Feathered Silver
And so I ask you,
if after our children have children
and the bills are just paper,
will the rose petals smell better?
If the apartment creaks
and rattling window frames,
will ever be the cozy sounds
of a home with growing pains?
If we will ever be so blessed to say,
atrophy is setting in
and giggle about yesterday
much before we must let tomorrow in?
If the pasty mud puddle,
that slathered my foot this morning,
will ever be that silky, frozen lake
outside our winter, cabin window?
These things I wonder in aging curiosity,
still knowing, God will lead us
from these murky, earthly beaches
to a peaceful cottage
on a roseate, cosmic shore.
And so I tell you,
until that day, sweat and pain
may turn our hair gray,
but to me you will be
softer and more precious than gold,
when wrapped in feathered silver.
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French Dip
For me,
the after midnight eggs and cakes
and for she,
the French Dip and coffee without sweet flakes.
A quarter, a clink
the Diner jukebox clicks on.
I flick sweet-n-low, stir my drink,
and innocently listen, to that Don Henley song.
With friends we eat and jest, near dawn.
Smoke rings, laughter, a bill
and then, puff, it is gone.
Innocence dead to the night, quiet and still.
On the drive home, you had stomach pain,
just some bad gravy I thought.
But a blood test made our sin quite plain.
Before marriage, we had lusted and been caught.
In mournful, whispered, anguish to you I did cry,
this thing never let wail.
But to premeditated miscarriage, you did not subside.
And turned from me, you cast your sail.
But to you I swore my anchor,
And in this storm I pledged to stand strong.
To work, I went and went still more.
From you and this thing, I was running all day long.
My life, once simple and grand,
tossed in a whirlpool by our carnal affection.
But God sent salvation, on the wave of a hand,
and in the ultrasound, of a child's palm, came a revelation.
This was no thing at sea!
Within your waters, my child was wading!
And this child you named Paige and a page is she,
in Testimonies, the unbound book, a divine tool for saving.
Our transgression birthed a child and us, tenderly into matrimony.
Now this family, conceived from sin, trusts the Lord to navigate it's ship.
On our journey we may still visit diners serving tough meat and bad gravy,
But Christ is with us, and he can turn awful meals, into fine French Dip.
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The Little Things of Christmas
Before Christmas and all its gigantic splendor
I wanted to take a minute
and think back, remember
a few joyful little things, make a list, and print it.
the strum of your guitar,
a "c" cord, in a "d" place,
Christ praised in a coffee bar,
and the singing passion of your face.
the crinkle in your brow,
the sincerity of your embrace.
how you shout, "this isn't instant soup now",
your wife's strength and grace.
your baritone Amen
and constant sonorous chatter.
your lady smiles, again and again,
always filled with merry laughter.
your kaleidoscopic ties
and the displaced lyrics you sing.
the faith and tranquillity in your matron's eyes,
the trust you've both given like a ring.
your examination of verses
and your misspelled words.
your fervor for the organ and choruses
your trust that God provides for us, as little birds.
your whipped yams with marshmallow
and our hill street blues night.
your fancy for jeopardy and that alex fellow
the homework we did together, much past midnight.
your multitudes of dolls
and the silly jokes you tell.
your generosity, concerned phone calls
and benevolent cards as well.
how you drink your coffee, plain, molasses, black
and how you walk, without slipper or sock.
the way you carry your grandchild, even with a bad back
and how you always rise before the clock.
the curl of red hair, before your eye dangling
and your sweet, convulsive sneezes.
your chocolate pond eyes, that start my problems untangling
how you led me to Jesus, showing me his love pleases.
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The Well
In my most exhausted hours,
of these things-
course and gray,
like the stones of a hollow well
on a cold, light-less, winter day-
I am afraid.
That after the painful climb,
when we have
reached the plateau
and inhaled the perfect view,
the shale will give.
And in that moment,
my arm will be heavy,
my fingers not long,
and my faith not strong.
My bride I shall let fall.
That in celebration,
of your grand accomplishment,
I may toss you into the wind,
miss you,
and have not prepared you,
my child,
for the fall.
That in some onerous rain,
I will walk before my brothers,
slipping, settling in foreign mire.
And, after refusing all your hands,
more than just doubt,
I will slander our Christian name,
as I fall.
But these grisly thoughts
come only when I am weak
and thirsty.
And to visit your brimming well,
of graceful, strengthening water,
on my knees I always fall.
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Through One
In the middle of the unbeating tundra,
beneath a speechless, vermilion sky
waits a solider.
In his hands
a chipped, edgless broadsword.
At his feet
Constantine's divided shield.
Draped by chinked chain mail,
panting like a lost, beaten
sheepdog,
this solider
taunts the distant, black forests,
bellowing to the scaled enemy within
that he will not be broken.
But in the moment before the patient, cobra strikes,
the soldiers muscles collapse and his sword cracks
against the frozen earth.
Weaponless, brotherless,
and naked,
this solider shuts his eyes
and props himself firm.
With snaked tunics and blood flamed eyes
the opposing armies break towards the solider
with thirsty vengeance.
But with a thundering heartbeat
the clouds fall,
smother the battlefield and conceal the soldier,
from the blind enemy.
Then over, raw, cracked lips
the solider calls the name,
Jesus
And the weighted breath of God
falls onto the soldier's foe
like the morning star
crashes onto night.
And the serpents,
who God allows to survive his blow
are hushed to sleep by a Holy, windy whisper.
The enemy was defeated
not sword, nor by hand,
but by the might of God
through one who did stand.
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They called me Chickenman
On this unimportant evening,
the quickening scent of Autumn,
delivered in thin stratums,
of feathered, frosted, twilight air,
taunts my memory some.
To an adolescent day I drift
and see my soft, sneakered feet
promenading down Changewater street.
In my face, hippie-hair straggling,
from my lips, a Parliament cigarette dangling.
Wrapped in a trench coat,
colored beatnik-black
and flowing in angstful rhythm,
I frequented friends made
on this pitched track.
To my recollection, there was a day on my road
I saw a friend, in a car, sobbing
near this dead, fowl-thing.
"Do not cry", I said to my friend grief stricken.
"This thing you killed was only a chicken."
Instantly my friends tears ceased.
In hen-pecking laughter,
her grief now expressed,
She said, "That thing I killed was a grouse!"
And I was mocked the Chickenman thereafter.
In my muddled-up, fantastic youth
I confused many things.
Through smoke-rings and amber filled glasses,
I called disobedience freedom
and sin fun.
But in maturity Christ came to me
and his license set me free.
And on the Lord's palm I drive down Changewater,
telling my friends of the water that will change.
Baptize yourselves in Jesus' love
and he will call you, Christian.
Even if you killed a grouse,
or was that a chicken?
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Flowers for Kate
(A Wedding Letter to Bryan and Kathleen)
Bryan,
From those mountains you visit,
Pick often, flowers for Kate.
Bring them to her
on some plain Saturday.
But remember
From whose land these flowers came.
Fill the vase we have given you
With a rainbow arrangement,
A reminder
Of the new covenant
You have made with your wife.
Fill your home always
With the fragrance, beauty, and Spirit
Of God.
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At Sun Rise...
Standing in this lush pasture,
wet with morning green,
I inhale the queer sweetness of manure
and suddenly straighten my stature,
sensing the life, wrapped around this Easter scene.
I hear the horses' neigh, trot and clatter,
like timely, tuned, barnyard percussion.
The cows low in symphonic, grazing chatter.
And the sheep bah, while the roaster crows,
proclaiming the rising of the sun.
In my arms I feel, a bundled, sleepy daughter rest.
My neck, her fuzzy-hooded, head nuzzles,
while her childish patience, Pastor's sermon does test.
But her bubbly spirit and 'bit chilly' hands are warmed to a simmer,
by a cepella praises, for the one who solved death's puzzle.
Over the eastern mountains, climbs golden light
like prayer over the walls of Jericho,
sending asunder all dark things, the moon and night.
And tasting the moistness of daybreak's victory
I remember the Good News I know.
Then a quiet voice speaks, "Daddy"
And I look to see,
my child pointing east and telling me,
"The sun has risen."
"Yes." I weep.
"The Son has risen, indeed
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