Learning how to pray, again…

Invitation to Prayer – A Tutorial

Instead of reflecting on all those times
you’ve missed the mark,
ignored what is good and right
fallen or failed or f-ed-up
being all that is normal and wrong with us
and life and me,
this invitation is an explorers call
to the strange and distant lands
of ‘because it is there’
a quest you are rarely begged to risk
to search for that exception to Augustine’s rule
that makes a moment sweet
when an embrace longed for is now,
a miracle realized, a gift from God
who must favor tears of joy,
and laugh aloud with us or go about
with a silly, uncontainable grin,
or pause to remember the aroma
of childhood and cookies and bread;

so today when you pray,
hunt undistracted because what you crave
is the kind of love you’re only given,
rummage the haystack
eager to feel the sting of needle’s touch,
trace the patchwork and stitch
quilted from everything gathered,
fight through the conflict forced upon us
by those who celebrate sin
to win the role of our deliverers to whom
we must allocute lest we be damned
and laugh because they will lose;

pray as if your life depends upon finding
the beauty that is living,
the gladness of exhaustion at the end
of a summer’s day,
the contentment of wonder
which needs no explanation,
and you are not broken,
you need not hide in a safe place
because entropy is there too,
and the only secret is that you
will live forever, you will always win
because you played with life as a toy.

 

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Read it again, please…

Today is Just a Page

The marks have no moral,
they know no stories,
nor me or mine,
no memories surfacing
in the quiet of the day’s ebb
haunting and mocking what can’t
be changed by dreams,
they are carried along
as the wave of the page turns slowly
to the next leaving anyone
reading to wonder
who writes this way,
not how but why;
and the way the words go
becomes a prophecy
because it is a path
leading to another nowhere
ready to mean something,
to be noticed
and maybe even remembered
enough to justify
a child’s plea to read it again,
and again, and again, and again.

Playing God could be fun…

On Being God

When I grow up I want to be God,
capital ‘G’ – whole thing, just like you think,
maybe churches too, but that’s
not something I care about, like others;
I will listen to people when they talk,
do what I can, not what I want,
but not always when they want I’m sure,
good people will feel good about good
and not just for them either,
I’ll ignore pretty much most of what is
because that’s the way it seems best,
and my job will be to keep things running;
I’m sorry, but people will still die
because that’s what mortality means,
that, and thermodynamics,
and we’ll see if I can get people
to stop blaming themselves and others
for everything that they don’t like
because I won’t like everything either;
I’ll give gifts, but not on Christmas
so everyone else can feel special too,
but mercy will still be the toughest sell,
and I get that, but I’ll still try
and that’s the most anyone can ask.

 

 

Morning rhymes with nothing…

Too Early for Words

In the quiet of the morning
in the ease of rest refreshed
with the stillness stillness still
and the dawn God blessed

the spiders have spun a yarn
the dew has bathed it in peace
when all’s uncertain and true
and night has started to cease

there are no found words to speak
there are no new chores to do
verse has failed me yet again
and left me alone to stew

all is forgotten in fog
all too gone to pray a prayer
the unseen is left best that way
and rhyme is nostalgia there

Is there a way back…

Careening Through Life

Do trees cast off their leaves,
eager to be free of those parasites
drawing more than they offer;
do they cure and fall themselves
as birds leave nests never to return again;
or is there a romantic but exhausted grasp
which simply but reluctantly
fails in the cold of November?

Do the vivid colors of toys
cling to pathways cossetted in the
soft tissue of my memory;
a red fire truck of tin metal
and sharp edges that cut
my tender fingers as I played
the role of rescuer in the midst of
a horrible blaze; and what of the smell
of Mom’s cookies – unmistakable
and gone forever except in words
put together in strings
without sentences; is there a way back
to those sunny afternoons
with powdered sugar floating in the air
and me praying for a broken sample?

How to deal with a disgruntled employee…

Signed, the Management

It has come to our attention
that you are dissatisfied
with the general experience
of living, or so it would seem;
your constant complaints,
derogatory remarks, groans,
sour grimaces and typical
passive-aggressiveness
leave us with no other option
than to conclude that you
would be happier with
some other company;
therefore, please be advised
that effective in the immediate
future, possibly within as few
as six months, your employment
will be terminated and
a severance package will
be negotiated at the
discretion of the management
based upon your history
of contributions made
during your time with us.

Signed, the Management

Is heaven supposed to be a lovely place…

Heaven has become a parody
A lampoon of itself somehow
Beulah land made a game show
Answers in question and you’ll know

Why? is answered with clarity
But why? receives a rationale
It’s better, and it’s a better place
Spared this life, saved disgrace

Priest consoles parents bereaved
Much suffering babe’s been spared
And preacher of dear Emily’s fallen life
Remembering all Lot’s wife

Why face it true while dance macabre
Baptism the pyre for faithless bourgeois
Gnosis the alms of this shangri-la

The deserved grave of richly aged
Welcomed passing when well passed
Only then is rest the Bard’s silence
The grave deserved comeuppance

It is no longer God’s cemetery
Adoration is drowned by homily
But in this veil the last enemy prevails
Mocking clerics spinning tales

We gather because we must
To speak dearly of the departed
Doubt given sense, answered pence
Death is living in past tense

Rejoinder due this bare pain
Fear that nothing wounds as nothing
Ignorance defeats death’s diffidence
Banqueting with wink and wince

Welcome must a proper death
Blessing one’s own Golgotha
Barn sour is requiem’s pale horse
Pall bearing a tour de force

Through hallowed valley I charge
Lively in my step, brave of heart
No Ilyitch be I, ending friendless as he
Receiving viaticum finally and finally

We ate casseroles once upon a time…

 – Casserole

I come from a family of casserole-eaters,
growing up in the 60’s when frozen and condensed
were all the rage in a life that was busier
than any had ever imagined (or so we were told)
until the weekend when Mom would spend all day
Saturday baking and roasting and stewing
and creating left-overs because no one had time
on Tuesdays and especially Thursdays,
so a ‘single-dish’ meal was the all the rage
with everything covered with cream-of-whatever
soup and baked forever covered with aluminum foil
to be topped with crumbled crackers or, if
you were lucky, those fried onions, and we’d
sit together somehow and eat seconds and
thirds until my brother wondered aloud if
they would be enough for leftovers and Mom
would laugh in embarrassment over leftover-
leftovers and we didn’t understand.

 

Everyone gets a church…

The Church of Tolkien

There’s talk of starting a Tolkien Church
espousing the doctrines of J. R. R. himself,
and why not confer sainthood and worship
the Hobbit of oversized feet and the Shire;
if L. Ron Hubbard has one and we enjoy
dianetics, Jim Jones has his grape Kool-Aid,
Koresh a compound for Reno to ruin,
Rome its V-8 Pope-mobile, the 95 theses
of a German monk setting Europe ablaze,
and every Tom, Dick and Harry a pulpit
and tax-exempt status, why not Tolkienism;
let’s all make saints of our heroes,
ignore their warts, praise their creativity
as authority and bow in humble worship
asking for commands to fill all our days
and our minds lest we are tempted,
once again, to take and eat and know
for ourselves that we are but dust and
that’s our true home when we’re done.

How many churches are there…

– The Fourth Church of the Defector

The sign says there’s a population of just 203, but that’s
a number from long before the U.S. Census started to
officially ignore what folk’s around here call Harold’s Creek,
where Indiana State Road 44 crosses County Road 260E,
past Salem Road at the only hollow in the earth for miles,
with six dusty, empty storefronts too close to the two-lane
and everyone blames Walmart the shops are empty, but
the truth is they’ve been vacant so long no one can
really remember, yet they know who to blame so
they can sleep at night, there’s no religion here with
two abandoned churches, one was a Methodist clapboard
and looks so Americana, the other a brick Presbyterian
looking so Presbyterian, and they sit on opposite corners
of the four-way stop now ignored as obviously as these
churches once were, but it’s easy to imagine the
booming voices of preachers out-sermonizing one another
through open windows on steamy Sunday mornings while
their faithful flocks nodded off, and there’s a big, old sign
with an arrow pointing nowhere to The Fourth Church
of the Defector, founded in 1892, a church started when
no other church could be right, and it took at least
four iterations to get this one right, which makes one wonder,
how bad could it have been, back in 1892 that is, but then
you recall a bit of wisdom, that when there’s nothing to
fight about people give up, and sometimes they just
give up anyway, like here at Harold’s Creek
near State Road 44 and County 260E in Indiana.