4.29
he drives off without a goodbye,
vague friend of only a brief
while
on the island of no dreams
where lost souls go to
rest up
and catch a new breath or
start or whatever will play
again.
people passing through
may be all that can be
allowed
while on the way. we each
have our limitations
and
looking the other way may
be all that can suffice
for grace.
————————
4.28
tired, tired, tired today
tried, tried, tried to say
that all is good and
all is fine, but only
heart that heard is mine.
———————–
4.27
the silver dappled mare
stands ever in the grove
watching, waiting, head
turned back over a pale
shoulder as we pass
on the road.
so regular an observer
we wonder if it is a statue,
until the neck shudders
away some insect then turns
to nod down.
why would she stand so there
day after day, shackled or
resting, at ease in the copse
of trees out of the Na’alehu
sun.
home. memory. familiarity.
a calm of presence, as if
the world’s passing by
is only an illusion from
the vantage of her
grove of reality.
—————————————
4.26
puppy shows up to be fed
with a friend. hungry strays
telling each other where to
find a meal.
maybe Jesus-dog taught
her from that place where
canines know things they
only hint to us in wags.
her eyes say hello. it’s you.
God sent me.
——————-
4.25
Houses in dreams
are our soul selves
images of emotion, hope, fear,
projection, insight.
On this day that our youngest
makes his step-out college choice,
demolition begins in the kitchen
soul center of our actual house.
He is leaving, the last of the nest
and we tear out our hearts
to start again. To find a new
open space in the center.
I pause at the correlation. Coincidence
is God’s way of remaining anonymous,
said the sign. Let those with ears to hear
hear.
——————————-
4.24
the little golf cart takes us
through the construction
zone to the clinic.
the clinic stairs take us up
to the deconstruction zone
for what’s ailing.
between the two the ride
back out is much more
satisfying.
———————
4.21
he’s washing the dishes. a
man shouldn’t do that. it’s
embarrassing. the other kid’s
dad’s don’t. it’s women’s work.
I hide my head.
I stand at the sink now years
later and see my mother’s hands
raw, cracked, hurting. he did
it for her, out of love, long before
we learned to lib.
I am embarrassed now, that I
didn’t see the strong heart in
those brute shoulders, bent
forward with the scrub brush
in his hands.
——————–
4.22
tan stripes tiger across her
short haired black coat, lone
survivor, abandoned puppy,
stray.
so many strays come to the
promised land, hearts open-
closed from the wounds, hoping
for redemption.
abandoned, injured, cast off,
neglected, leaning on St. Jude’s
comfort for lost causes and
hopes.
we put out food for the stray
recalling ourselves at the wait
for a morsel, longing for
a crumb
remembering the moment
when the impossible Lover
surprised us into
new lives.
———————–
4.21
Bare feet slap the earth, searching for
consort with rhythms of the earth,
probing, connecting at deep warm
dark places
Fr. Jack was a happy man
who fell in love with his people
and flowed to their gods.
He could have been seen
as a failure, but the joy in
his eyes stayed present.
Spiritually connected, loving
the power and joy of what
they taught him.
Of being alive in the midst of hurt,
of dancing and feeling and hope
that outlasts the hard.
Beneath, beyond, beloved
he saw the Lord through
different eyes.
And stayed humble and whole
fragile and human, vibrant in his weakness
a priest indeed.
—————————-
4.20
wondering at the hurt that
can move a heart to such
recrimination
recrim, re crime, re criming.
re-cre-hating, the damage
done to a soul.
——————
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