“Now everything is easy ‘cause of you and our house”

Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young

Now comes the wet warm soapy cleaning
Everything that was dirty – dishes, pots, pans, cutlery
Is soon clean – not ad sparkling clean but
Easy to call clean, easy to feel pleasure
‘Cause what once was unusable dirty is now, as happens so
Often, clean and usable, a source and promise of pleasure like
You yourself, your presence, your love
And your willingness to make your home
Our very own together
House.

Have we, I wonder
Made of God
A divinity
Entirely too cozy?

Do we, I worry
Wrap ourselves
In an Almighty
Snug blanket?

Balances, balances
Are such tricky tightropes
A little too far
This way or that
And we plunge headlong
Into some abyss or other

Do I write for myself
Or others?

Do I focus too much on form
Or content?

Do I live the life examined
Or merely self-conscious?

And is my God too comfortable
To be holy and wholly powerful?

I wish I could write the rain
Sprinkle lines with fat drops
As thunder rumbles in my heart
And skies darken my eyes

I wish I could release the torrent
Cascading down the rain chain
Tap dancing a Fred and Ginger routine
Faster and faster 
On the corrugated tin porch roof
Page of careful lines

I wish I could sit inside my rain poem
Snug and dry, safe and sound in my rocker
On my tin-roofed porch page
Grass and leaves bow in worship
Trembling
Once dull rocks sparkle and shine in their Sunday best
My herbs offer up their sweet aroma
To appease the rain
Soaking through my fragile page

I wish I could write the rain
Withdrawing
Hurrying to its next appointed page
As my page drips its sweetness

I taste garden green-ness
I sip summer showers
Breezes kiss my skin
Soil comforts me
Rocks challenge me
Sunlight blesses me
With the true presence

But also
Reverence finds me
As I hang out laundry
Fix dinner
Wash dishes
Watch TV
Work on a puzzle
Return a shopping cart
Make our bed
Answer an email
Quell my impatience

Sometimes
the mundane is extraordinary
Mostly
it is just mundane
Always it is
! God’s body !
! God’s blood !
! God’s love !

Tough young guy
In a big shiny SUV
Demonstrates his fearlessness
His masculinity 
His God-given superiority 
Accelerating
Engine roaring
Wheels screeching
Peeling out 
From
A suburban grocery store parking lot

Fall down and worship, ye mere mortals

(I bet his mama sent him to get bread)

A Facebook friend posted: “…last night we were challenged ‘How can we share our gifts? What gifts can I bring to our church in our passionate desire for change?’ I’d love to read your responses.”

I responded:

How can I share my gifts?
How can I bring my gifts?
to a Church that does not
want my gifts
at least not when those gifts
are wrapped by God
in a woman’s body
Nevertheless I shall persist
and bring my gifts
to my sisters
and even my brothers
who are willing
to be gifted
to be blessed
by a woman.

When all other faith fails
My faith in the God of chance
Persists

It’s hard to pay attention
Driving the familiar route
But the unexpected sign
Brings me fully alert

“Emergency scene ahead”
Warns the red diamond sign
On the median

I’ve never seen such a sign before
In half a century of driving
In five countries

The traffic slows
Crawls
Stops
As we approach the flashing lights
The seemingly random
Scattering of police cars
And two utility vehicles
Many yellow vested uniforms
The sirened ambulance
Speeding past in the opposite lane

And the metal
Twisted tortured metal
Strewn across the road
Two wheels
Separate and lonely
Disconnected forever
From their only reality
The only reason
For their existence

No recognizable vehicle
So a motorcycle
Was slaughtered here
Most likely 
By a speeding car or truck

My stomach clenches
My forehead tightens
With the start of a headache
My breath comes fast and shallow

Just yesterday
A cousin posted an old picture on Facebook
Two of her brothers
Mike, bearded, handsome, 20-something
And his little brother Chris
Probably about 6 years old
Towheaded confidence
Sitting in his big brother’s lap
Mike the oldest of nine
Chris the youngest

Mike
Dead in a motorcycle accident
These 50 years
Chris
Killed in a motorcycle accident
20 years later

I follow the policeman’s gesture
And turn into a subdivision of townhouses
Thirty years living in this city
And I have never turned here

I follow the car in front of me
Following the car ahead of it
Following the car ahead of it
Following the car ahead of it…
The long line
Stretching ahead in this
Blind man’s bluff game
Of follow the leader
Our dance macabre
With death so very near
Through the twisting tarmac turns
Past towering townhouses
Until I know where I am
A familiar road
A red light
A panhandler
Who wears a bandana mask
And a baseball cap pulled low
No threat intended 
Just COVID and sun wise
On this sweet spring morning

I don’t even read his handwritten
Cardboard sign 
I just roll down my window
Ask his name
(Scooby)
Tell him mine
Hand him a 20
And chat with him until
God turns the light green
And encourages me to move on

I am no Pharaoh
But the God of chance
Led me here
And softened my heart

Does anyone else get tired
Of those who tell you
How sensitive they are
Those who tell you
How intuitive they are
Those who tell you
How hard it is to live life
As an empath 
Those whose eyes fill with tears
As they explain their painful sensibilities
Their acute awareness of the feelings
Of others
Even ants

Does anyone also ever feel like screaming
“So why the fuck are you so unaware
Of my feelings?”

Or is it just me?

Sometimes I just want to be Linus
Dragging my blanket of faith everywhere
Thumb in my mouth
Sucking contentedly on the familiar
While walking through the unknown

But my faith too often disintegrates
Into a cloud of dirt
And I become Pigpen