Golden

 

A golden crowned sparrow 

stole the thunder

from my remarkably annoying alarm clock

for the second time this week.

My feathered friend’s

descending three-note song

awakened and arrested me

with the insistence of memory,

Sounds and flavors plucked straight 

from simple moments of childhood

can bring me to my knees. 

This bird

with his comforting and familiar refrain 

brought a morning message 

of peace and gratitude 

from a back yard in Red Hill

where my wonderfully stubborn Poppop 

built a high-rise apartment 

on an impossibly tall metal pole.

It has been nearly 50 years 

since I last heard that song. 

But somehow 

it still feels like 

sunshine

and comfort

in my bones. 

The Floor at 64

It’s surprising how quickly 

the floor rises to greet me

these days.

Two weeks ago I soared magically 

on a lovely Persian carpet

across the new shine my husband

so agreeably added to our hardwood floors.

There was a mighty crash.

Shocking both

for the speed with which I skated

and the naive bravado I assumed 

when congratulating myself for no blood

or splintered bone. 

‘I’m not old”

I said

as foolhardy foreshadowing 

a full twenty-four hours

before I couldn’t move my neck

for days.

The floors of Virginia

have displayed remarkable swiftness as well

My beloved grand-dog

was the furry catalyst last night. 

Tripping over his adorable Westie frame

catapulted me into a pitiable crumpled form.

A spectacular faceplant with reading glasses skidding….

My knee and cheekbone racing to see

which would impact first.

I reclined with my frozen pea ice pack

(preemptive ibuprofen on board)

grateful again for no obvious fractures.

But I wondered:

how I’d reached my mid-sixties so quickly,

how much more treacherous 

floors would soon become,

and how long it would be 

until my neck ceased moving 

once again. 

Flame

 It’s warmer today

but not warm enough

to thaw 

the underlying blanket of immobility 

pressing on my good intentions 

not warm enough to ease the paralyzing numbness

so effectively preventing my lungs

from daring to inhale 

a restoring breath of hope

I find myself waiting for the unflinching heat of change

before I shed the embarrassing layers of self-preservation 

I seem to have accumulated

over this winter of chaos and cruelty 

Heavier than a weighted blanket is

this oppressive mistrust of people and systems

The constant and intentional onslaught has

knocked me flat.

Has left me playing the role of victim 

rather than the able-bodied author of my own story

Today, I’ve allowed discouragement

to fall like a boot on my neck

preemptively squashing my optimism. 

I’ve succumbed to the chill 

of the defeated.

Okay, now I’ve named it.

And next I’m going to shed at least a few of the heavy layers I’ve been collecting.

I’m going to be brave.

I’m going to be hopeful. 

I’m going to remind myself LOVE wins. 

I’m going to unearth my box of matches.  

Against all inclination to burrow in, 

I will set my intention on sparking a flame

And I will pray that flame 

might lend the warmth 

someone else needs

in order to do the same. 

I am reminded of the first three verses of a hymn I love. 

1. O love that will not let me go,

I rest my weary soul in thee;

I give thee back the life I owe,

That in thine ocean depths its flow

May richer, fuller be.

2. O Light that follows all my way,

I yield my flick'ring torch to thee;

My heart restores its borrowed ray,

That in thy sunshine's blaze its day

May brighter, fairer be.

3. O Joy that seekest me thru' pain,

I cannot close my heart to thee;

I trace the rainbow thru' the rain

And feel the promise is not vain

That morn shall tearless be.

These Days

Buffoons in full wartime regalia are invading the homes of our neighbors 

People’s workplaces are a hunting ground too, where desperation labors to scratch out an existence 

Where terrified brown-skinned human beings show up for menial work so they can feed the children they will be violently forced to abandon 

Somehow

in this nauseating stew of corruption, 

the entitled and inhumane deal-makers… 

the proven felons 

and documented pedophiles

are still calling the shots.

These days, the good guys appear to be finishing last.

White supremacy is having its day. 

The death rattle of the patriarchy is being funded by the elites and oligarchs. 

And the church of Jesus looks on.

A grieving remnant of them in horror

with tear-stained cheeks 

and stomachs roiling in disgust.

Disgust at the files…

disgust at the willful blindness preached at volumes to fully drown out every word of the sermon on the mount…

disgust at the sacrilege on display at a national prayer breakfast…

and disgust at the inconceivable complicity of those claiming the name of our redeemer. 

When?

Please, WHEN will any of this be redeemed?

Lord, how long?

Lord, how long will the wicked be allowed to gloat?

Psalm 94 asked the same.

Lord, have mercy.

These days, I feel around with chapped winter hands, fumbling in the dark, trying to hold fast to tiny bits of increasingly elusive hope. 

I wake up determined to DO something helpful 

To reflect heaven’s light SOMEWHERE. 

ANYWHERE.

And too often close my eyes at the end of the day defeated by no measurable illumination.

The work is wearying.

These days, cruelty and disinformation are more plentiful than cat reels as I scroll. 

Lord God, I miss the blissful naivety of watching cats, greeting neighbors, and relying on my siblings in the church to be salt and light.

(📸 photo credit Galen Guengerich)