Meltdown

We're having a meltdown
A nuclear meltdown,
The temperature's rising,
It isn't surprising,
That the managers ran-ran.

They started a meltdown
By letting her seals cave
In such a way that
The citizens say that
That the ministers ran-ran.

Gee, their autonomy
Makes the mercury
Jump to three thousand

We're having a meltdown,
A nuclear meltdown,
The way the coast moves
That thermometer proves
That they certainly ran-ran.

Apologies to:

Edward Holland Jr.

Lamont Herbert Dozier

Brian Holland

Corral City

Oh man, those were the days

Living off the highway 35

Working for the Braniff

Living large at Corral City

                   

Corral City, Corral City

Eighteen single wides

And a liquor store

Corral City, Corral City

Who could ask for anything more?

Oh man, I remember those days

Getting on the highway 35

Driving to the airport

Leaving loves in Corral City

Coral City, Corral City

Eighteen single wides

And a liquor store

Corral City, Corral City

Who could ask for anything more?

Oh, wow, were those the days!

Getting high on the way; what a life

Smoothing out the airways

Living lucky in Corral City

Corral City, Corral City

Eighteen single wides

And a liquor store

Corral City, Corral City

Who could ask for anything more?

Oh now, where went those days?

Forgetting how I got to 35

Staring at the speedway

Leaving late from Corral City

Corral City, Corral City

Eighteen single wides

And a liquor store

Corral City, Corral City

Who could ask for anything more?

***

For my buddy, Tim - it was going to be country, but I was listening to Sinatra when I wrote it, so it came out a little swing.

Burlap Ribbons

Burlap ribbons falling down

Sparkling lights, golden crown

Pretty woman, dressing now

Our Christmas tree

She wore flour sack blouses until a teen

And they split open in the back;

She - sent home from school,

Sent back to the house to change

Into clothes she didn’t have

Into something she couldn’t buy -

Her kind was just too poor to be seen

In that town those days.

Burlap ribbons falling down

Sparkling lights, golden crown

This pretty woman, dressing now

Our Christmas tree.

I wish now I had given her nice clothes – something

I wish I could take back

The black sins of a young fool

And go back to her house and change

Into the love she didn’t have

Into something she couldn’t buy –

Her kindness just too pure for me

In that time - those days.

Oh, I wish she was here now, hanging

Burlap ribbons, falling down-

Two lovely women, dressing now

Our Christmas tree.

Given Over

The boss always inspected the livestock while they were still on the trailer. Sometimes he let one of his sons or best hands do that, but it had to be someone he trusted. (He let the wrong person do the inspection once. That did not turn out well for anyone.) If the animals were sick or diseased, he refused them on the spot - sometimes to the extreme irritation of the one who had brought them there. This inspection was important because once officially "given over", the livestock became our responsibility.

And once we accepted the animals and led them off the trailer - through the narrow chute and into our pens - we took good care of them. We typically held them in the outer pens only long enough to give them a good warm-water washing so they would not track mud and manure into the inner pens. The inner pen had a sheet metal roof that kept them out of the sun and the rare West Texas rain. That pen had a rough concrete floor and was divided by commercial-grade pipe fencing into three long sections that ran parallel to each other with sturdy gates at the end of each run. Now, the animals might take slightly different paths through the pen, but there was really only one way in and one way out. Livestock might be held in the covered pens for a short time if we were busy or short-handed. The boss always made sure the animals were fed if they were there more than a few hours. But it was never a long wait. Soon enough the counter-weighted galvanized door would slide open and the livestock would be led from the perpetually soiled holding pens into a well lit room with shiny tiled walls and a smooth, clean concrete floor. The floor was sealed with a clear water-proof coating and marked here and there with wide yellow bands; it sloped gradually to a grated six-inch drain in the middle of the room. The wench control usually hung within a few feet of the drain, just about five or six feet off the floor. Some of the animals balked a little at the entrance to this room, probably when they caught wind of what was ahead. Ultimately, every animal that went down the trailer ramps – every animal that came through that chute – also went through that sliding door.

I don’t really know what happened to the livestock that were not given over to us for slaughter.

______________________________________

For the Lord is enraged against all the nations,

and furious against all their host; he has devoted them to destruction, has given them over for slaughter. (Isaiah 34:2, ESV)

Like a Poem

And the day - no just my dream now - is lapping

Lap, lap, lapping – up against my pillow,

And it’s just about to touch my mind,

It’s just about to soak through this cotton case

And fall into my conscious nest;

The lap, lap, lapping- it’s just like a poem,

Yes, E.A. poetry, lapping – up against my mind

And I can feel my days, my one time here elapsing

The worn out waking finally collapsing, yes,

At last - I can feel the hurt is passing, as I

Listen to the lap, lap, lapping of my dreams,

 Up against my pillow, up against my mind,

The pure water visions working their way inside

Yes, this day, this long last light is passing

And the noise, the dreams, are lapsing -

Quietening down.

Violet's Blessings

Now Violet, little Violet, the other day I heard someone,

Someone who loved her so much, say sometimes

You favor your grandpa’s mother, so little one…

You are blessed, child. You are blessed…

For she shall always be

  a beautiful woman.

                                                           

And Violet, sweet Violet, if ever you hear someone,

Someone who loves you so much, say “Sunshine,

You are not alone. I won’t let you be alone.”

You’ll be blessed, child. You’ll be blessed...

For you shall always have

 a trusted Friend.

And Violet, pretty Violet, if ever you tell someone,

Yes…that One, “I love you so, so very much!” On that day,

Not so long away…no, now it won’t be long…

He’ll be blessed, child. He’ll be blessed…

.

For He shall always have

 a good, true Heart.

Yes, for He shall always have

 a good, true Heart,

 our little Violet.

Happy Birthday, Violet.

September 28, 2013

 for Violet's 1^st birthday October 8, 2013

Birthday Gifts

September 2, 2013

You ask what I want

And I don’t know. I never do. I never have.

But I saw the gift you made for me

and it makes all mine for you

just a lot of  trash.

Now that day is gone,

And I know what I truly want --

Just a little gratitude…not yours, mine.

Just a little gratitude

If I could just get a little gratitude

For what you, Love, have done for me;

Just a song still hidden inside -

lyrics, lil’ rhymes, hearts inclined together,

I’m saying, then

I would be content.

If I could just have clear sweet memory

Of your words, kind, once said to me;

Just some words still written inside --

little valentine cards signed “Forever”

In crayon, then

I would be content.

So what I truly want is …

Just a little gratitude…not yours, mine.

Just a little gratitude

So do you think it’s too late

For someone to write neatly inside me,

Red permanently penciled beside a diary date,

Perhaps beside this very date,

 A little note, a little thank you note,

 That you, Love, would find

someday?

More Kindergarten Blessings

Lots of kids went to kindergarten for the first time this week.  That's a good thing. People have said that all they need to know, they learned in kindergarten. In kindergarten one can learn music, read books, color, paint, and play with friends. Oh yes! In kindergarten, you are also encouraged to stick your hands in white mud to make your mother cry. This is confusing, but still a wonderful thing.

Of course, in kindergarten there are also wise and loving teachers, discipline and safe boundaries, and someone always watching over the children. Kindergartners get lunch, snacks, and a roof over their head.  Kindergartners have it pretty well, really.  I didn't go to kindergarten when I was little. I am not exactly sure why. I imagine it was because I couldn't sit still long enough or I didn't like to be told what to do by the nice ladies who weren't my Mom. I may have I missed out.  I only remember sticking my hands in plaster-of-Paris once -- that was at vacation Bible school. I'm sure it made Mom cry. Many of things I did back in those days had that effect on her.

In reading Isaiah 61 yesterday, I saw a reference to another Kindergarten - a special garden where righteousness and praise are made to "sprout up" before the nations; a living-color display of God's glory. That "garden" is apparently a metaphor for the Lord himself. 

Reading those verses reminded me that dwelling in the Lord is not just about simply "remaining" - hiding under the roof of a school or temple; it is about being rooted in, and nurtured by, the Creator of all things good. We commit our rotting flesh to the soil of God's special garden and somehow, by some miracle of God's nature...something true, beautiful, and eternally-living will sprout. And the children of God, corporately and individually, testify to the glory and power of God by living pure and fruitful lives within the body of Christ.  This image of the mystical Kindergarten seems to be sticking in my mind.

So Lord, I thank you for making Kindergarten. Thank you for making a place for me there. There are so many ways for you to show people your righteousness and praise -- to display your glory. And to create this display from living things...actually from dying things that you have restored...I am amazed that you chose to do it this way. It is perfect, of course… your Way. It is the best way possible. But it is still amazing.

And God please bless this new crop - the children of your garden, may you be glorified in them.

 (Isaiah 61:11)

Law, Order and the Looking Glass

June 26, 2013

The lawman stands behind the two-way mirror and watches, waiting for the accused to make himself a fool, hoping for an act of self-incrimination. And the accuser, the eye-witness, stands bravely behind another half-silvered glass and picks out the guilty. And this all works because the lawman and the accuser are in the dark, whereas the accused is in a space brightly lit. If the dark place is illuminated, the lawman and the witness will see their own reflections in the mirror. If the accused puts his face close to the glass, he may then be able to see who is after him.

When it comes to looking glass, it doesn't matter which side you are on. What you see depends a great deal on whether you are standing in the light or the dark.

Graceful Motion

May 26, 2013

I could tell. This time it was different.

“How are you doing?  Are you missing her a lot?”

The three of us were sitting out on the back porch – on the smooth concrete pad that Dad poured, and roofed, and screened-in and then finally enclosed with aluminum storm windows many years ago. It was early May and still very cool in the shade. I had stopped by the house in Graham for a short visit after attending the funeral of a high school friend.  I thought it very strange that Cindy’s funeral was held at the Newcastle Cemetery.  I had no idea that she had a connection to the little town of Newcastle – a Texas town so small that it can be explored in a single day by a five year old on a tricycle.

While I was at the cemetery, I put a fresh cut iris on my Mom’s grave. I didn’t have a vase or anything to put it in, so I just laid the flower on the grave by the marker. The iris stalk was still weeping a bit where it had been cut and the moist purple petals seemed out of place on that yellow mound of drying brick-clay soil.  The grave hadn’t settled as much as I had expected, probably because there had not yet been a good drenching rain. We sure needed one. While I was there I handed Uncle Delbert a flower too. Being a former Army sergeant, rancher and feed store owner, Delbert wasn’t really much of a flower guy, but I knew he wouldn’t object to a flower in his lapel on special occasions.  Besides, I figured Mom would rather I do that than give her two flowers. Mom was an artist, a poet, and a farmer’s daughter.  One would be enough for her.

Dad said, “Sure! Sixty-three years…” and, in one smooth motion Dad let out a breath, relaxed, dropped his shoulders, bent his head down slightly and extended his left hand just a few inches out to the side. And in that same instant, Dad made a simple, gentle, and unusually elegant gesture – a gesture so graceful as to be almost effeminate – a gesture stunning in its poignancy.  Continuing in that single fluid motion, Dad rotated his left wrist back – turning his palm slightly up, and pinched his thumb down to his ring finger. Actually his thumb never touched the ring – it stopped just short and sat there hovering…hovering over a worn but glittering gold wedding band.  In that same instant, I realized I had seen him make this gesture exactly the same way many times over the years – thousands of times. But this time it was different.

He reached out a little bit more, “When I get up in the morning, I make some Pop Tarts for breakfast and reach out to hold Lois’ hand so we can pray together.”

And on those mornings Mom would be sitting there already, sitting at the little kitchen table on the side nearest the fridge and her sink. Mom would be there, thinking and waiting, often having been up for several hours before them – before Dad and the sunrise – and she would be ready to talk to someone about what had happened in a dream, or what had really happened once upon a time or what she was afraid was going to happen someday – and she might be thinking that today might be that someday.  Sometimes she would be right. And sometimes…often really…Mom would just stay quiet, knowing that talking doesn’t always make nightmares disappear.

And then Dad would come in, make a little breakfast, sit down, and reach out slightly. And in that one graceful motion, they would bow their heads, Mom would put her right hand in Dad’s left, and Dad would gently pinch her hand between his cracked and calloused carpenter fingers.  Then Dad, with his sandpaper-like thumb, would very gently caress the softness in his life that was the back of his wife’s pretty little hand and start to pray for them – saying, although not always the same prayer, a prayer that always started this same way.

"Most Gracious Heavenly Father, thank you...”

Nothing Else to Say

April 28, 2013

Nothing else to say

Nothing else to say

Heart is…

Heart is…

Heart…is breaking

Heart is breaking

Nothing else to say

To you.

Nothing else to say

There is

Nothing else to say

Nothing else to say

You are…

You are

You are…leaving

You are leaving

Nothing else to say

To you.

Nothing else to say

There is

Nothing else to say

Nothing else to say

Life is…

Life is…

Life…is changing

Life is changing

Nothing else to say

To you.

Nothing else to say.

  

There is

Nothing else to say

Nothing else to say

Love is…

Love is…

Love…is lasting

Love is lasting

Nothing else to say

To you.

Nothing else to say.

Revelation - Cascading Haiku

May 13, 2011

I waited for you.

Now that our time is coming

I am forgotten.

A time is coming

When the horizon will darken

And End will be born

A time is coming

When the harvest will ripen

And a sickle swung

A time is coming

When the seven bring seven

And the Wrath pours out

A time is coming

When a City turns scarlet

And then is thrown down

A time is coming

When the winepress will be full

And a Rider comes

A time is coming

When the wine shall be poured

And wedding guests fed

A time is coming

When the dragon is captured

And bound with his pain

A time is coming

When the curtain will open

And the just will rise

A time is coming

When the serpent slips free

And coils for the kill

A time is coming

When the Saints are defended

And Sand burnt to glass

A time is coming

When the books are all opened

And justice prevails

A time is coming

When the hearts will be broken

And the Word abides

A time is coming

When the widow will marry

And orphans will sing

A time is coming

When the River will flow down

And water the lambs

I longed for you.

Now that our time is coming

Do you remember?

Pepperoni and Jalapenos Type Guy

May 18, 2007

Tim is a pepperoni and jalapenos type guy.  He was taking the time away from his other ministry – painting the new Fry St. Mission – to tell me his story.

“I’m not going to get into all that stuff… you know…drugs and all that stuff.  People have heard that before or been there themselves.  What’s important is my relationship with the Lord.  If we love Him and love each other, then everything’s going to be fine.  If we don’t, the rest doesn't really matter, ya know?”

We were sitting at the booth right behind the hostess-manager-cashier at Bari’s.  Apparently Tim and the manager-cashier were old friends – she teased him by pretending not to notice him when he asked for a table.  We struggled to get into the conversation at first…a discussion about something important and intimate between a couple of guys that weren't as close as they probably should have been.

There were the necessary interruptions here and there. The manager got our drinks herself, clearly taking special care of us – a bud and a coke.  The waiter followed quickly,“What can I get for you?”  Tim gives me a “you first” signal so I ordered a calzone.  He stares into the space above my head, recalling meals gone by, and says “Give me a coupla slices of pepperoni…with jalapenos”.  Actually, there wasn’t much of a pause.  Tim knew what he wanted – a coupla slices of pepperoni with jalapenos.

He picked up where he left off, “Nobody wants to hear that stuff.”

Then I told Tim how I came to ask him to give his story.  He said, “Yeah, Shepherd has a good story too.  He feels bad about doing drugs for three or four years – geez – I got high every day for thirty-five years.  Every day!  You name it, I’ve tried it.  But, now this was in the ‘60s.  I smoked a joint every day up until about seven or eight years ago.  It’s hard to give up -- I liked it! It made me feel good.  And cigarettes…I smoked constantly.  That’s an addiction!  I stopped once for four years and had one cigarette and that was it.  I quit again about five years ago, but I would love a cigarette right now.  Oh yeah, I would love a cigarette.  The wife too… she chews gum every night after dinner.”

He seemed to be both amazed and disappointed at the same time, “It’s a struggle.  We’re sinners – we always will be.  The Holy Spirit gives us strength and encouragement to give those things up… and we do… for awhile.  But we hold onto them.  We don’t really want to give them up.  The Lord will free us from this stuff if we’ll just let it go, but we won’t.  We’ll pick it back up again.  We just have to do our best.  That’s what I think anyway.  As long as we’re alive, we’ll struggle and we’ll fail.  But the Lord will pick us back up again.  I’m sorry for doing those things, but I don’t really feel guilty.   Christ took care of that on the cross.  So, I don’t see anything to be gained by our feeling guilty about it.  It’s not like His death couldn't cover it, right?”

Tim ended the story…“As long as we love Him and love each other – that’s what matters – this stuff just... doesn't. Ya know?

He finished off his pizza and we went back to Fry St. by way of Oak and Hickory.  I went in the mission house to use the restroom.  When I left a few minutes later, Tim already had his brushes out and was painting trim on the mission doors.

As you can tell from the date, I wrote this several years ago - Tim and I know each other much better now and I'm afraid Tim's friend at Bari's is gone. I hope Tim remembers that he gave me permission to tell this story. Tim may regret that now -- not because he has any concerns about people knowing he ever used drugs -- he still doesn't care about that. He may not like it because the story reflects somewhat favorably on him. Tough luck Tim -- I can't help it if Christ looks good on you ... or in you.

Galatians 3:23-29

Purple Iris

April 19, 2013

Purple iris –

Reminds me of my mother’s

Pretty gown.

Purple iris –

When I turned to show her,

She was gone.

Purple iris –

Your head so heavy, falling over,

Lying down.

Purple iris –

Born of April’s shower

Going home.

Happy Birthday, Mom!

Where the Children Run

Do you see, children?

It is not the good one

Who lays the trap

Beside the road

Where the children run.

It is another.

Children, do you see?

It is the good one

Who hears you cry,

Who runs to help,

And never leaves.

He is your brother.

Children,

It is the good one

Who searches hearts,

Who finds the truth,

And sets things right.

There is not another.

Do you see?

For Martin Richard and the other Children of the Boston Marathon

Psalm 107

Letter from Your Grandma

February 21, 2013

Darling child

Somebody told me you quit

Looking for my letters.

Little pumpkin,

I heard somewhere you had quit

Walking to the mailbox

That’s nailed to that old post.

Sweet child

I know you think it’s been so long

Since you last heard from me.

Little pumpkin

I know you feel I left you alone

In that dreary, sad old town

Without much hope.

But darling,

Let me tell you now, I’ll never stop

Writing to my babies.

Let me tell you now, I’ll never stop

Lovin’on you, babies.

You should hear me, now

You should hear me, now

Little pumpkin, listen to what I say.

Now I got me a pen, I found me some paper

So here’s a note just for you.

I love you.

I love you.

Little pumpkin,

Here’s a song just for you

I love you.

I love you.

Little pumpkin

Here’s a song wrote just for you.

Christ Missed the Mark

March 31, 2013

A bit late on rising this morning, I carried my coffee and my little brain sack of troubles out back so I could meditate properly. I looked through the tall oaks -- over the chicken coop, past the garden and beyond the creek-running – and waited for the sun to rise and flood my soul with the light of hope, the hope of a new day. The birds were already singing their morning songs. One of them sings “cappuccino, cappuccino, cappuccino…” every morning. It’s a pretty song, even if you just drink regular black coffee.

After a couple of sips, I started to wonder if the sun was ever going to rise over the cloud line. I had thought about letting the chickens out of their coop so they could enjoy the Easter sunrise with me, but it really wasn’t light enough outside to make it worth the trouble for any of us.  Then I realized the lights were on in the parking lot at the new elementary school just on the other side of the creek. (They built that school on pasture land behind our house so now I have to pretend it isn’t there when I look to the east for inspiration.) The parking lot was lit up much brighter than the surrounding meadow and playground area. There is a church that meets at that school on Sundays, so I figured they must be having an early service this morning, given that it is Easter.  It’s actually kind of nice for empty-nesters. Monday through Friday you can hear kids laughing and screaming on the playground and then on Sundays you can hear the sound of folding chairs being set up and the church joining together in worship through song. I believe that church is made up of good God-fearing and loving folks, so I don’t mind a little extra holy racket over there on Sunday mornings. Besides, it’s not my land, now is it?

An old SUV suddenly took off from the outdoor basketball court area, driving too fast in a parking lot, making too much noise in my view. Then, I heard the sound system come on and the calm voice that lay on top of the usual open-mic static. I couldn’t make out the words being spoken even though there was plenty of volume.  The cadence was what you would expect for a typical Easter sunrise service. Probably a quick hello and introduction, a “quiet” prayer -- that could be heard throughout the neighborhood, a couple of verses of scripture – hopefully something from the Gospels, and something else that sounded like it might have been a spiritual song or hymn when it first entered the sound system. I wondered how many of my neighbors were sitting on their back porch looking through their trees, waiting for the sun to rise and wondering how long the amplifiers and lights were going to be on.

And it struck me that many of us were sitting or standing around looking to the east this morning, waiting for Christ to rise … again. We wanted to see that beautiful sunrise and watch in awe as Christ walks out of the tomb. We were all hoping for the special guest to appear at our little outdoor concert, for the Bard to come out and share Couplets on the Mount with us. We had good intentions.  We just wanted to remember.

But the sky wasn't getting brighter, it was getting darker.  The wind picked up – the forty-foot oaks started swaying back and forth, leaf remnants shuffled around, tassels fell, wild something seeds started flying around – looked like we were indeed going to get the storm that had been forecast on the local news.  The birds stopped singing; their song replaced by the unearthly croaking of confused frogs. It sounded like I had just walked through a door at the zoo that separated the aviary from the amphibian section. I saw that the lights were off at the church-school and it had grown quiet over there.  Either they finished their devotional service or fear of coming storms drove them inside. It didn't look like there was going to be a glorious sun-rising this morning. 

Christ missed his cue this morning. He missed his mark on our parking lot-stage. Strangely, it felt like he was probably still there – somewhere. The trees seemed to be saying something with their body language – like the guests at a wedding just before the groom and groomsmen walk in. If you are new to wedding protocol you can usually tell what’s going to happen next by watching how the folks in the front rows turn around in their seats, sit up straight, or stand up. The trees in the front row seemed to be saying, “This thing is about to start.”  But I don’t want to read too much into this. Honestly, I don’t know exactly where Christ was this morning, but I know he didn't come up over the hill at the prescribed time. Christ didn't come back for an encore today even though we were all standing there applauding, applauding like we knew a good performance when we saw it. Maybe he is tired of doing repeat performances of the Passion. Maybe he just slept late. I doubt it. He strikes me as an early-riser. 

While I was writing this, the storm blew over and the sun came out.  Then it went back in. It’s drifting back and forth through the clouds, apparently oblivious to our expectations of what Easter morning should be like. Instead, it looks like today is going to be a mostly cloudy, partly sunny, maybe stormy, kind of scary, day.

Well, I need to wrap this up and get ready for church.  I hope the Holy Spirit is going to be there today – it’s Easter.

Trey

March 22, 2013

I never see a mailman but I think of you.

The other day I saw a mailman

And he walked the way

You walked, Trey,

When you walked away

I never heard the spirit three in one like you.

The other day I heard a guitar-man

And he didn't play the way

You played, Trey,

When you wailed away

We knew you always wanted to play,

For sure…just waiting to play,
You were always there, hinting-

Pulling out your guitar,

Whenever and wherever,

There you were, smiling and squinting

Until a song appeared, and sitting

There, you strummed away…

In your cowboy boots.

Written for Dee and the folks at DCC

For Such a Time as This

For such a time as this

You were sent to be with us

To work beside us in the field

Behind the harvesters.

For such a time as this

You show us how to glean,

How to gather among the sheaves

The precious few that might be lost.

For such a time as this

You reveal humility.

For such a time as this

You gratefully accept this corner

And seek not another plot

Or desire the master’s role

Or even that of foreman.

For such a time as this

You are patient.

For such a time as this

You bring us water and food

And protect our children

From the wild

And the stray.

For such a time as this

You shelter us.

For such a time as this

You are raised up.

The Lord of the harvest

Calls your name

You! Faithful servant!

Come out from the corner

And work here beside me.

For such a time as this

You are blessed. 

For such a time as this

You are given the seeds of light,

The beginnings of saints.

The harvest of many seasons to come

Is in your hands

For such a time as this

You are entrusted.

For such a time as this

The row is laid open.

Broken many times

By the one who goes before you

The soil is rich and fine

And ready.

For such as time as this

The Spirit prepares the way for the Word.

For such a time as this

You are given strength, hope,

And a clear voice,

Sufficient for the work at hand.

A special beauty is yours

Which shines in the morning field

A reflection of Him in you.

For such a time as this

God has provided.

For such a time as this

You have prepared your mind,

Your heart and spirit.

For such a time as this

You have collected your things,

Instructed your daughters

And said goodbye to your husband.

For such a time as this

You are called…

Esther 4:14, Ruth 2:3-23

Written several years ago for my beautiful Vicki when she was about to set out to Russia on a short term mission trip.

Church in the Middle of Nowhere (Lyric Version)

 March 2, 2013; March 29,2013 (lyric)

My good friend Pattie told me a story

‘bout a party in the middle of nowhere,

My friend Pattie told me a story

‘bout a church  in the middle of nowhere.

Indian Summer, just last year -

Out in the country, just last year;

Off of the highway, down a dirt road

Ten miles out; across an old guard.

Was this party in the middle of nowhere.

End of the summer, just last year –

Out in the sunshine, just last year;

People parked in the drive, out in the road

They came from all over, stood in the yard.

[Pattie said] People came from God knows where.

Wish I could have been there.

My good friend Pattie told me a story

‘bout a party in the middle of nowhere.

About sitting down with our friend Cindy

At the church in the middle of nowhere.

Reminds me of summers, long past years-

Down in Young County, long lost years!

Drove off of the highways, down the dirt roads

Past the oil tanks and the rusty old guards,

Lookin’ for parties in the middle of nowhere.

This church-house party, just last year-

Out in the country, just last year;

Folks hauled their tribute down that dirt road

Emptied their trucks; loaded down their cars

Auctioned their tools, sold clothes they still wear.

Wish I could have been there.

My good friend Pattie told me a story

‘bout a party in the middle of nowhere.

About sweet tea drinkin’ with her friend Cindy

At the church in the middle of nowhere..

They had a spread there, just last year-

Out in the country, just last year;

Smoked offerings drifted down the dirt road.

The meat ran out; men ran off in their cars.

God found them and fed them – even out there!

Wish I could have been there.

My good friend Pattie told me a story

‘bout a party in the middle of nowhere.

About a sweet time with our friend Cindy

And the church in the middle of nowhere.

And the Sand Came (Lyric Version)

March 19, 2013; March 29, 2013 (lyric)

This is a longer version of the poem that might be better suited for song lyrics.

Vessel discarded

Thrown in the pit

Outside the camp

Left in the wilderness.

And the sand came

And filled my mouth

And the sand came

And filled me inside

And the sand came

And I was full

And the sand came

Bones of departed

All around me

Bleached by the sun

Death in the wilderness

And the sand came

And filled my mouth

And the sand came

And filled me inside

And the sand came

And I was full

And the sand came

Vision distorted

Illusion of love

Thirsty mirages

Dry in the wilderness

And the sand came

And filled my mouth

And the sand came

And filled me inside

And the sand came

And I was full

And the sand came

Rider dismounted

Dug down to me

Lifted me up

High in the wilderness.

And the rain came

And filled my mouth

And the rain came

And filled me inside

And the rain came

And I was full

And the rain came

And the Sand Came

March 19, 2013

Vessel discarded

Thrown in the pit

Outside the camp

Left in the wilderness.

And the sand came

And filled my mouth

And the sand came

And filled me inside

And the sand came

And I was full

And the sand came

Rider dismounted

Dug down to me

Lifted me up

High in the wilderness.

And the rain came

And filled my mouth

And the rain came

And filled me inside

And the rain came

And I was full

And the rain came

Drunkards' Song

March 10, 2013

            I am the talk of those who sit in the gate,

                        and the drunkards make songs about me.

(Psalm 69:12 ESV)

Drunkard's Song

Ya’ll just go on then, pull down the gate

Tell all your stories, laugh at my fate

Lean back and snicker and cover your grin

I know what you’re thinking; “He’s done it again.”

But let me tell you boys from school

I’m sure as hell not the only fool

Who’s ever loved someone untrue.

Don’t be surprised if next it’s you

Who gives up everything he’s got

To chase the one that loves him not,

Bets the farm on a pretty young colt,

And sells his saddle for sallow love notes.

Ya’ll just go on then, laugh at my fate

Tell your stories but don’t fall off the gate

Lean back and snicker and cover your grin

I know what you’re thinking, “He’s at it again.”

                                      

I won’t try to tell you you’re wrong

I won’t deny you you’re drunkards’ song

Your right, this mess is really something

And I suppose I got it coming,

So I’ll just stand here; take your abuse.

But boys don’t think that I’m confused.

I know who she is; where she has been.

So, you can throw if you've never sinned.

Ya’ll just go on then, laugh at my fate

Tell your stories as you sit on that gate

Lean back and snicker and cover your grin

I know what you’re thinking, “He’s loves her again.”

The Church in the Middle of Nowhere

March 6, 2013

My good friend Pattie told me a story

‘bout a party in the middle of nowhere,

My friend Pattie told me a story

‘bout a church  in the middle of nowhere.

In the Indian Summer, just last year -

Out in the country, just this last year;

It was off the highway, down a dirt road

‘bout ten miles out and cross the old guard,

Stood a party in the middle of nowhere.

At the end of the summer, just last year –

Out in the sunshine, just this last year;

People parked in the driveway, out in the road

They came from all over, stood in the yard.

Patty said, “People came from God knows where!”

Wish I could have been there.

My good friend Pattie told me a story

‘bout a party in the middle of nowhere;

About sittin’ down with our sweet pal, Cindy,

In this church in the middle of nowhere.

Reminds me of the summers, long past years-

Down in old Young County, Oh, those years!

We drove off the highways, down the dirt roads,

Past peeling oil tanks and across the cattle guards,

Lookin’ for parties in the middle of nowhere.

But at that church-house party, just last year-

Outside of Henrietta, just this last year;

Folks hauled in their tribute, down that dirt road,

Emptied their trucks, and loaded down their cars,

Auctioned their tools and sold clothes they still wear.

Wish I could have been there.

My good friend Pattie told me a story

‘bout a party in the middle of nowhere.

About sweet tea drinkin’ with her friend Cindy

At the church in the middle of nowhere.

They had a mighty spread there just last year-

Out in the country, just this last year;

Smoked offerings drifted up and down that road.

When the meat ran out, men ran off in their cars,

But God found them and fed them – even out there.

Wish I could have been there.

My good friend Pattie told me a story

‘bout a party in the middle of nowhere.

About a sweet time with our friend Cindy

And the church in the middle of nowhere.

The Good Stuff

March 1, 2013

Back last summer, when folks first started hearing the news about Lori’s cancer, they begin to wonder at the faith it took for Lori, Bryan, and the girls to handle that kind of life-Trouble so well -- in such a God-glorifying way.  Now this was big T trouble, the biggest trouble you ever saw, the kind of trouble that seems bigger than the whole world, overwhelming trouble. And when people would ask Bryan where they found the faith to deal with this, he would say, “It’s not a new faith. It’s the same faith we always had.  It’s not like we've got the Good Stuff back in the closet that we've been saving for times like these.  We haven’t been holding back. This is all the faith we have…it better be good enough.” If you go to our little church, or you are friends with Bryan, you have heard this story before.

So please forgive me, Bryan tells this story much better than I do.  In fact, I still get kind of broken up inside when I hear Bryan tell it, or I hear John Brown tell it, or I see the girls and Ed and Maxine continue to live it out. But no matter how much I've heard this story, no matter how much I understand the wisdom in it, no matter how much I nod my head and say “Amen!” to the truth of their witness…I got to be honest with you, I still find myself rummaging around in my personal storage and part-time prayer closet looking for the Good Stuff.

And if I can’t find what I am looking for in there, I go to my spiritual medicine cabinet and I pull out all the out-of-date prescription bottles and the vitamins-going-bad, and I go through every bottle one by one. I hold them up to the vent-a-hood light over the stove and try to decipher the fading label and dosage instructions that always seem to be written in fine print for old men to read.  Yes, I’m still looking for the Extra-Strength pain killers.

And some days, quite often lately it seems, I wake to find myself sleep-walking, actually sleep soul-searching the cabinets of our utility room, standing on my tip toes on the little step stool we keep in the downstairs bathroom for potty-training grandkids, reaching as high as I can and digging as deep as I can through those dusty shelves, looking for the Counter-cleaner Concentrate, the Good Stuff, the Ultra-Strong Faith.  I know it’s in there somewhere.

Praise of Dust

February 1, 2013 (Psalm 30, Chronicles 26)

It was you who pushed me from the womb – from the warm core of the only world I knew; you drew me out into a dark sea and bade me crawl to the starlight, to crawl until I reached the place where the night meets the shore.  And as I drew myself across that endless ocean floor I dreamed of breathing…breathing the light of stars, the ether of free space.

And just as I began to hope – just as I began to see my destiny glimmer beyond life’s membrane – you pulled me back.  You pulled me back and you drug me down until I drowned beneath the waters; you pulled me down and pushed me headfirst into the underworld where you kept me bound in irons for an age, now ancient.  And then, when it suited you, you poured me onto the earth. You poured me out; like molten mirror glass I floated across the still water. You stretched me out and spread me thin.  And the stars watched. And when I had reached my limit, when I had nowhere else to go, you closed the gates set into the walls of my horizon and my dreams fell, exhausted. And then the walls came in; my future shrank until I felt my bones folding – until I heard them breaking – and still you pressed me. You pressed me into a narrow space until I had no choice but to stand upright and lift my face to breathe…light.

Year upon year, there I stood – the first to see the morning, the last to see the sunset. My days were like years but I needed no rest, I could see the stars and I knew they could see me.

And I, above all creation, received your tribute.  From the coast came streams of gray-beard clouds, the emissaries of conquered oceans, and heavy-laden they stumbled on the frozen steps of my tall throne and spilled there your gift of fresh water from a humble spring.  But in even this was I glorified, for the snow fell and I was robed in white.  And I stood strong and proud beneath the cloak of winter.

And then a time came when the earth was tilted and the season changed.  And one spring day the sun raised high above me and shone his face upon mine and gave me warmth. But I turned away; those eyes are too bright to see. Still, at last, the new day caught me and I was burned; my skin cracked and then burst and my flesh fell like ash onto the slopes of melting pride. And in my pain, cold prayers fell from my mouth and drifted down the valley like wet incense, smoldering.

And in the forest, time hid waiting for the scent of my weakness and from the tree line sprang a hungry wind. In an instant, it was upon me.  It climbed my heels and tore at my flanks until it should bring me down, but yet it did not.  And for many years more I rose still above all creation. 

Until at last, my strength hanging in shreds, cold and naked, I knelt down.  And there I stayed until the lichen came.  And they, the tiny together, covered me complete with their finest brown-gold furs and charm-blue graces until their kindness broke me at last and I was brought full down.

Many times now I have been broken, thinking each would be the last. Finer and finer I have been sifted by your tenderness until I hope I am finally free of myself.  I am dust, this is my praise.

Down to Joppa

Now there was in Joppa a disciple named Tabitha, which, translated, means Dorcas. She was full of good works and acts of charity. In those days she became ill and died, and when they had washed her, they laid her in an upper room. Since Lydda was near Joppa, the disciples, hearing that Peter was there, sent two men to him, urging him, “Please come to us without delay.” So Peter rose and went with them. And when he arrived, they took him to the upper room. All the widows stood beside him weeping and showing tunics and other garments that Dorcas made while she was with them. But Peter put them all outside, and knelt down and prayed; and turning to the body he said, “Tabitha, arise.” And she opened her eyes, and when she saw Peter she sat up. And he gave her his hand and raised her up. Then calling the saints and widows, he presented her alive. And it became known throughout all Joppa, and many believed in the Lord.

(Acts 9:36-42 ESV)

Down to Joppa

February 12, 2013

Peter walked down to the gates this morning,

Down a road he has walked before.

Peter walked out through the gates this morning,

Down to Joppa, Peter went once more.

Peter went there cause he heard some crying-

Sisters weeping and calling her name.

Peter went there and he found them praying;

Sisters calling on the Lord by name.

Peter walked out through the gates this morning,

Down to Joppa, Peter went once more.

Peter came in and he found them mourning

On their knees and deep in prayer.

Peter told them they could stop their crying,

“Sisters come on, let’s go downstairs.”

Peter said, “Now, you can stop that worrying.

Don’t you worry, now that I’m here.”

Peter said, “You know, there’s no more hurting.

Don’t you worry, now the Lord is near.”

Peter walked out through the gates this morning,

Down to Joppa, Peter went once more.

Peter went up and he found her lying

On the bed the sisters had made.

Peter saw then how they loved her sowing.

On the headboard, there her work was laid.

Peter knelt down and he started praying

For his sister, sweet child of God.

Peter said, “Now, it’s time we were going.

He wants you with him, the Lamb of God.”

Peter walked out through the gates this morning

Down to Joppa, Peter came once more.

Love you, Mom.

Bring it

January 4, 2013

Bring it, bring it, bring it

I got Nothing, but he said

Bring it, bring it, bring it

To me.

My car is broken

My house is rotten

I got Nothing

Worth keeping.

He said,

Bring it to me.

Bring it, bring it, bring it

I got Nothing, but he said

Bring it, bring it, bring it

To me.

My heart is broken

My soul is rotten

I got Nothing

Worth keeping.

He said,

Bring it to me.

Bring it, bring it, bring it

I got Nothing, but he said

Bring it, bring it, bring it

To me.

Luke 21:1-4

Cain's Lament

January 4, 2013

Master, will you not take from my hand

 The fruit of my labor?

Here, with all my reach

I hold it up to you.

Take it.

Is it bitter?

 It is all I can do

For the ground is hard;

 My back…the field breaks it

With its furrow-teeth.

It is all I can do.

Take it.

I hold it up to you-

 This small seed, my very soul.

Is it dry- mere dust to you?

 For you know there is no rain.

And I have no water within me;

My blood is rust.

Will you not take it?

It is all I can do.

Let the ground cry my name,

For I have fought it.

I have…day upon days…

Torn from its side the stubborn

Roots of thorn and thistle.

And these scars on my face…

Do they not testify

This is all I can do?

Take it.

And there stands my brother-

His offering accepted.

And I saw you touch him

When he held up to you

The fat of the lamb.

You took it.

He has done so little, master.

Is this right that he live beyond

The law?

Is he not bound, like me,

To this ground?

This world, that lies heavy in my lungs,

My brother escapes somehow.

But this lamb…this lamb you gave him…

Will not escape my brother’s knife.

And you are pleased?

Was the lamb not born in your own stables,

Fed in your own fields,

Washed in your own river?

This gift you give yourself…

Why credit my brother?

Here…here I hold up to you…

With my full length extended…

All that I can do.

And you will not

Take it.

Master, do not look for me today.

I have gone to water the field,

 For I hear it crying…

It is forever crying…

For my father’s blood.

Five18

October 30, 2007 5:18 a.m.

When I was little,

The clock stopped

On Christmas Eve

And jumped straight to

GI Joes

In a wink and a blink

And a touch of his nose.

But the days came --

The bleaching reality came --

And where my heart not sealed,

My joy, my joy, lost its color.

And so my life passed.

And when I was dying,

The Dark Accountant came

And left, beside me lying,

Different presents that crawled from

Memory to memory

And covered them

With pain –

Which is joy, rotten.

But now --

Benignly now,

The night passes

Time with me.

(He is older, you see)

And together we count my debts.

While to men, these debts growing…

My debts to God – no one knowing,

He has forgotten.

Calli Come Here to Me

January 23, 2013

Sitting here I can barely see the morning leaking through window. The shade is drawn. The glass is dirty. The air is gray. And as far as I can see, I see motherless children and husbands alone.

But called, I step out on the porch and hear...faintly, as my hearing is poor these days... the little birds that your mother fed, the very tiny ones that even your old father loves.

They sing,

"Come out, come out...come out to us.

Come with, come with...come go with us.

Blind can see...blind can see.

Love you...love you

Come here to me... come here to me.”

Build it

January 25, 2013

My father said,

Son, we’re gonna build

A house, and you…you and I

We’re going to build it

Yes, we’re going to build it

Together.

And ours will be fine house,

A place fit for a king

With silver stands and lamps of gold.

The old man said,

Son, we’re gonna live

There forever...you and I

We’re gonna live there

Yes, we’re gonna live there

Forever.

And our ours will be a good house,

A place up standing

With wings outstretched, cherubim of God.

My father said,

Son, I’ve got a plan

A plan, and you… you and I

We’ll figure this out

Yes, we’ll figure this out

Together.

And ours will be a kind home,

A place where we bring

Our friends; our enemies now so old.

And father said,

Son, we’re gonna open

Our hearts, and you…you and I

We’re gonna live there

Yes, we’re gonna live there

Forever.

Son,

Don’t be afraid,

Don’t be dismayed

We’ll do it, you…you and I

We’ll be brave and

Love each other.

Then David said to Solomon his son, “Be strong and courageous and do it. Do not be afraid and do not be dismayed, for the LORD God, even my God, is with you. He will not leave you or forsake you, until all the work for the service of the house of the LORD is finished.

(1 Chronicles 28:20 ESV)

Where it Starts

November 2, 2012

I want to tell you a story
But I don’t know where it starts.
I am just sitting in it
And I can feel it, but I can’t place it
In the sun come up and then go downs
That pass through our backyard.

I want to tell you a story
And I think it means something
Because I’m loving in it.
And I can hear it, but I can’t tell it
To the children that grow up and then fall down
In the grass of our backyard.

I want to tell you a story
And I don’t know where it ends
Because I am living in it.
And I can see it, but I can’t trace it
Through the trees climbing up; their leaves falling down
On the Grace of our backyard.

Mares' Tails

September 29, 2009 9:13pm

The mares tails went from left to right

From noon to nine and past

They scratched the sky

To signal she was coming

So you think so, huh?

Yes, I think so. She’s coming.

She came round. She came round.

She rang the bell and ran around

Our camp and hid beyond

The horizon

But did not come in.

She played and played,

And toyed with things left loose,

But never stayed.  Never stayed.

She just arched her back

Rolled on her side

And went her own way

And so, in our own time, did we.

With nothing missing, no memories lost,

We marched along the bank

Through the aspen coins,

Until the goodbyes ran

Under the bridge and over

The falls.

But later, many miles later,

We saw her again.

She came, she came, running red,

From beyond the setting sun.

She ran and ran.

Blue slip showing,

She tried to race us home

Before night fell.

On the storm that missed us up near Squaw Lake in the wilderness of Colorado and the river of red dust near Amarillo.

Lest I Reach Out

January 4, 2013

I know; Thou hast sent me

 from the garden

Lest I reach out and touch

 The tree of life

That grows there.

I now Lord beg Thee allow

 Me to return

Let me reach out and touch

 The tree of life

That died here.