What a putz.

If information pulls us away from a “now” moment, a connection in real time, then let us lay down our arms, turn the volume off, flip our phones over, and see the other. Simple.

At times we need to initiate the Freedom from Information Act and form a more perfect union with those in front of our actual faces.

#preachingtomeself

Stop. Put your screens down, and back away slowly. Happy Newer Year!

Army Men.

Attention.

Gerald the Writer

Ever since Christmas I’ve been playing with army men. On a whim, one of my daughters gave me a bag of them, and they are positioned all over my office. There is one duct-taped to the dash of my delivery truck too. Although they represent the ugly facts of war or protecting peace, I love my little green men. Yes, I am a grown man with green men. You gotta a problem with that? Actually I wondered if this fetish is problematic for this civilian who has always maintained his civility.

Maybe I am reverting back to my boyish ways. My older brother let me tag along to a backyard battlefield meticulously staged with army men, tanks, pill boxes, bridges, camouflage, foxholes, and little jeeps on top of mounds. Colonels stood calling in air strikes on fixed coordinates as they gripped their binoculars with one hand. What took probably hours…

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A Christmas Card From Above: In Cursive

And feeling her absence again, but with a smile.

Gerald the Writer

She Scotch-taped them as they arrived.

The threshold couldn’t hold them all.

Between the living room and kitchen

the Christmas cards hung open like parted lips.

Postal employees carried double heavy loads then.

Stamps were less than a dime

and tongues licked each one.

They arrived all through December.

To me it was like any collectors dream.

I used to collect beer and pop bottle caps

and keep them in an old Maxwell house coffee tin.

On occasion they fell out and stood in ordered battalions.

The cards lined up too and I thought

my mother was a curator of sorts.

She put them up for display

and passersby would thumb them open.

Beyond the Currier and Ives images,

beyond the glittered Santa beards,

beyond the bright star over the Savior

were cursive words at the bottom inside.

Greetings from around town and around the country,

hand written in indelible…

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