The light fell,
Tumbled onto this day.
I wasn’t quite
Finished with the night.
My unadjusted eyes.
Tears, those glassy
Cataracts of ache,
Suspend the river-roll
Of a rumbling soul.
The morning opens still,
And shines on.
Another new mercy,
Just like yesterday.
*
“I am the light of the world.” Jesus, the Christ of God.
An undertow of tears
dragging thoughts at first,
Then emotions burst
In a tumbler of sorrow.
*
Blessed are mourns
Curled under and away.
Sit ashore with me, stay.
Let’s embrace our humanity.
*
Oh, ocean, receive our
Drops of brokenness.
And on your openness
We shall pray.
*
“Is anyone among you suffering? Let him pray. Is anyone cheerful? Let him sing praise.” James 5:13
Go down, step off
into the deep waters
they say…at least
they used to say.
Now we skip our
minds along the surface
hoping never to sink
into the unknown.
But is in the depths
where stillness sits
under the pressure of
context and history.
God holds my breath,
from beginning to end.
Every fear of drowning
exhaled to His lungs.
How I long to go down
Again and again–
each dive extended
in His presence.
In over the dark,
Light settled on the
Bone limbs of branches.
A covering sigh
Of winter’s last whisper.
An overcast came down
To surround our small
House in the wood.
Afternoon winds on the way
To dust off the etchings
Of grace, of the silence.
Yet, for now, I can
Rest my eyes on the
Cold insulation of a
Forest waiting for full
Spring, white to green.
How often I forget.
Eyes, razor-like, look on,
Gaze along the horizon,
While stars spindle down
Into my soul like a midnight
Dream, scraping the chill
Off my bones, off my bones.
*
A local poet named the dark-
Wide-skyscape beautiful; love.
I’m still looking around at
The fading shadows of
Deep evening and shallow morning.
The moon glow lifts my eyes
Off the ground, off the ground.
*
My cricked neck wearies,
So I settle in the low,
Lay in the dimple of the
Long grasses; their back and
Forth in the breeze frame
The heavens declarations
Off the heights, off the heights.
When was the last time we skipped?
Not a meal.
Neither church.
A kiss goodnight?
*
I’m talking about skipping, literally.
Down a sidewalk.
In a park.
Along a hallway.
*
When was the last time our hearts
Skipped a beat;
Lept a leap?
Bounced in hope?
*
Come, take my hand.
See the floor,
The path ahead?
Let’s skip instead.
“Let not your hearts be troubled. Believe in God; believe also in me.” Jesus
John 14:1
I’m growing into old.
Settle into chairs with a plop.
Rise out of them two-handed,
thankful for forethought of
choosing one with armrests.
*
There are creaks in the
coming and going now.
Sometimes it’s the cracks
in the wood—loose bolts.
Mostly it’s me, groaning.
*
In the effort of defying gravity,
I am grateful for movement,
even the slow kind.
More deliberate liberation
is humbly declared.
*
There is a beauty in deceleration.
Less distraction, more traction.
Reminders to stay low, pay attention
to where the next step will fall,
and in the falling I can,
by grace, take one more.
We’ve all done it,
we’ve lain down markers.
We can’t remember everything,
so we recall some things
over and over until
a cairn is placed on our
memory like a now moment
saturated with eternity.
*
She had been gone a while.
I was a punk kid with
a short sleeved sweatshirt.
I saw my Ellen
asleep on the couch;
jean jacket, bell bottom
denims; her lower lip
adrift from the upper.
*
I dropped any hesitance
to interrupt her dreams.
I leapt like a flying squirrel,
draping my body over hers.
No shame. Flawless delight,
and tears bursting over her
like watering an arid absence.
We were we.
*
Markers, like paperweights,
holding down vignettes
that could blow away
with a gust of dementia.
Cairns set like stepping
stones to cross our
stream of semi-consciousness.
The gravity of grace.
*
Honoring the hippy of the long gray hair; my sister Ellen who passed away last weekend from complications of dementia
The bookmarks sprung up
in odd arrangements on the shelf,
like so many weeds in a garden.
I pulled them a couple of months ago,
All of them.
In part to put out of mind
the sight of unfinished business.
But also to put to rights
the little irritations some books
might endure of a distracted thinker.
Sure, I purposely lost my place,
but is place a deterrent of getting
lost in thought?
Is turning the last page a
guarantee of closing the book
forever?
Apparently not, for the volumes
in the case are still there,
like a well-tended garden,
waiting for thoughts to be taken.
Look closely at the image…how easily the weeds pop up like my own bookcase!
Take me to the river,
the currents that carry away.
Be the banks of faith
as my feet feel the passing by.
For now, the ocean isn’t needed
with waves that overwhelm.
No, it’s the redemption of here.
The forgiveness of now
channeled and contained,
yet flowing on and down.
The present and eternity
as indistinguishable as the I Am.
Take me to the river,
the conversations which float by.
Be the impeded stream
and sing a long ago song.
For now, a waterfall isn’t needed
with its deafening overtones.
No, it’s a smaller voice I lean into.
The whispers of hope
riding on the vein of a meadow.
The past and its echoes
fading into grace and mercy.
You Are.
Take me to the river,
the baptismal space.
Be the undercurrent where
the world is muffled.
For now, a heavy rain isn’t needed.
Should I scream or cry,
the undertones are received
and washed away.
The covering of love,
before, behind, above, beneath,
wrap You around me.
Take me to Your River.
Gerald the Writer 