Poetry or prose.
For the last three weeks I have had hives. Still have hives. I have sifted words in and out of how this feels and each time all words have come up short. They do not stop the itch. Like quack doctors, snake oil salesmen, or phone-a-gypsy psychics they play at reading my palms then leave me with no…
No salve for my slowly metamorphic
So I threaten them with silence or just undoing their fragile orthographic pieces unbending bes and esses into straight black lines
Because from geometry we know
Lines go on forever (in either direction)
Moving away from the itchy round helpless
Woman who once loved them
Out to the ends of time and light
To the place where God
hears our wordless
My monster sits
At the kitchen table
Gnawing on the hollowed bones
Finding scraps of meat left on them
they say you can choke on these broken shards of wings, thighs
The breasts of flightless birds
Few eat their filigreed
But when they do you can see through
Each vivisected chamber
He mutters only phrases
Like girl, you know…girl if only…
If only you had..
He is so very clever to leave out
years and years of completely merciless verbs
Ellipses for teeth
Never dulled to the task
Of separating bone from marrow
You tell me the vultures
Are being decimated
By poison and other modern perils
Leaving the dead all alone
In their towers of silence
And I know this must be true for Rizpah will shoo them off
Until God chooses to relent…
This drought will define us
Cotton-mouthed and bone-dry
So cavalier about our own now-
Mark 6:29-30 (NIV)
On hearing of this, John’s disciples came and took his body and laid it in a tomb.  The apostles gathered around Jesus and reported to him all they had done and taught.
When I write, when I look at the pairing of words, I look at the incongruities–the disciples are cruising around healing people while…the last OT prophet is imprisoned and murdered?!
Why not storm Herod’s palace? Kick some apostate butt?
God sees the big picture. I don’t. I just have to keep my eyes on him, on the Cross.
He died. For me. For you. For John.
The Big Picture: Calvary.
She had been out of radio contact for awhile so I was glad when she called
She was in the hospital for all the usual stuff
I worry about the baby.
Give her my usual (inadequate) pep talks
There are so many kinds of prayer–which we must remember, means talking to God.
There is easy prayer
Otherwise known as grace
There is harder prayer
Which involves some level of suspense
Like when will the baby or rain
And then there is the prayer you pray for a child lost at sea.
This prayer is only possible with miracles and men rising from the dead
It starts with a profession of faith
Something like…no one could do this but You
You are a God of miracles…
Or (I admit)
God I have no idea whatsoever how you could do this but You can, only you can..
This last prayer is always a life and death matter