Author Archives: threadfollower

There is nothing “good” about “Good Friday.”

Only if you cling to some outdated and abusive
theology where a father sends a child into
a world to atone for sins the child never committed
yet must pay the price for the people's indifference
by carrying all the crosses ever made by humankind
to a hill in a garbage dump there to be nailed to them
while onlookers jeer and pat themselves on the back
for living in the land of Caesar and following
the way of the deaf and dumb and screaming crowds
watching the spectacle as if it were the most 
important game ever played on the big screen
as those in power nod appreciatively off to the side
holding all the strings controlling the mortals
like marionettes who have taken the day off
to witness the extravaganza of their God's
extravagant love for them is this day good.

A Dance Begins

A cloud forms in the now not so cloudless sky.
The wind answers, waking up the grasses.
A dance begins.

I stir from early morning sleep
to write these gifts of poems.
Another dance begins.

The stars hiding behind the light of the sun
wait patiently for their chance to be seen.
And another dance begins.

My heart waits for a love
underneath the gathering clouds.
A dance begins.

The Dance

The finches have returned to feed.
The grays of winter have been cast off.
The bright yellow of the male
is set off by the hushed green of its mate.
Both dance around the bird feeder
as if proclaiming to the other
with voices in chirps and twitters,
"Look what I found!" 
I would be chided for such a song and dance
around the dining room table as the meal 
is placed with loving, serving hands.
The scold, though, would come with a smile,
a smile that has wrapped me in comfort and care
for years as we dance life together for another day.

Answers

Some point to the edge of the world,
Others to the end of time.
Still others dig deep into the ground
while some look to the stars.
A seer reads signs and portents in bones.

Perhaps the answer was written in the dust
on some ancient chalkboard of long ago.
Or maybe the answer fell like ash from the sky
after some tremendous volcanic eruption 
leaving an arm raised forever with a question.
Or maybe fallow fields await some future ripeness
as the answer begins to settle upon new ground.

We wait, pondering what it all means,
asking and spinning off answers 
at a dizzying pace, never quite believing
that we have been placed with careful attention
as an answer to all questions.

Another Day

"ONLY THE WEAK WILL FAIL!” - Donald J. Trump, April 4, 2025

I am tired of all caps
making brash statements 
and promises to the few, the strong.
Leaving the weak with no recourse
as the ONE-IN-CHARGE spends
another afternoon golfing.
I turn to even older words.
Blessed are the poor.  Blessed are the meek.
Consolation, or, at the very least,
a vision of how things could be,
that gets me through another day.

Spring Storm

There is a long line of colors on the weather app.
Greens, yellows, reds and pinks float across
the screen of my phone while clouds flow over
the land above.

A warning siren in the distance followed by
an answering call further along insists
that people find shelter and safety from the storm.

And while secured in basements and inner rooms,
what shields mortals from the weathered tempests
that dwell within threatening to rip the roofs off
with whispering winds of change?

Day Off

Fridays are my days off.  And yet,
this one begins with a meeting
followed by another over coffee
followed by a luncheon to talk 
about the latest real estate deal
followed with a visit to the hospital.
The afternoon will give me time
for a brief nap and a short read
and then back to day-off work
as things left undone throughout
the week remain and must be done 
before the next week begins.
Perhaps the evening will provide
space and moments for breathing
without demands or needs.
And then the promise of rest.

Here I Am

Home is at the heart of all visions
worth carrying around for another day.
The manual for homemaking resides
somewhere on some dusty bookshelf.
It contains narratives of imaginings
promising a return from the long exile.
Broken hearts and inconsolable loss
are the purview of an uninterested god,
untouched by the pain that inhabits
any sort of previously made covenant.
Yes, the wicked surround the righteous
once again.  And those who cry, "Violence!"
look for trouble and hope justice does not prevail.
Stubborn faithfulness when almost everything
has gone wrong is to offer praise with eyes wide open.
The kings with no souls will never listen
to the priests of sound and silence who beckon
from the crosses set at the top of torn hills.
We must all speak when we are called
with speech that approaches song insisting
in the longing to serve, crying, "Here I am."