Any Other Way

Come Lord Jesus.

Gerald the Writer

Oh God, come any other way,

but not as a child.

Come in a space ship

so we can claim you as an alien,

as a figment of our imagination.

Wash up on earth’s shore

so we can claim you as a castaway

an unknown, scraggly and salt soaked.

Walk into town as a vagabond

so we can look and call authorities

to distance us.

Stand by the side of the road

so we can decide if your thumb up

is necessary for us to stop.

But please don’t come as a baby.

Don’t come and coo and cry

and take our breath away.

Don’t come as we did,

dependant and humble

and wrapped up tight.

Just don’t, don’t be so vulnerable

as a wonder from a womb

bathed in the liquid of humanity.

Don’t come as a child, please.

For then we would need to

hold you in our…

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Singing Silently

They carried my tune.

They welled,

then rolled silently

on down

 

while the elderly

sang, and bells rang.

I tried to sing

of that silent night.

 

Only translucent notes

fell as all the world

kept silence.

Tears with minor tones.

December Crawl

Fog stumbled in,

shuffling on shrubs,

tripping on curbs.

 

How it mocked

the low-beams,

and licked what

 

was left of the

last snowfall.

December crawl.

 

Visibility: one quarter

mile ‘til Christmas.

Quarter smile.

 

Psalm of the Practicing Agnostic

I’ve tried gritting my teeth,

But ended up grinding them.

I’ve tried getting a grip,

But ended up grappling.

The bootstraps were pulled,

But snapped like suspenders.

I haven’t been anxious for nothing,

But worry about everything.

 

Agnosticism doesn’t play well,

While an impersonal God takes it personally.

“Relax your jaw,

Loosen your grip,

Lace up your cross trainers.

Let’s go. Follow Me.

My yoke is easy,

And the burden? Light.”

Of Theorems and Theology

Is Jesus the theory of everything?

Can we walk together in a unified field,

so wherever I go, there He is?

 

Is Jesus a string through it all,

wending, weaving like a thread?

Does He carry us along its cord?

 

Did Jesus split history like an atom?

Is He a super conductor,

able to collide like an iconoclast?

 

Come, be my theory of everything.

Come, tie Your string around my finger.

Come, collide, and split me open.

 

Squirrel!

Squirrels express frustration by twitching their tails ...

I don’t brake for squirrels.

I don’t swerve either.

I pray for them.

I plead with them.

I yell at them.

 

They seem suicidal,

Daring even.

They’re just doing

As told.

“Go play in the street.”

“Cross the road, or halfway.”

 

I stay centered

In the lane,

White knuckled,

Eyes forward.

They, one eye

At a time,

This and that.

 

“Make up your mind!”

“Move!”

“Squirrel, squirrel,

Squirrel!”

“Oh, for crying…”

“Please, no!”

 

No thump.

Nothing in the rearview.

No yellow pasted

Like the centerlines

They dance around.

I sigh and mumble.

Back Seat Love: Come on, it’s not what you think.

Heart issues are sometimes tricky. I’ve been thinking about how to keep my heart alive lately. Making eye contact with Christ is a way. Not “I” contact necessarily, but seeing Him more clearly. It must have intention behind it, no?

Gerald the Writer

I know,

is the back seat really a place for love?

In one respect, I think not…

But hold on a minute,

I’m talking about love.

I dreamt I was a taxi driver,

in and out of traffic and jams.

My light was on, waiting for a whistle or a hand.

She got in and sat in the middle back.

The rear view cropped her face.

Her brown eyes caught mine in the mirror.

“Just drive a bit,” she said calmly.

I nodded and pulled back out into it.

She smiled her eyes and

I think I smiled mine back.

“So, any destination in mind?”

“Life.”

“Ah, sure, is that near West 42nd Street?”

“You never know.”

“Well, I will never know if you don’t tell me.”

She winked and fully opened her eyes,

briefly exposing the whites like teeth.

Somewhere, I heard the eyes are the window to…

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