holiday

holiday wishes are falling all around me

like little broken moonbeams

or brittle bits of starlight

playful photons dance a thin density;

to them snowflakes are like mountains.

your eyes sparkle brown and blue intensity

like gleaming coins in a silver fountain

11.22.11

burdenless

holding this stone (it symbolizes my burden, my sin)

walking,  trudging down the wide path

a mist hangs low across the way extending into the forest

concealing leaves and hiding trees.

in silence we move through the deep holes

and ruts in the road that have filled with rain water

over night and each step is harder than the one before.

and each step takes me, takes us all, one step closer

to the pit, where the fire lives and breaths and heats

the stones and the ground and the air around it.

i am convinced that the rock i am clutching

is harder, colder than the ones my brothers have

but i guess we all feel that way…

it’s too heavy for me to carry very far.

the edges are rough, sometimes sharp,

the color of it is speckled with white but

mostly dark, and too big to bury.

i have brought my Bible along…

the Holy Word of God is dangling from a black strap.

when my muscles start to rebel against the weight

of the rock, my first thought is that if i didn’t have

my Bible to carry then it would be easier to balance

my burden in my arms. the next thought makes

more sense because it comes from a better source:

that if i wasn’t holding onto my sin so tight

then it would be easier to carry my Bible…

my breath comes in ragged gasps and is visible

as steam that mixes with the smoke from the fire

until the wind takes them both and blows them higher.

ashes of gray and white like tiny fragile pieces of dreams

consumed in the little inferno fade like mementos

of what things used to be like way back when…

and when my rock, my burden, finally gets too heavy

to hold? any normal person would just let go.

but i do not. i hold it closer, closer to my center, my core,

in a vain attempt to make it more bearable because

i am strong enough, i can handle this…right?

now i have mud on my jacket,

my sin colors every surface, every line of my life.

and when i finally lay it down my hands are still covered

by mud…now everything i touch is made dirty.

so there’s another step to this process, this progress:

Jesus does not only want me to lay down my sin,

my burden, but He wants to cleanse me thoroughly

in the fire of His fervent love and the water of His grace.

and i turn my face to the cross, to the trees, to the sky,

maybe the reason why He loves me so much

will never be plain

(or even why He considers me a masterpiece)

but i welcome the grace that

falls on my skin and fills my soul

like the gentle yet steady rain.

jbh 10.29.2011

Arrows of the Enemy

The air is so thick with heat, but I think I've stopped sweating. Must be the blood loss. The sun is so bright that the only thing I can see is the occasional shaft flying up then down, between me and the sky. How long have I been kneeling in the dirt and the dust with my life spilling out in red rivers upon the cracked, swollen desert?

I shut my eyes against the light, against the sight, the sight of who I am, of where I am... So I don't see the next one until it is too late... Maybe it's already too late. I couldn't move now if I tried.

The shock of the piercing is slow to fade. This last one hits me a little to the right of my heart and as my breath comes in ragged weary wet gasps I realize that it has punctured the lung.

Was there ever any other time than this? Is this eternity?
Was there ever a different place than this? Is this judgment?

And to think that I thought I could take them on myself... what a fool.  All my pride-- all my selfish concern. what a stupid, selfish fool.

I try to smile at this absurd thought, that I was ever a match for him and his legion of fellow-fallen, but my lips are cracked and bleeding.  My burned spirit and my broken body have finally yielded to some well-earned humility. If this is giving up then I do. If this is surrender then I must.

The twang of the string sounds closer than it probably is. Maybe this is the last one, the one marked for my heart.  And I try to open my eyes and only succeed in squinting at the glare of yellow death in the sky against a backdrop of bright blue. There it is: a line of ebony with the sun glinting off the steel tip.

Just as well.

Send me back to Heaven, back to the beginning, so we can start all over. I’ll try to do better next time, try to remember what I learned…that the real meaning of life is not about finding someone nice, ending up someplace nice, it has always been about sacrifice. I get it now.  I’m ready.

As the last arrow falls, gaining speed, I bow my head. One last prayer. One last “God help me,” sent up through the thick air.

THUNK!

I don’t feel it so maybe he missed. But I heard it hit so close…

And just like that the Sun is gone.

I am in the shade of something, something tall and strong.  That same sound again, THUNK! THUD! The arrows are hitting something, just not me… through dry bruised eyes I can see the shape of a shield…The Shield. This can’t be right. I can smell dirt and sweat and… and sawdust? That’s when I see Him.

And just like that the Son is here.

Long dark hair frames the famous face, a prominent nose, the strong bearded jaw line, and the kindest eyes I think I have ever seen.  He is sitting close enough for me to touch, but I don’t dare. Not like I could anyway, my arms stopped working a while ago. Looking down I finally see myself, once a proud post-modern renaissance man, now just a pin-cushion for the arrows that each represent a different lie of the enemy.
I know He’s sweating, because His robes are soaked. It is so hot here. But I would swear He was crying. I didn’t think that was possible, but then I remember the shortest verse in the Bible. Now I can see—He’s crying for me.

A whishing sound then a hiss as arrow after arrow drives into the sand mixes with the sounds of arrows striking the shield. His shoulder bounces slightly with each blow He absorbs. Then He’s reaching back with His free hand. Can’t figure out what He’s doing.  Why would He want to touch a sinner like me?
When He touches the arrow sticking out of my left thigh I realize He’s not only here to keep me alive, but to heal my completely! The arrow vanishes when He touches it and my muscles and nerves, veins and arteries knit back together as if their circulation had never been interrupted. As quick as lightning He touches the other arrows and they vanish as well… each one a lie. An arrow through my dream catcher tattoo disappears; this was a lie of inadequacy. Not only is there no scar left behind but the skin comes back with the tattoo, vivid in color. One by one, they all evaporate like water in this dry land; this arrow is a lie of depression, that one a lie of addiction.

The last one He touches is the one closest to my heart; this arrow is a lie of doubt.  I gasp with the restored ability to breath deep.  Then fingers brush the side of my face as a calloused thumb pushes slightly below my eye, rubbing away my tears.

Just like that He is gone.

But I can feel Him in the beat of my heart, the healed body, the harmony in my spirit. I can’t help but smile at this reprieve, this peace, and I can’t seem to stop crying.

I can see so much better now. He left me The Shield. And as I look around I can see why… there must be dozens, hundreds of others in this desert. I thrust my left arm through the strap and lift it as another lie thumps into it. Not wasting any time, I move on to the second of the two great commands. Running to the nearest person I kneel next to him. I plant the shield as firmly as I can between him and the arrows still in flight while checking his wounds.

Maybe it’s not too late.

vlita

Like the swamp that holds its secrets low
under layer and layer of mystery and natural history,
killer quicksands and balance lost in bitter-smelling bogs,
the brown beaver worrying a jagged line on a log
is the hidden truth (the proof of kidnapped life),
that lies in the Cherokee word for Fog.

The still winter ground crested by a crust of ice.
From september to march chill days
are founded on a hard premise of frost.
We question our own decisions
wishing for just a ghost of a chance
for revision...am I this cold when I hide
what I am feeling beneath heavy layers of cold?

The warm air is aflame with sunlight
reflecting off the diamond drops of dew
on new green leaves, small bits of green
lost in the gray of a new-born spring day.
Am I as thick as this bank of low lying clouds when
I refuse to see the bad in myself, or the good in you?

Maybe one day long ago it came in on the little feet
of cats, but now the fog just quickens into a deadly white
while it thickens against the hell of hail and sleet.
The storm cannot even drive it away....
and I am buried in this intangible avalanche
of mist and I am at the fulcrum of this balance
of warm air and cold ground,
and what the fog reveals is surprising, like being
kissed on the cheek by a whisper off the lips of a ghost.
This is what the fog reveals...
This is the love unfound by us, but it ended
up being what we depended on the most.

4.4.2011

cost

what she sees most clearly
is a wide white line in the sky
stretching from end to end
more than just a horizon, but
something closer than that...
something that she owns:
her horizon...a herizon.
and as she sees the line
she thinks of him and
of how she once called him, 'mine.'
Once their hearts' soft surreal sadness
mixed with grief and made a mud
that morphed into
a recipe for catastrophe:
one part blood, two parts madness.
And though she mourns for the lies
and the love,
the numb sockets holding hazel
will not cry anymore.
Like clouds that cover a graveyard
no matter how many services,
call them funerals or memorials, or whatever,
the sky will not cry anymore,
and the clouds will not let rain
loose upon the land again.
no. never
no more showers...
Then she, like the other mourners
will disperse:
some in cars,
some in a hearse...
And as the last note of the bell
fades into the stunned
silence of a summer afternoon,
she will unlock the door
and enter the empty house.

march 2002

she hears

the unseen wind whispering
though she struggles to see the effect
of the blustery breeze on trees
blurring the edges of the branches rocking
back and forth as if life had come,
had come at last.
cumulus puckers pouting lips
spouting a drizzle
celestial spittle
flies in the face of the slightly less than perfect
reflection in the window, her face.
the uncertain rain on the glass is an echo
of the tears she still cries for the past...

2.27.2002

Daring Great

If only I had wings, I could rise above
Get out from under this sky that weighs on me heavily.
Sometimes I find it difficult to breathe when
Freedom feels too precious, too Paris,
Like a dream of falling only to wake
In the middlenight and look out the window
And see the snow gently fade to rain
Like the book that shows you how
To live up to your promises and be a man,
Shows you how to love again.
If only I had wings, I might smile, while I
Met people on the street, hiding my wings under
A sweatshirt and a baggy overcoat.
The ground could say goodbye to my feet, as I
Soar up through the clouds that hide stars
During Day.
I think I must have been a bird in a past life,
With a brain the size of a fingernail, and feathers.
I would need more postage to send myself hatemail.
But every season I could shed the loathing
I have for myself. Maybe that is why
I am a man now. With opposable thumbs
I can weild a knife and cut
Away the bitterness from my heart
That clogs my spirit's circulation like sausage grease, a
Disturbing Fate.
Maybe that is why my heart is heavy,
I have always been more concerned with How
While sadness filled me slowly,
Like water from a broken dam filling a valley...
And I am full now, but still oddly hollow,
Whatever threshold I had has been reached.
My bowed head casts a long shadow along the beach
And I ache, as with hunger at lunchtime on Sunday
When the sermon is still being preached.
I have asked politely for the world to share
When the world does not even know how to care.
I know this.
I have known this all along, but still I wish
For a narrow way through the
Darkening Gate.
If only I had wings I could walk
Among men with my comfortable secret,
Flight, my sacred consort, guiding me higher,
Past the place where Eagles cry and dive,
And I would be the one who wondered Why
My past cannot be changed. Though I
Stretch and pull and push, not one second or minute,
Day or hour can be rearranged. All the more
Reason to walk among men, follow the strangers to the gate.
Walking, something between standing and running,
Because I do not want to be late, and I cannot wait.
The house becomes a home becomes a house again
When terrified tenants are on the outside looking in,
Defining Wait.
Easy to see why the well is full of wishes and
Nickels and pennies. I fall asleep waiting for
My wishes to come true. Waiting for someone to
Tell me what to do. I grow old waiting for friends to
Show, when their absence is all I have ever known.
Once my search took me to a hundred churches
Looking for answers to unasked questions,
Healing for my hurts:
catcalls for short skirts that flare at the waist,
Daring Great.
If only I had wings, I could fly
Eyes burning with cold
Hair blowing in the wind. And
If you let some of my sins slide, I just
Might win heaven,
And ride my horse and carry my sword
Like Teddy Roosevelt and his rough riders,
Ready to die, just give the word,
Just give me the world...
I expect no less for daring greatly
Having been so blessed lately.

12.18.2001