The surgeon wielded a chainsaw
Strapped to his hip
a low hanging gun.
Vines of artificial hemp lifted and held fast to the surgeon
as spiked heels dug into the patient’s flesh.
The mechanical, maniacal roar of the scalpel
would cut and prune
in a effort to bring the patient
to a place of acceptance.
Acceptance by those who occupied the structures
made of relatives long ago murdered.
Correction brought with
and a single finger that gripped and pointed,
pointed and gripped.
From time to time a telling thump
could be heard as branch or limb
fell to sun hardened earth.
Could anyone hear the cries of the patient?
“You cut too deep!”
“You pruned too much!”
Sap spilled over the skin from open wounds
tears not unlike those shed
by a jilted lover
a shamed child.
Silent, yet filled with experiences unshared,
unknown by any other.
Over time the patient slept
and attempted to recover from correction
as sunshine teased wounded limbs
to bring forth life again.
Water sprinkled wound and ground –
or just to say the healing ritual had be done?
Yet, the surgeon cut too deep.
The patient, now a victim,
Indeed this piece is about the loss of a tree in my front yard. At the same time, this tree and its loss has become something of a metaphor to me of battles I am seeing fought all to often.
The prophet cries
Till the prophet’s cry
Is silenced by those
The prophet acts
Till the prophet’s act
Is halted by those
The prophet dies
Then the prophet’s die
Is cast – aside –
Or lives to abide
Where the true self
Need never, ever hide.
O Jerusalem! O Jerusalem! You kill the prophets and stone the messengers who are sent to you. How often I wanted to gather in your children as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings, but you were not willing to come to Me.
Luke 13:34 The Voice
There exists among the clouds
A blue so deep
That it beckons to the ones
Scanning heaven for peace.
One side – then the other
Succumb to precipitous billows.
While the path of the deepest
Paints a song of pure light
From the sky, to the earth,
Through the eye, piercing soul,
The Via Media.
“Dragon history is always oral history. The written word is so final, so set. Yes, people argue about it but in the end, their arguments are all about interpretation. The spoken word remains alive, writhing, and twisting forever.”
One of the Hazanim
When my brothers and sisters in the faith (and a daughter by blood among them) come together in just a few weeks in Portland, there will be much that has been read and even more that will be said. I know that many prayers are being shared for this holy gathering of people who must worry about words. I only hope the one I add is read by a few, spoken by more, and heard by the only One that matters.
A Prayer for Portland 2016
Gathered from scattered gatherings of the very same clan
They flock and nest in one place for weeks.
To reproduce? To create? To be recreated?
To hold fast? To change? To paint a brighter future?
No one knows what will really happen but my prayer is this:
Let your words, whatever words you share,
even the ones in the deepest, darkest corners,
of the unseen places of your heart, be words of life.
Speak those words to life and let all others die the death of the Accuser.
Leave as one, returning to places where clans gather
To share One,
To offer recreation,
To hold fast,
To speak a brighter future into existence
with words that cannot fail.
Leave as one…to hope.
A Spring flower pokes through the ground…
And one sees the end of all winter;
One sees a sign of hope;
One sees a fragile creature doomed to the next bite of frost.
Pushing up through the ground in search of the sun,
This little one
Some see it as a thing for them –
To determine the worth and valor.
But maybe, just maybe, this little one
Who chooses a journey
Many wise ones would dare not take
Is the one who really finds the presence of God –
Even in the passing shadow of a photographer.
It amazes me what some people see,
Because they always look outward for signs of God’s presence.
They only share what’s inside in
A hope fueled by vanity
To cultivate or force faith upon another.
Some never venture into the Resurrection that lies within –
the scary place
Of dormant seasons
And long waits.
What does the crocus see on its journey?
What does the missionary see as they journey to new places?
Is God only found in what we describe or is profundity procured perfectly when we look inside for peace.