Taking Thoughts

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!

 

A Sunday Psalm

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.

Storm Front

Clouds roiled by,

doubling their chins.

clearing their throats

over and again,

sending echoes down the line.

Veins popped on their foreheads,

razor lights split the tension–

flash points of interruption.

Then the weeping,

sobbing, lubrication of

pent up anger mixed

with distraught.

A million-billion tears

distilled in sheets,

form rivulets

on the overlooked

guttural indentations

of the world’s skin.

Up There

Maneuvered by metaphor,

sashayed with clichés,

I looked up and it was still there,

that sun pasted between

a cobalt wall

with translucent clouds

brushing in the fore.

A golden pill hung

before I ever was

and hanging still

when my blip bleeps its last.

I relish every age spot

given by its graces,

and return its due

respect after

tender shoulders

absorb aloe vera.

A light by which

I see.

A warmth by which

I feel.

A presence by which

I love.

Pandemic Pondering

Has mitigation led to manipulation or the revelation thereof?

Do masks make manifest our propensity to hide?

Will contact tracing underline or outline a community?

Does distancing lead to dysfunction or uncover it?

Will we think twice about ‘going viral’?

 

Has mitigation led to meditation?

Do masks reveal our trues selves?

Will contact tracing underscore our need for others?

Does distancing lead to a helpful perspective?

Will we think twice about going virtuous?

 

Tuesday

Tuesday

Like the middle child

of the beginning of the week.

Looked over rather than seen.

Endured as opposed to lived.

You know how each day

exudes an ambiance?

Sunday with its long naps

and pew perching.

Wednesday has ashes and humps.

Monday, extra cups of coffee.

Thursday is second fiddle to Tuesday.

Saturday the garage is addressed.

Friday we remember God.

But Tuesday.

It acts like the missing sock.

Maybe it’s the overlooked,

almost empty loaf of bread.

This day clangs no cymbals,

yet is loaded with snooze buttons.

We pay no mind to Tuesday

except when we call it fat.

That day, once a year,

when we all mispronounce

a pastry, or misspell it.

Tuesday afternoon gets a nod

from The Moody Blues.

They had sympathy,

for a portion of the day at least.

Well, anyway, say hi to Tuesday

for me.

P.S. I’m so sorry I forgot your special relationship with Morrie Schwartz and Mitch Albom; They were Tuesday people after all.

Deep Pocket

I dug into the bag

like digging for keys,

loose change, or

a crumpled receipt.

No carbs up a sleeve,

like townhouse crackers,

or black and white cookies.

The deep pocket,

the last of the mini

cinnamon doughnuts

made me work for them.

Comfort for a cost.

Powdered dust, evidence,

all over my jeans

revealed finger prints

for an open and shut case.

Maybe the judge will

let me off easy.

In these times I’d

fair better with a jury

of my peers…

They would offer me

a glass of milk.

God Is

I’m a bit lost.

Nothing new.

Walker Percy gets it. (Lost in the Cosmos)

It’s not that I don’t know where I’m going.

I see where I’ve been too.

Forth and back.

It’s the momentary.

The present places shift around.

Shift happens I suppose.

Here is there a lot of the time.

Neil Diamond sung about

Being neither here nor there…

“I am, I said, and no one heard,

Not even a chair.”

God’s Name isn’t ‘I Was’.

God’s Name isn’t ‘I’m going to be’.

God’s name is ‘I Am’.

Actually ‘I Am that I Am’.

This echo reached all the way to me.

Here. Now. Thank God.