I like to study rows of
other people's books.
Head tilted toward curiosity.
Boston morning rented.
New for me. Used for her.
An arist's place.
She offered reminders by her purchase
titles and names, what I do not know.
Socrates, he knew nothing.
Hey his words not mine.
All I know is that I know nothing.
So when I fancy to ride high on pride
I'll have to ask myself if
I'm really leaving a bearded philosopher behind
to bite my dust.
Not even he challenged authority,
His that convicts
not shame but love.
His that beckons
humility not pride.
He who commands:
Recite one book there
one or a thousand or
one hundred thousand.
Then profess to Me
not what you know
but what you do not know.
Saturday, June 4, 2011
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Ungrip
Every time my heart hardens with complaint, I contract, a universe going the wrong way. Why swing myself with my own choice momentum. Toward the pain of return. Every time my heart hardens with unforgiveness, I feel encircled by fear, closing in, the voice that says "I will let you eat salt, not just taste it. I will replace the too plain joy, at least your act convinces, and give you the better joy of suffering."
What tragedy before I ungrip this moment to just let it be, to let it breathe? I can only pray, pray, pray, and pray again. When will I? Rise above the clamor, mirrors of this house to what I wear inside, below the reasonable voice and cool skin trying to keep everything inside from turning out. It's all kind of coming apart, maybe just today, but I can't somehow wrap a single thing around this universe, or even, around a shred of why or wisdom. It sounds too desperate to sound desperate, but oh. Maybe that's the shred I was being led to write.
What tragedy before I ungrip this moment to just let it be, to let it breathe? I can only pray, pray, pray, and pray again. When will I? Rise above the clamor, mirrors of this house to what I wear inside, below the reasonable voice and cool skin trying to keep everything inside from turning out. It's all kind of coming apart, maybe just today, but I can't somehow wrap a single thing around this universe, or even, around a shred of why or wisdom. It sounds too desperate to sound desperate, but oh. Maybe that's the shred I was being led to write.
a rough morning
Those scattered laundry pieces about
bowled me over. Anger at underwear and piles
completely lifeless.
How is it that I can wake up to read the Bible and then
one long too familiar sight of something,
Completely unextraordinary like nothing more than
yesterday
About threw me half way across the room
with language I can't put down on paper.
"Everything always works out somehow"
Sometimes it makes me want to slam a hard door
open, or closed. I'm not quite sure.
Giving, giving, giving, I give.
Giving everything including blame,
including complaint, including love without
direction.
Giving except - credit. I take that.
It is worse to sin
but worse still is to look sin in the eye and
say it anyway.
Phone call after errand phone call
trying to sort out the mess since
stuff won't pick itself up and move.
That suitcase doesn't care if it stays empty forever.
But I do. Sometimes I wish
I was like the suitcase.
Filled with space instead of
worry. Anger when everyone else seems
filled with lightness
"It'll all work out somehow"
and I am chucked full
overstuffed even
with an uncontrollable need for
control.
Funny, it seems
that the uncontrollable part
is the only thing I can't control.
Maybe I can't find the humor because
the humor of it is
My lack of it.
Microscope to telescope
take it easy or take charge,
I can't really figure any of it out today.
God gave me the suitcase
now I wonder
how I will fill it.
With the lifeless stuff
or, with life itself.
bowled me over. Anger at underwear and piles
completely lifeless.
How is it that I can wake up to read the Bible and then
one long too familiar sight of something,
Completely unextraordinary like nothing more than
yesterday
About threw me half way across the room
with language I can't put down on paper.
"Everything always works out somehow"
Sometimes it makes me want to slam a hard door
open, or closed. I'm not quite sure.
Giving, giving, giving, I give.
Giving everything including blame,
including complaint, including love without
direction.
Giving except - credit. I take that.
It is worse to sin
but worse still is to look sin in the eye and
say it anyway.
Phone call after errand phone call
trying to sort out the mess since
stuff won't pick itself up and move.
That suitcase doesn't care if it stays empty forever.
But I do. Sometimes I wish
I was like the suitcase.
Filled with space instead of
worry. Anger when everyone else seems
filled with lightness
"It'll all work out somehow"
and I am chucked full
overstuffed even
with an uncontrollable need for
control.
Funny, it seems
that the uncontrollable part
is the only thing I can't control.
Maybe I can't find the humor because
the humor of it is
My lack of it.
Microscope to telescope
take it easy or take charge,
I can't really figure any of it out today.
God gave me the suitcase
now I wonder
how I will fill it.
With the lifeless stuff
or, with life itself.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
dreamin' and singin' and piano playin'
Foggy misty moonlight rolls low
Stars crackling up above me, or, so it goes
I'm not sure
It's not clear
I'm just waitin' for a ride
so I might'as well enjoy it while I'm here
I'm here, I'm here
Small town yellow street lamp buzzin' in my ear
There lay some scattered brown bag bottles, over there
I'll sit down
Look around
I'm still waitin' for a ride
Might as well enjoy my life since I'm here
Oh I'm here, I'm still here
Was I dreamin' about leavin'?
For that moment while I was sleepin'?
Don't see a single headlight comin'
Rusty pickup truck a'rumblin'...
Maybe I
Just missed my ride
It's okay it ain't a shame
Don't even think I knew his name
Nor he knew mine, oh it's fine
I'll be alright
I'll catch another break, just not tonight
Carryin' my bags
Barefoot walkin' this dirt road line
Three blocks up to that sign
Hang a right, 'round the bend
Back to my little piano waitin'
Patiently dependent on me
To sit and play it like
Each other's only friend.
Foggy misty moonlight rolls low
Foggy misty moonlight
rolls me home.
Stars crackling up above me, or, so it goes
I'm not sure
It's not clear
I'm just waitin' for a ride
so I might'as well enjoy it while I'm here
I'm here, I'm here
Small town yellow street lamp buzzin' in my ear
There lay some scattered brown bag bottles, over there
I'll sit down
Look around
I'm still waitin' for a ride
Might as well enjoy my life since I'm here
Oh I'm here, I'm still here
Was I dreamin' about leavin'?
For that moment while I was sleepin'?
Don't see a single headlight comin'
Rusty pickup truck a'rumblin'...
Maybe I
Just missed my ride
It's okay it ain't a shame
Don't even think I knew his name
Nor he knew mine, oh it's fine
I'll be alright
I'll catch another break, just not tonight
Carryin' my bags
Barefoot walkin' this dirt road line
Three blocks up to that sign
Hang a right, 'round the bend
Back to my little piano waitin'
Patiently dependent on me
To sit and play it like
Each other's only friend.
Foggy misty moonlight rolls low
Foggy misty moonlight
rolls me home.
more than a talk
you know when
flesh splits wide.
a long time coming or
spontaneous revelation.
when nothing will ever
be the same again.
the muzzled bear breaks
ice, to stop you
just to brush against the current
treading history before and
this chance ahead,
life moving past.
you dip your hand
down deep into all you have
offerings and an apology
to eyes across,
or sitting beside you
all this long time
waiting, a smile, however small
or tears of thanksgiving.
not for you but with you.
a breath is not a sigh.
awake or being alive.
the difference only you know.
and too, the small rare moments
when we are both.
you just can't predict when
heavy cloaks no longer can
carry themselves, a tiny needle unsews
and honesty falls -
a crystal time, no bridge between
currents of every right word
to none at all.
flesh splits wide.
a long time coming or
spontaneous revelation.
when nothing will ever
be the same again.
the muzzled bear breaks
ice, to stop you
just to brush against the current
treading history before and
this chance ahead,
life moving past.
you dip your hand
down deep into all you have
offerings and an apology
to eyes across,
or sitting beside you
all this long time
waiting, a smile, however small
or tears of thanksgiving.
not for you but with you.
a breath is not a sigh.
awake or being alive.
the difference only you know.
and too, the small rare moments
when we are both.
you just can't predict when
heavy cloaks no longer can
carry themselves, a tiny needle unsews
and honesty falls -
a crystal time, no bridge between
currents of every right word
to none at all.
still, grace
I keep the lamp on.
like i need these eyes
inner searchlights
panning waters for
lifting floods and
a reason.
A calm switch,
the furthest one.
Every room dark.
surrounded in
silence shining and
still, grace.
again the permission it gives
empties me
to know differently.
like i need these eyes
inner searchlights
panning waters for
lifting floods and
a reason.
A calm switch,
the furthest one.
Every room dark.
surrounded in
silence shining and
still, grace.
again the permission it gives
empties me
to know differently.
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