Middle Distance

The mystery is there.

The challenge is there.

It is there where ideas

Are transformed in

Their forming.

 

It is where we look

When a question gives

Us pause.

It is where truth

Begs to be handled.

 

It lies between myopia

And dystopia.

It is beyond this moment

But before infinity.

Unsettling middle distance.

 

“Who do you say that I am?”

 

 

Mark 8:29

Behold The Mystery

When my mother took us to the lake
my eight year old cheek pressed the half down window.
Hair flew up like the cresting of a wave,
and I looked out, and then down.

And gravel lies next to the road.

The trees promenade the father out I gazed.
A slow illusion it was that I couldn’t comprehend.

Even now I will take mystery over comprehension.
I still marvel when the moon follows me home.

And gravel lies next to the road.

Over the edge of the window the asphalt
zipped by and appeared fluid like shallow river water.
The Buick was moving so fast
except when I looked out on the horizon.

And gravel lies next to the road.

Time rides like a Buick, rocking gently.
The slow turning in the distance
almost wrapping around itself.
Then I look down at the black gray blur.

And gravel lies next to the road.

Transposition: The Heat Of Light Has Its Effects.

 

The cloudscape

scraped the sides,

and wayward beams

invaded the lows.

A push down

and in.

Strands of yellow

light weaved

where fog

and mist

were wrested.

The quilted air

pried from

the sculpted knolls

was lifted by

a yellow oscillation.

Together, they were

a secret.

Separate, they are

a mystery.

 

Genesis 1:3

 

 

Photo courtesy of Jessica Szopinski. Guatemala

The Way I See Sometimes. It Ain’t Pretty.

I misplaced my rose colored glasses.

The world is in a hand basket on its way somewhere.

The world is all that it is cracked up to be.

Cracks, cracks, cracks, and the humans are racing

to tape and mud and sand and prime.

 

He’s got the whole world in his hands

and I wonder if it is getting a little too heavy.

God so loved that an only Son came

to carry the weight on his shoulders.

It broke both of their backs along with their hearts.

 

At times all I can see is from Solomon’s perspective.

Oh, I am not wise. I am not even that smart.

If you will please open your Bible to the book of Ecclesiastes (Insert preacher voice)

you will see it is not a song of Solomon.

It almost sounds like a solemn dirge though.

 

I think maybe Solomon, for a moment misplaced his glasses too.

All that talk about vanity and vexation.

“To everything there is a season,

a time for every purpose under heaven.”

It is under heaven alright, because the list gets heavy.

 

Death isn’t rosy.

Pluck is a take away.

Thou shall not kill.

We all have our breakdowns.

Even Jesus wept.

Mourn.

Casting stones.

No hugs.

Loss.

Throwing away.

Tearing, rending.

Shhhh.

Hate? Really?

War. What is it good for?

 

Okay, okay, those are only the dark seasons.

Did you forget that my Elton John rose colored specks is missing?

Maybe I should have my U.V. shades on anyway under all this sun;

The kind people wear to funerals dressed like men in black.

 

If all I see is reactive attachment why would I want a clear view, really.

If all I observe is moral breakdown and despair, reserve me a padded room.

If all I blankly stare at is dis-ease and patients while I put a compress on compassion, please forgive me.

If all I look upon are sacred hearts broken beneath a cross, go hug your mother while you can.

 

It’s all under the sun and it is vexing.

Faith, hope, and love are naked without sunscreen.

Without Son glasses I squint and see men walking about like trees.

Aurora Borealis. Happy Birthday my son of wonder!

We stood in awe

of the celestial

apparition.

 

We Pointed

guiding words

of wonder.

 

The glowing curtain

danced and skipped

in the northern sky.

 

It hung nervous

in its translucent

evening gown.

 

The ghost furled

in the folds of

the wind.

 

Together we strained

to see the mystery

of us.

 

For my son Nathan on his 23rd birthday.  23rd?!  Ah time, you have aged me again.

 

© Gerald Allen Barrett