On the Day the Calendar Ends

On the +day the calendar ends+
I will meet you near words
that mean something,
say words that matter
as if they were vows read
in the table of contents
and in the next chapter
we are not afraid
to turn the pages.

I am hungry to hear this story of joy
as it flows like a flood
from the mouth of the river
held quiet in the silence of a dam,
the pool behind forcefully insisting
the boards be let loose
just in time to claim each moment
as the deluge of laughter
spills over into an ocean
of moments worth living.

When you watch the sun dip below the horizon today,
earlier than it has any other day in this year of sorrow,
find me and tell me that you want me
just as I am
and I will believe
you  might be right
about infinity,
that masterful master,
learning to rest
at the edge of understanding
and in the company simple kindnesses
of the hope of tomorrow.

Prayer for a Bad Day

You train yourself for courage,
that mountain of performance
at the core of searching
that makes you feel like a guest,
and not a resident,
where ever you go,

searching for a place to call home
when there is nothing but double the pain
when you fall helplessly
engaged in so many losses
no matter the color of the walls
or the hope of a single white curtain
in the breeze  near the open glass.

And now I offend you,
a slap in the face
by omission of another simple word,

not out of malice, but rather,
out of all the deaths I have suffered
without learning how to right the wrongs of the lines on your face,
how to ask for forgiveness of sorrows caused by not turning the corner,
how to slip out of the sweater of night where you wait for me
into the cool shining of the sea of your kindness
and learn to swim strong next to your full strokes
without fear
of the undertow
that will eventually
pull us all under.

Nothing More Than Flowers

Sweep your mind
posture after posture of pretense,
a lifetime of competing for a bold position
next to the master.

The heart treads lightly at dawn
ready to release the brow
from holding, like lace
unraveling all her stitches
at the tattered hem of accuracy
just for the sake of argument.

And when the soul is privy to heaven
and the wale of too much love stings sweetly,

let kindness extinguish the holding,
the unceasing friendship
that binds us to everything holy.


It is here that you will cleanse
the bones of your body
with God's words and let yourself pray
for another day to gather daisies
and purple-faced iris
into bouquets
of nothing more
than flowers.

Advent

 I am restored in this darkest season;
the agent of night who tiptoes bootless
down the aisle of the sanctuary of defeat.
The stars are becoming a luminous choir
singing a song so sweet and sincere
that even God listens . . .

and where the  sun forgets
that morning will ever shine again.

 I pace the cave of this longing
and let my hands follow the stone walls,
cold and slick with my grief.

The deliverance
of tomorrow,
the knowing
that there is so much more music
to return my heart
to the sound of love
and forgiveness;

this is the grace I pray for
as I light a single candle
and breathe in peace;
let my voice ring a single clear bell
of radiant hope.

When I Say I am Sorry

I am sincere
when I say I am sorry,
looking into the luminous face
of God
with regret,

plaster falling 
 with decay
signifying
the toll
the earth
has payed
on these shores
of heaven.

In the volume of time,
a renaissance of defeat subsides,

the tunnel of light from the sky
catches heat and slouches like a daisy
in the fullness of the late afternoon sun

before the coolness
of forgiveness
coughs sloughy
and full of regret
into the face
of a stranger
you have feared
all your life.

Enough

The heavy toll on the heart
nearly bursts these fragile walls,
pounding frantically on the long path
of confidence, the volume deafening;
severe enough make me question
my resolve.

I am a swimmer who will never make it to shore.
I am a maul with no wood to split into kindling.
I am calling out in the tunnel of darkness, echos
of my solitude close enough to signal
endings all around me;

the fire smoldering
in the corner
at the end of winter.

A race that cannot be run
fast enough.

Passing Judgement

I curl myself into this rough and demanding  place
inside myself again,
vesting my soul against the budding charm
of tradition that is not mine.

I'll accuse myself of love
like the stream of brisk consciousness
flowing past me one thought at a time--
fish that cannot be caught
but only swim by in a dream.

In the market square
of this dominion of damage
accuse me.
Judge me to the degree
that you dare throw
a stone
to apply
your form
of justice.

Force me
into silence.
Force me
to believe all
is lost again
just like every other day
I have believed
it might be different.