Poem – everyday death

You have had your whole life to prepare for your death.
So why are you surprised?
This death is merely a stepping point from point A to point B.

Death is the same as when you graduated from college.
Death is the same as when you married.
Death is the same as when you gave birth and became a mother.

Every day is a new kind of death.

Death is the end of something old
and the beginning of something new.

All of your life you have had time to prepare for it
and yet
you have done nothing
pretending that everything is fine.

Every day is a new chance
to wake up
and experience
what is happening
right now.

And every day you have
chosen
to ignore
that gift.

Every day you have
chosen
to pretend
that everything is the same.

When we remove all evidence of
time
from our lives
we have no evidence
of change.

This is our undoing.

This is our great lie
that we tell ourselves
and each other.

We say
nothing stays the same
and yet
we keep everything the same
in order to
make ourselves feel better.

And then
when it all
catches up to us
we are
stunned
surprised
scared.

Don’t be that person.

Greet death at the door, smiling, with roses.

Poem – homeless, helpless?

Is being homeless a bad thing?
Like night, like winter
Perhaps it is a phase
A pause.

And then what if we got homes
For all the homeless,
what then?
Do we tackle
drug abuse,
prostitution,
morbid obesity?

How many different ways
can we harm ourselves?

Jesus says that the poor
will always be with us.
But he also says that
whatever
we do to the least of these
we do to Him.

So what do we do?
Do we help?
And if so, how?

Is helping really helping
or is it weakening?
If you carry someone
then they don’t learn how to walk
On their own.

Poem – purify

Fire purifies,
the same as water.

Both clean away the dirt
both inside
and outside.

Yet both
unchecked
can lead to
erasure-
removal-
destruction.

A glass of water
isn’t the same
as an ocean wave.

A campfire
isn’t the same
as a wildfire.

We need both elements
to be alive,
to be human.
Yet both can reduce us
to nothing.

Without both
we are nothing.
But with both
we are the same
sometimes.

Control is part of it.
Water needs a bucket
or a glass.
Fire needs a ring of stones.

Both can quench the other.

Pick your poison
but really your cure.

Poem – the hand of God.

Opening up the mess with God
is the point
where I think
it would make a difference.

Between us
a little more energy
would help.

A little more energy
between us
would help.

We have all these things available
but then again
we have nothing at hand.

Our fingers are feeble,
are fragile,
are faulty.

We point the way with them.
We beckon, we accuse.

The hand of God is made up
of these same fingers.

And sometimes it feels more
like a slap from a bully
or a stop sign from a crossing guard
than a help.

Poem – water

The same water is in each container.
Tall, short
straight, bumpy, rippled
opaque, translucent,
they all hold water –

the water we need to live
together.

No container is better than another.

Some containers make it hard
to see
the water
but it is still there.

Perhaps if we start looking at the water
the essence, the life
the soul
if you will
and ignore the container
we’ll start
to see the humanity
and the divine
in each person.

Poem – Made in the Image

There is something honest
about babies and old people.

They don’t look like any one
gender. They just look like
themselves.

Perhaps this is what is meant
about
being made in the
Image of God.

Perhaps these beings
that are before or beyond
the need
to be
a specific gender,
before or beyond
sex

have it figured out.

Perhaps being intersexed or unisexed or unsexed is it.

When we are past the need
to be female or male
and we get down to the business
of being human

maybe then is when we start
getting to the good stuff

the God stuff.

Poem – manna

I’m surrounded by manna
and I’ve eaten my fill.

I want to grab it all,
the 12 bushels overflowing,
the scraps, the crumbs.

I want to gobble it all up
and get sick on God.

I forget there will be another day,
another blessing,
another brokenness.

I forget the lilies and the swallows.

I forget the quail in the desert too.
I forget those who gathered 2 day’s worth.

All I see is now
and I want it all.

My hands are full and I want more.

Poem – the moon does not change

The moon does not change.
We do.

The moon, with its waxing
and waning
its new and old,
the moon is the same
to the moon.

It is us who change,
us who move.

It is our tilt, our time, that is different.

We forget this.

We mark time by the moon, the months of our lives.
We celebrate, we howl, we dance,
all based on the moon
and how it reflects the light of the sun.

The moon doesn’t change.

It is still the same moon, reflecting the same sun, day by night,
night by day.

All the time, up in the sky, it is reflecting
mirror-like,
the rays of the sun to someone.

Your day is another’s night,
after all.

So when we howl, when we dance, when we celebrate
what are we marking?

Why do we use the moon, the same moon,
to tell us
when it is time
to dance, to howl, to celebrate?

Perhaps because we have no other way
to say
that time
is passing by
quickly.

Pay attention.

The winters only come once a year.
We can mark time by them, but then
it is too late
to change
direction.

The moon reminds us faster, and more kindly.

Yet we need to remember
that the moon doesn’t change.
We do.

Poem – Spring’s progression

First the redbuds, then the dogwoods
then jonquils
then irises.

They come, in that order, marching
into our lives, heralding
Spring.

They flower together only in our minds.
They flower one by one,
in the slow progression of time.

None see the others in their prime.
The dogwood’s bloom dusts the ground
that the iris dances upon.

Time and time and time
and more.

We mark it by the flowers.

We know when is when by our eyes
and not by the calendar.

Soon the twilight will be lit up by fireflies.
A different kind of bloom,
but still a marking of time.

You are here, now, they say.
Enjoy it.
Soon there will be another delight, they say.
Enjoy it.

It won’t last, but that is part
of the beauty.

Poem – we were raised by an incompetent bully

Both of the days when we were
gone are in my head.
We were raised by an incompetent bully.

Perhaps that is redundant.
Perhaps he was incompetent at being a bully
so that means he wasn’t that bad
after all.

But then, we were young
and together
and that was all that mattered
to us.

We were alone, together
wild eyed, barefoot
screaming, and mute.
But we were happy
because we didn’t know enough
to know we should be miserable.

Perhaps that is the secret.
Don’t compare.