Driving cancer patients
to and from their medical treatment,
I’m rewarded in surprising ways:
Whatever may be wrong in my life,
it’s not like what’s bothering them.
I’ve yet to hear a complaint.
Wearing their chemo cammies,
I’m struck by the firm look
of resolution on their faces.
Driving cancer patients
My damned self-destruct switch
is always flipped On —
but thankfully, I see
it’s on a smooth dimmer.
Yes, I can dim the brutal,
insistent glare any time.
Now is a good time
Though the effect never lasts,
and I’m haunted by the past,
I’ll continue to dial down
the harshness — and breathe
Because sunglasses lie
Persistence sneaks past fear
and one day soon, I’ll hear
the switch click at last to Off.
“Blessed are they who dwell in Your house,
for ever singing Your praise.”
This inhabited, sometimes haunted house,
O Lord, often weak and cold – journeying
one painful step at a time, like
a skeleton held together by metal rods –
is still Your sacred dwelling.
Bells and songs ring out, often
with wordless groans, night and day.
You hear them say:
Help! Have mercy!
It’s barely bearable pain!
What is this?
(Maybe it’s manna.)
These songs, indeed, convey
my authentic praise this moment
even more than some
feigned joyous thanksgiving.
A warm rain of tears now
waters the centuries-old foundation
of this, Your house, O God,
where I sit, face toward the dirt,
awaiting the promised Spring
which will surely sprout.
On that day, I’ll sing
“Morning Has Broken”
on and on while soaking
up the bright rays
of Your eternal day.
Yes, I’m blessed
to live in this house.
Oh, stop thrashing
about in this custom-made
cage. Tail feathers and
flight feathers only break
in this madness and lack
of peace. Sit still,
maybe sing a few notes
while waiting. Rest awhile,
safe in this place
that only seems like
torture. Let it reveal
its true beauty; let it
seal a broken heart
longing for Love.
Let the unreal
fade to birth
Today is our birthday. Yes, it’s “our” birthday.
John and I were both born on February 28th.
How cool is that?
I wrote this poem in 2012. It was originally published at vox poetica.
Oh, he says, I’ll be 67 in February–
why move to a foreign country
where I can’t fly or speak the language?
Blue sky thermals give life meaning.
February? What day in February?
The last day of the month.
My breath held, I stare in disbelief.
My finger points to my heart.
You’re born on the 28th, too?
Astrologically improbable, but true:
We sweethearts share a birthday.
A wintery, lenten time of year–
but for us, full of warmth, love and cheer.
Today we have a guest post.
by Leo Campos
as ego lets go
(Resignation is resistance)
Sitting like a yard table covered in snow
Allows room for
Arising that I cannot create
The key: completely, absolutely
Without reservation allowing
To gain access to heart and mind.
The mind resigns; the heart surrenders.
Beyond the porch light
Immense darkness, unknown realities
A little light makes the visible yard real
Hides the trees, which hide forest life
This true power
Beyond small light
A great story of darkness
A great light – vast currents,
Hidden influences, possibilities.
Stretch, and hold that stretch
Into the full measure of your longing.
Be embraced by Love
the unknown context
Your job is offering
To unknown currents
A heartfelt surrender.
“In the same way, the Holy Spirit helps us where we are weak. We do not know how to pray or what we should pray for, but the Spirit intercedes for us with sounds that cannot be put into words.”
Dear Lord, I can’t
put my pain into words.
I lie awake and moan,
calling to You from my heart.
My desolate soul wanders and wonders,
seeking You but always getting lost.
Walking in circles for 40-some years,
I know the desert.
My true needs I can’t even express;
I only sense they haven’t been met.
Sitting here in hopeless confinement,
I know a cold prison.
My dreams died many years ago indeed
in a place where You should have been.
Struggling to grow with weak roots,
I know shifting sands.
My hope fades more each day now
as I confront my own dark confusion.
Glimpsing heaven only in a rear-view mirror,
I know a long exile.