Thursday, August 30, 2012

Across the cloud of unknowing

Reaching up, or reaching out,
or reaching down --
which is it?
I twist and turn
and twist and turn again,
but no matter which way I turn,
there is a dance,
a cooperation,
a reaching across the chasm
that keeps us feeling separate;
attempting to reunite
across the cloud of unknowing...

Tuesday, August 28, 2012

Some days I walk the beach

beached wood, porous,
like her hip,
that broke in the night
and left her on the floor
to die of thirst.

a bruised shell,
stiff as the helmet
that protected his head when he fell
but couldn't keep out the tumor
that pushed him off the bike
(just a lemon, and benign,
unlike the ones
that took a daughter's heart,
a mother and two father's brains;
three throats
in a single family)

five hours of surgery done, she reports;
he's fine, but no more cycling for a while.

I'm grateful, but I want to ask
where does it end,
why here,
why now,
and when?

some days
I walk the beach
and all I see
is death

Saturday, August 25, 2012

Eye of the needle

Low tide,
and the lumbering threat
of the pounding waves
has receded
to manageability.
It's safe,
for now at least,
to walk out to the rock
and so we stand,
peering through
a hole carved in the stone
by those same waves
and marvel at the view
of surges yet to come.

A straw thrust through a tree by a tornado,
cars tossed by hurricane winds,
this hole --
each a testament
to force and power
far beyond control;
such force could easily propel
dozens of rich men and camels
through the eye of any needle.

Tide shifts,
and the waves begin to tumble toward us like the years;
time finds us scrambling
for higher moral ground
as the impending crash
grows louder, closer.

We see death drawing near
and, hoping to delay,
promise reform
and race the speeding clock
for ever worthier lives
discarding sins like seaweed
on the shore between then and now;
tossing our transgressions behind us
like clothes, abandoned on the stairs, a tell-tale trail
in the desperate climb to Passion.

Tuesday, August 21, 2012

At the center of things

Such tissue, torn and scarred,
surrounds the heart
lying like a wound
at the center of things;
a deep pool in which
the leavings of life's seasons
float brightly for a while
then disappear
into hidden caverns of longing,
slowly breaking down
into fragments of memory,
providing mulch
for seasons yet to come,
loves yet to grow,
promises yet to be broken
which in their own way
also feed the soul.

Thursday, August 16, 2012

About the light

What is it about the light --
even this light,
dappling, as it does,
this dull clay wall,
these random roots --
that, on a morning after
one of those nights
when silent tears
have stained a pillow
in the darkness,
brings reassurance, and hope,
and makes my heart

Tuesday, August 7, 2012

Those loving eyes

though not often enough,
my camera sees
with different eyes,
and even something simple --
a splash of birdlime,
a tissue-thin slice
of seaweed
tossed upon an aging step --
appears to have
a grace and beauty
all its own.

And then I see
that all our desperate posturing --
the many tricks we use
to present ourselves
as appearing to have more value than we suspect exists --
will never hide us from those loving eyes --
and might

Saturday, August 4, 2012

Made in the image

Why --
when the dog barks
and I look out my window
to see what set him off
and spot instead
the moon,
lifting her golden bucket
and pouring streaks of light
across the lagoon --
why do I not step outside
to sit on my bench
and drink that liquid joy?

Why reach for a camera,
when I know it can't begin
to capture the color
that sings through all that light;
can't begin to capture the wonder of that first sighting?
Or is it enough
to grab a glimpse,
a frail and faulty image,
so that seeing we might imagine
the truth that lies behind --
much as we,
seeing other beings
made in the image of God,
can begin to imagine
the Truth that lies behind...