Poetry – Page 48 – A Thread You Follow

Way of Living

The pages of infinite books of love are pasted 
on walls without windows or doors.  Care 
packages assemble themselves on counters 
as loaves of bread align like matchsticks on tables.  
Seeing others get out to tell stories opens up 
ways for prayer to return to where it belongs.
Many say, no, and refuse to get used to wearing
gloves, glasses and masks to guard against
the wishful thinking that surrounds the land where 
people confirm suicide as a valid way of living.

The Silent Choir

I said, "It's been a while
since people talked."

She said, "The focus on the wrath
that comes overwhelms."

Thinking aloud, I asked, "How
is one supposed to navigate
the openings to unopened letters?"

She answered, "Salutations
matter little when the world
selfies itself on vacation."

"Ha," I said, "no wonder
scripture turns into garbage."

She smiled.  "Always preaching
to the silent choir where love
already abounds in songs."

The Last Prayer

"Ring them bells...when innocence dies."
                         - Bob Dylan

Prepare to be made a desolation.
Care packages of cookies cease.
Instructions on notecards turn illegible.
News becomes nothing but advertising.
Butterflies turn into caterpillars.
The catacombs empty themselves.
Two lonely masks hang on walls.
All emails to the elders return to sender.
Powerful people dictate their desires.
Nothing and something weave together.
Expressed needs suffer bad timing.
Surprises wrestle in conversations.
A day off for devotion never arrives.
The last angel carries the last prayer.

Shadowed Frost

The time for late 
spring frost 
to be striped 
by shadows 
of the forest 
shortens 
with each thump
of the Pileated Woodpecker 
on the oak tree.

Any Other Timeline

Participation 
in abundant life
whirls 
around having 
your name on the list 
- not posted on a wall -
where steps 
circling the center
of all revolving doors 
take you 
in and out 
of measures not
on any other 
timeline 
but yours.

(I don’t even like figs.)

To sit under my own fig tree
without work
without play
without friends
without family
without strangers
without enemies
without neighbors
and no one shall make
me afraid.

You shall have no other gods before me. – Exodus 20:3

Surrounder, Caller, Bringer,
the unbroken and constant 
call of your names
leaves no room for others
to be before us,
and yet we hunger 
for one more.
Open the corner of our eye
to see in the dim gray
of our side vision
another version, new
and exciting,
as the day we were born.
Amen.

A Reality Not Your Own

I said, "I'm a bit concerned, 
the prophet says, Your wife 
will become a prostitute in the city."

She stopped, a bit miffed. "Memories 
tend to flatten over time."

I agreed.  "This all sounds like a 
thoughtless wish for an empty bedroom."

She added, "Or a famine of hearing 
the words of g*d."

I realized, once again, "A large part 
of my joy is not being where I am 
supposed to be when I am supposed
to be there.  Wherever there may be."

She smiled and said, "Welcome
to the other side of popping
into a reality not your own."

Innocence

Those who survive horrific car crashes in their youth
know innocence makes up words like okay and fine and sure.

Sometimes getting down on hands and knees and looking
under the sofa for the baby in the stroller helps doubt.

A daughter in a green-blue-and-black-striped bathing suit
stands against the white sand perpetually outlined in light.

Joy heard through the sighs of those who lose beloved pets
wraps any words preachers say to loosely threaded posts.

Jonah sat down on the hilltop
to watch Nineveh burn
& whittled a stick for roasting
marshmallows & instead of fire
G*d sent a bush to provide shade
& save Jonah from discomfort.