ginger beer

homebase can be mortal 
with all the starts & returns
of puzzled faces who
once again did not understand
the point of Sunday's sermon
& come only in the hope
of loan forgiveness for last
night's dinner tab itemizing 
roasted leg & puree of soul 
which never tasted so good

trust the story & remember 
how richly good grandma's
cranberry sauce tasted each
season of giving thanks for things
known & for things unknown
& how she would smile when
asked the secret of her recipe
& say, If I told you it wouldn't be
a secret & how she whispered
with a voice sounding of the end
in that last week, ginger beer.

Like Sisyphus

I learned to work like this
from Sisyphus who, tired
as a dung beetle after rolling
the last dung ball of the day
up its small food hill, let 
his ball go rolling into the sea
where ocean waves like eyelids
rose and fell, leaking salty tears
upon the feet of the child
who trembled like the slow, roll
of bones turning over in graves
of saints long-dead and gone,
never to tread again upon
the sacred ways, red 
as worn, sanctuary carpet
in the morning light.

“A Place For Your Name”

How is it that salvation history depends
upon scripts unwritten and words incomplete?
Weekly festivals do not make the passage
of time any less difficult or slightly trying.
Dancing elders celebrate with high-leg kicks
the message their generation received long ago
from the bottles others tossed into the seas.
A conversation about the next memorial wall
slows, weighted with the wax of last night's
dinner candles which burned too fast.
Writing checks to the cleaning company
and first-time talks with new-found friends
will not create the forgiveness you seek
nor secure a place for your name on the wall.

“Chattering”

Cute nuances bring me 
low again this morning.
The very breath of God moves,
not over watery chaos
but through me, pushing
me out the door to receive
a morning world still not awake.
Books I read last night 
have arranged themselves
on the dining room table,
feasting on leftover peas
and carrots and crumbs
from the food fight I had
with my familiar after dinner.
The question is not about
who wins or loses
as there is plenty of ground
to soak up all the blood
spilled in this world. 
Listen to the heartbeat
of the bird that sings
alone on the wire 
below the crowded 
chattering gathered above.

Vitality Preferred

Remember the play of civilization;
how people treat each other waiting
in a long, summer line for ice cream?

Be careful in the way you lean; someone 
behind you may be making smiley faces
at the little one you hold in your arms.

Does this gathering come about from
reading the message in the soda bottle
or from seeing a fortune unfold from a cookie?

The Help Wanted sign on a desert island
reads, "New Liberator position available.
No experience necessary.  Vitality preferred."

The questions, What should I want?
and, What do I want? refuse to bend
away from the one question they have become.

Tie Us All Together

While crushing garlic, 
I said, "God is not our genie."

She rinsed her hands.
"Either choose to spend 
time or spread time
across different spaces."

Taken aback, I said,
"That's the problem.
Passages for people
shorten perspective."

"Now you're just making 
fun of me," she smiled.

"Not true.  I am simply
prepping my strategy
for finding the best seat."

Taking up my challenge,
and with ease, she said,
"It doesn't have to take
so long, you know,
to tie us all together."

Ode to My 2016 Cubs World Series Trophy Paperweight

Imagine the weight of the world, a serious wait
 for Chicago Cubs fans, one hundred and eight
 years between World Series victories lifted
 that chill November evening in Indian country.  
 The seventh game, delayed by rain after the end 
 of the ninth, score tied after blowing a two run lead!
 Is this the Scrubs of old?  To lose again?
 The Curse of the Billy Goat and winning no more
 proving to be true? No!  Instead, shouts of Yes!  Yes!  Yes!
 A young schoolboy’s old dream of heaven,
 to win it all in the final inning of a game seven.
 And players playing in that boyish exuberance
 more wet from champagne than from the rain
 that dared to stain, no, blemish, no, fail, no,
 not this time, not exasperation again once again.
 Wait ’til next year no more! for on this night
 the Cubbies found it with hits to left, center and right.
 Futility erased.  Beaming faces.  Trophy raised.
      Little copies of the real trophy made.
 Twenty-three golden flagpoles with the pennants 
 of those teams who were not good enough 
 - not enough of the good stuff - to paint
 the winner’s hardware with the team color blue
 and have emblazoned for the first time,
 in over one hundred year’s time, the letters 
 C-U-B-S 2016 World Series Champions
 to sit on the desks of big boys dreaming dreams
 of winning and raising their own trophy to the sky.