John and Lisa's Blue Skies Blog – Soaring with God

It is not enemies who taunt me —
I could bear that;
it is not adversaries who deal insolently with me —
I could hide from them.
But it is you, my equal,
my companion, my familiar friend,
with whom I kept pleasant company.
(Psalm 55:12-14a)

Forever misunderstood and betrayed
even by those who seem to know,
my once broken heart
in the carved wooden box
now shattered beyond
recognition.

But God makes all things new,
reaches down from heaven above
and within, to repair brokenness —
to reveal warm pulsing blood and veins
returning, renewing, running upon new roads.

“He wants the chicken to fly cooked
into his mouth.” Perched on his throne
scepter in hand, he bellows commands
to his slaves, to his harem — ever watchful
lest anyone find a moment’s rest, a time
of peace. Father of lies promises protection,
a life-raft at night amid the stormy sea.
Yet his red-hot fury boils water, even
blood, under what we hope is thick skin.
Feed him, dammit! Now isn’t soon enough
to blend hell with heaven — a delicious
flambé bird dressed in purple negligeé.
Grab more wood for the fire! Fix tea!
Bury your feathered dreams beneath his tree.

Heron swoops in. Messenger
from God. Just when needed.
Yes, God is here. Nothing
else matters. Piercing eyes
peer into my soul. I know
I’m not alone in this moment
or any moment. Ah, You know
just when I need You, when no
human being could possibly
provide what’s most necessary.
My soul opens to You, trusts
You, the spirit of true
understanding and love.
You see all — and never
reject the pain of being
human in this mortal world.
Let’s dance! Your soaring,
gliding wings give peace
to the sticky clay, heaviness
of my earthly body.

Gliding along the smooth
concrete highway, the black
surface covered with rippling
bands of dry swirling snow,
the first of the season.
These ripples mimic,
I swear, the waves of the sea.
My car is a boat sailing
with purpose to a new land
where dreams defy reason.

This poem was originally published at The Camel Saloon in July 2012:

“Let’s pretend we’re at that party where we met.”
Life’s just a party or a game anyway, I say.
We met in the corner as I sipped lemonade
and you pretended to be a knight in shining armor.
Our eyes met but I giggled and dropped my gaze
to the quaking cup of liquid lemons – where
my dreams tended to collect and sway away.
We’re at a crossroads now, aren’t we, my love?
We traveled and partied, drank red wine, had a child,
but we must stop pretending we want the same things
in this life – and meet new possibilities here and now.
We’re blessed to be together in this ripened place.
Let’s turn our backs on all the pain and strife,
and tend each moment in gratitude for a new life.

From my second floor perch I gaze
out the window through streetlight haze
at the dark cemetery with its maze
of white headstones, my mind in a daze.

Below me I hear the young couple, their plays
as they make a baby; this night and future days
filling them with hope for life and bright rays
of love as they plan the vision of their own ways.

But I fear the dead are my true kin
because all of life seems to be sin
and no matter what, I never win.
I call out: Bring me the pint of gin!

This wax, so seemingly solid,
always in its place, waiting —
existing only to burn and burn
to be consumed — ever
patient, quiet, humble.

The spark, the bright flash
inhales to expand as ever
brighter flame — bringing light
and warmth to a world grown
cold — inspires deep quivering.

So solid to liquid to vapor,
my wax exhales — sighs —
in response to Your burning
touch: Oh, burn ever hotter,
creating new worlds!

This poem (sestina) was first published at Eunoia Review in June 2012.
———————–

Gazing through car windows,
All my possessions thrown
Away. I give up control
Of my life. Tracts of trees
Draw me onward, cleaning
My mind. My heart unshelved.

A room with empty shelves
Greets me. A small window –
Not allowed to open. I clean,
Then unpack, cannot throw
A party. Fifty acres of trees,
Hills, hermitage. Who controls?

This mother-nun, a control
Freak, fills long pantry shelves
And freezers with food. The tree-
House, deer-hunter washes windows,
Fixes furnace and throws
Out evidence. Jesus makes clean.

Dear Lord, please make me clean!
I am a leper, a whore. No control.
“Sin no more.” The priest, oh, I throw
Up! A drunk with Virgin Mary shelved.
Eyes of chapel – you windows –
Do you see him behind trees?

I am drawn to secluded pond, tree
With swing. Mushroom skulls unclean:
Dead babies? See my frost-lined window,
Frozen mind and paths uncontrolled.
Creaking building, slamming doors, shelves
Losing books. I must pass through.

Ritual blessings, holy water thrown.
That’s why Jesus hung upon a tree.
Now his statue sits on my shelf.
I expected to become holy and clean.
All I got was used and controlled.
I see nothing with my heart-window.

The many rooms, windows, circled by trees,
Candle holders on shelves, vases most clean:
My soul controlled, my heart speared through.