Monday

Wasn’t it Monday just last week?

Didn’t I wake with no words to speak?

No thoughts of the morrow to say,

Just breathing in today.

 

Some prayers were said as I sat,

For children and wife and all that.

An amen was uttered as I walked away

Saying this is the day, this is the day.

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Twelve Minutes on Color

It is the contrast in color which illuminates autumn. Looking at one tree’s vibrant blushing brightens my imagination and appreciation of God’s artwork in the midst of the work of transformation. When I pan back and take in a bigger frame of color against color a greater wonder fills me.

We live on hill, and from the back deck a valley of autumn’s attitude can be taken in. We moved here five years ago this month, and we are grateful for the view.

It makes me think of the possibility of unity in diversity. God must believe it too, with this big fat metaphor of fall. This one line of poetry, the tree line, gets me thankful, thankful for my eyes.

Outta time.

Sun Day

Birth again the sun,

may it crown the edge of the earth,

and spill glory and cast shadows

behind all it paints.

 

May we remember from where

this light bursts and fills

the land in golden revelation.

May we squint in gratefulness.

“God makes a huge dome

For the sun—a superdome!

The morning sun’s a new husband

Leaping from his honeymoon bed,

The daybreaking sun an athlete

Racing to the tape.

 

That’s how God’s Word vaults across the skies

From sunrise to sunset,

Melting ice, scorching deserts,

Warming hearts to faith.”

Psalm 19:4-6 The Message

 

 

Breathtaking

Just above the tree line

wind scrapes and sifts.

I pray for its falling

through to the forest floor

where air crawls low

like a dog’s nose

picking up the scents

of loam.

 

Those pains we shed

which enrich the soil,

and peat our soul.

Thank you for the

ground our feet of clay

impress, that level

Grace we tread

with each breath.

Where’s Prufrock? Monday Monday

Settle down Monday,
don’t push or crowd
or cut in line.

Be patient
while I brush up
before your sun cups

me round and round.
I’ll tie my shoes later
after coffee spoons

have measured me.
Monday, a click track
of existence, set

a pace down
between these lungs.
I will breathe a grace,

give thanks,
and skip
a beat or three.

Peach in the sink

 

 

 

 

I dare you…

Read a poem today. It doesn’t have to be T.S. Elliot’s Love Song Of J. Alfred Prufrock, but it’s not a bad place to land on a Monday.

Open

It choked me.

 

My mother told me close my mouth.

Dennis’ father used to sit in the corner,

legs crossed, reading the Gazette

with his lower lip dangling and pudgy.

Old people gape at nothing.

Maybe nothing is gape worthy

when white flurries crown them.

 

The snowflake melted down into me.

 

Don’t Count Me Out

The pill I found

awakened me like

Robert Deniro.

 

The dancing unfurled

with you in hand

and spectrums rose.

 

Nerves had no end

and struck like lightning

and I was blind for a spell.

 

A forty year reverse

to when hiding and seeking

was just a game.

 

Jesus was counting

against the tree

looking for me.

 

 

“O Lord, you have searched me and you know me.” Psalm 139:1

 

Ellipses’ and Riding the Bench

When I was a kid my mother would haul us to the grocery store. Back then it was Meijer Thrifty Acres at the corner of Patterson and Douglas Avenue. There were always bench sitters in the queue right next to the twirling red, white, and blue barber shop sign. There would be three to a bench like a human ellipsis. The dot dot dots were mostly elderly types who had settled in on “old people” fashion. Polyester slacks and smock blouses and prescription shoes the color of…somewhere between tan and gray. The ladies would often have the clear plastic caps on the hair they just had fluffed up. The men would lean on canes with handkerchief s cuffed in their hands; age spots on their foreheads.

How many times did my mother catch me staring? How many times did she swing around to push my pointing finger down to my side where it belonged? To a child people are who they are. Back then people were fat. People were wrinkly. People had long noses and ears. Slips would show. Great gaps formed between the top of argyle socks and the unrolled end of trousers. Facial tics would blink, wink, and purse repeatedly at my unblinking eyes of wonder.

I still stare. Don’t tell my mom. Humans fascinate me. Without saying a word they communicate quite a bit. Just yesterday I saw a cute old man hunched over with lips parted and drooping toward the waxed tile. I imagined him as a youth, upright, full of spunk, and walking at a good pace past the benches of dot dot dot. If the good Lord is willing I might have the honor of being a dot on a bench.

One dot is a period. It is placed at the end of this sentence. But three dots indicate a continuance…a continuance of thought and relationship. I long to be sandwiched between a couple of old, fat, wrinkly, unfashionable people while little tikes point their fingers and say what is on their innocent minds.

I thank God today for life. Louis had it right. Take time today to say hi to a bench sitter…