Missionary Sweets

Dust red eyes

huddle in charcoal smoke

under a Jacaranda tree.

Our matatu taxi

has already passed this glow,

and now another,

blackened corn and bananas

grilled with plastic ash.

We bump and slow, 

candy tossed like doves in the air

above good toothless soil.

The street boys clamor,

soap and tea to follow,

the heart built bridge

of international impact,

is brightly wrapped

and sugared.

"Suffer the little children",

we didn't know then

what we need to know now.

Bright as a lion, a single smile

fills our open window,

no longer Fatherless,

the future gains a Name.

 

Suitcase Suite

As you spread a sun song

across the island,

my arm curls your pillow.

I recite my evening prayers

and photographs of our future,

fall one at a time

from the corners of the sky.

Angels, on the ready,

list to the side of the window box, 

pacing myself, I lay out clothes

for a run to the airport.

Clock set,

the day that brings us together,

has already spent

its midnight.

With dawn, your ocean,

still warm in memory,

will wade to me forever,

and, softened to you,

I'll cast off the shell

that kept me

from the beach.

Beretta

I turn to see you rising

with the sun,

the number of days these hands

didn't touch you, are a rail of dust

between drawn blinds.

Slowly, caffeine and the Holy Ghost

bring my bones back

to the dance.

I remember a drum means

move this arm, the swinging hip,

once a signature,

begs for mercy.

There's yet a kiss here

and a doo-wop fit to turn tables.

Are you barefoot my Beretta ?

Maestro, 

rejoin our jukebox marriage.

Drop the moon like a quarter

and push my G7.

It's only hours 'til Friday night

and I've got nothing on you,

that breath

won't take away.

Promenade

In the alley, we raised

arms to flight,

matching the kiss we threw

through windows of skirts

and police search lights.

Outside the theatre,

the music, late from switching cars,

put strings on a drum

and hung horns from the balcony,

where I proposed.

You asked what my hands knew

when you bit me;

why my heart stood guard,

where are the ribbons

that held our hips 'til morning,

how is a rainbow going to press

between pages of chocolate ?

We've rehearsed this promenade,

and now to the moon.

No fanfare,  just the bride

a down beat

and groom.

When a man, meaning me,

loves a woman, meaning you,

he leaves her his skin

and walks raw in the world,

gathering bits of halo

to make a home.

What returns to him,

brighter than frosted breath,

is the purpose of sun on roses,

an altar of stars

in bloom.

Worthy Gloves

The brown boots of the man

who lives here

fill the garden gate

with promise.

I'll stand firm as a fern

and flower, make hay

in the blaze of morning glory,

temper the loam

in raised beds.

What becomes a man the most

is the woman he becomes a man for,

every shovel turned and tapped.

Snake coil hose

asleep in nasturtium,

scamper cat, chickadee twitter,

half canvas half leather,

worthy gloves slide along

the long wood handle, as chores

bend toward the Lord's sunset.

The hands inside the gloves,

the feet inside the boots

await our evening's pairing.

Left to left, right

to righteous,

drizzling sweat begins to dazzle

as the dance of jeans and cotton shoulders

becomes a wish

at the end of a candle.

Hummingbird Stop

Our red gladiolas

grow so close to the letterbox

they flag the mail carrier

to a hummingbird stop.

A stamp on the day,

postcard smile of a nephew

reading the box scores,

maybe mama needs news

of wrens loose in the kitchen.

Its all normal, Norman,

we pour five cent lemonade in 

forever cups and watch

the neighbors cinch lawn clippings

in neat nylon.

Not a shot fired,

not a screen door slammed,

sometimes, thank Jesus, the boogie man

just dances to the bass.

Pocket Full of Worms

In Carolina we cut berries

thick as nickels,

makes more noise than

an apple plopping in a bowl.

I can't say breakfast

will last 'til lunch,

but a cup of coffee seems 

to roll like Scripture

from a preacher's tongue.

I'm settling in to some Southren ways,

I can whistle up a mockingbird

and I know if you oil boil

a pampano fish,

it'll swell up like a poison dog.

The heart warms quicker than bones,

root beer floating beneath the flag

in a white rocker just because it's sunny,

and that bit about the morning

ain't no lie.

In fact a dawn bloom magnolia

make you feel as home as a robin

with a pocket full of worms,

and then one Saturday,

you're up hand mowing the lawn,

as if you always cared.

Janitor

A servant's heart

doesn't beat his chest,

hand towel and soapy water

bringing light to the eyes

of the weary,

bended knee pouring grace

over the feet of the wounded

and war torn.

Mopping up the sweat of the world,

every janitor on the planet

knows something of that.

Nobody looking when you change

the water to water

and keep wiping tears.

Picking up after the children of God.

It's child's play. Tag.

You're it. No

tag's back.

Taking a Turn

EMS vehicles screaming by my

window,

somebody's sunny day

taking a turn.

Angels with oxygen 

run up steps

check for vital signs...

ear to wisdom,

diligent hands,

a lamp onto thy feet...

My kitchen prayer shifts from chili

and crackers to the fate of a neighbor.

Background sirens just background

'til its our street,

'til its blood and breath,

life or death.

We trust the sterile gloves

to handle us, busy drivers

to pull aside, hospital doors,

shiny floors,

the technical, the medical...

Wheel the gurney into the new wing,

Intensive Prayer Unit,

the heart monitor reads two

or more gathered together,

mercy is a pulsing green line.

Flint

We've seen a little pain,

yellow McDonald's wrappers

more numerous than fish,

a missing row of crosses

aside the camouflaged road.

His Face set as flint

toward a new Jerusalem,

unarmoured innocents

slaughtered behind polling booth curtains.

The crusade's a broken record

written in a half language

shy of troublesome vowels.

A cup of water to the least of these

a silent, hidden page,

awaiting ink.

I tried tattooing scriptures

on my arms, but its the registered

heart that tells.

A pen is only mightier

than the sword

if you can read.

Short a Bloom

The March cardinal

keeps watch atop a budding pear.

Trill sergeant red above

the echoing trash men's

morning rounds.

Springer spaniel needs brushing,

loose matts of liver brown curl

scattered in the trees

for sparrow nests.

The tulip momento

of my Pastor's daughter's funeral

pushes through mud,

the yellow ones

we bought at market may blossom

sooner, but they won't match

the smile of her memorial

photograph.

A man of the cloth

cut no different from the rest.

This spring will gain a flower

but be short a bloom.

Lap of the Lord

I lay my head

in the lap of the Lord.

The wrinkled clay of my brow

smoothed by His thumb.

In my hair His breeze

is a blue blanket to my soul,

His sunlight warm silk 

to my face.

The weight of my worries

gives way to prayer.

The problems of my bones

absolve in song. The bricks

around my heart become berries

to spread on toast.

All the sins of my tongue,

every boast, insult, and lie

melt into broth and butter.

As I lay my head in the lap of the Lord,

my eyes trace the Hand that moves the stars,

my ears echo with a brook voice

breaking over stones, even my toes

are glad in clover.

Let me vow to walk every corner I've cut

again, heel to toe,

straight and narrow.

Raise in me, dear God,

the artistry to repaint

every wall I've beat my head

against.

I'm hungry now for the soup

I cried in. Let me blow

on the spoon of grace You give us,

bow my head

and dip my bread.

Amen.

Marbles

You can mumble

into marbles,

grumble over peas,

stumble from your tiptoes

while you fumble for your keys,

tumble like a gymnast or

bumble like the bees,

as long as you are humble

you're heard.

Even if your tummy rumbles

He answers prayer.

When Color Goes Missing

The light of longest day

occurs in June,

when color goes missing

we call it night.

Dip our brush

in depths scooped out of us.

There's more room for wind.

Bible says we're clay,

we'll hold water 'til we break.

Drop the phone.

Let it echo in the canyon

eroding through us.

When my mom died

I started smoking Camels

on her grave.

When I heard about yours,

I quit.

Color to Cloth

Recycled wool splits the eye

of the hooking needle

to be plied into dragon rugs,

yellow scales rescued

from forgotten mittens.

The Spirit of the Lamb

spins the wheel

that brought these fibers

to my mother's hands.

Long coats of depression and

pants legs of sub-zero temperatures

find themselves in rose bush

or sea gull wing.

Bankers hang her carousel carpets

between sweeping surveillance cameras,

Turkish blue talismans soar

above Hopi sand snakes.

Taking the task of color to cloth

she'd soak and steam

a single sock to strain

strands of charcoal shade.

Investigating the promise of flight

these woven shreds afford,

I sit on my rug from Ma,

consecrating the umbilical skein

of heirlooms.