Sundown on the Child

Suburban patriarch

puffs up florescent inflatables

and vacuums the pool.

Kids coming,

grandkids too,

reunion for most of us,

introduction for the intendeds 

and the baby.

Graduation is the cover,

envelopes and cameras,

the youngest is now a legit

know-it-all, her siblings hover

to praise and tease and eat.

The light of our world is freed

from roll call and on parade.

We watch her wave to the grandstand

and pray she adjusts her mirrors,

top down on the Volkswagen,

sundown on the child

raised up in the Way.

Dust to Must

Undone monks grapple

torn asphalt.

Cat shriek walls fall

in cement birthday layers

of caked infants,

mothers missing in mirrors,

a teacher's hand

flower pressed to a chalk

board of promise.

Emergency coffees riffle,

winged fingers make eye bridges.

The graves got greedy,

water drowned the bare mountains,

bamboo curtains slapped against

a window to the world.

We have long lost these uncles

of surging rice cups and water.

Shelter is a bag and sticks.

Family is any pulse in a storm.

Our living room is any part of a paycheck

in  relief.

The face of a nation

is held in the heart of a neighbor,

there's no denying two denarii won't do

what's due, but duty

isn't beauty, until it's you.

From dust, to must we

lift from the mud again, orphaned

resurrection from the suction

of martyred mire. 

The swinging Hand in the bucket

brigade is pierced,

its more than necessary now, to know

we're not alone.

Municipal Portion

I sprint to adjust the lawn watering

dervish device, illegal these many drought months

and then the day before a downpour,

I catch the outermost drops

on my satisfied boots.

There's a mortgage on

each blade of grass,

a second on the fence vines.

Our shade oak of righteousness

drinks in its municipal portion,

careful to stretch toward God

in a wireless sky.

The younger maple is spitting

a worrisome leaf curl,

the years old hurricane break

nearly exposed. Easy to see

not yet competing canopies

will make a front yard marriage

of trees, proud Papa, ever ready

at the rake.

Comes with Thorns

The vase is a pulpit

of the backyard rose,

snipped in prime

for appreciative sniffing

of the decorative predator.

Is it any wonder

it comes with thorns ?

The Lincoln, Stewart, American

Beauty burst to fragrance

of fresh torn black cherry

Jello pack.

We name ours after favorite

Red Sox Outfielder Coco Crisp

and bear the pollen stuffed nose

and sneeze as dues

of cultivation.

The storeboughts cause cancer

in Ecuador, pesticide runoff

suffocating fish.

The ugly cost of beauty

marring Mother's Day profits.

Long stems in the arms

of champions and queens,

we made this bed of

short sighted petals,

parading a legacy

of skin spotted

leaves.

Up Against the Call

"Our Father who..."

That's okay for you,

do you know who you're

talking to ?

Let's not quibble

about a man in the middle,

I am the me in

familia 

stiff neck hammer head

up against the Call.

Confess the mess. 

If it ain't broke

I'm not using it right,

talking 'bout my heart

it's supposed to be contrite.

Everything He's done for me

I'm taking it in stride,

little lower than the angels

but swelling up with pride.

Would I give a drink of water

to the least of these,

someone's son or daughter

could I heal their disease ?

O MY GOD

do you care about that ?

O MY GOD

don't scare me like that !

What's designed to connect us

been so blind it dissects us,

we all pretend we'd stand up to a tank

it's only on our knees

we have Someone to thank,

-the original Apostles took it to the bank

-but before the Holy Ghost 

-they're kissing up for rank.

He's the Big Brother man,

the care for each other Lamb,

look to the Lion and

join the race He won and ran.

Unchain the attitude,

show your wife some gratitude,

spare your kids the platitude.

A family's more than photos

ribboned in a box,

there's a key in the Blood we share

pouring through the locks.

Walk this mile in the sandals

we're unworthy to unlatch.

Remember He's the Fisherman

we're the daily catch.

"His Name art in Heaven"

hallowed,

is the game.

Due West

The geese don't know

they're Canadian,

tracking due west over

new growth red tip,

pollen spitting long leaf

and the waterway

of Echo Farm Golf Course.

I've got coffee brewed

for my eldest, who seeks

a wife today.

His Chevy half ton trekking

due west to Atlanta,

tracking a computer connection

from a Kenyan lady.

His alarm is

double past snooze,

the spaniel knows somethings up

even if he isn't yet.

It's first light now,

if this is a promise prepared,

we pray for sure election.

On the road to start a family,

Abraham, Joseph,

there's been some travellin' done.

I hear a zipper

close the duffel bag,

this time it's my

son.

San Quentin

Thieves come against locks

on windows, locks on doors.

Your heart can't be stolen

when you give it away.

If your hand be extended,

an inmate befriended,

the crime of isolation

caves in.

At the bars or behind 'em,

lonely is where you find 'em,

the trouble on their faces

is a sin.

We pretend we can't be busted,

convince ourselves we're trusted, but

it's only by His Grace

they let us in.

His Light is not to blind them,

your smile never random,

start by trading places

from within.

Catechism Coins II

The view of the Garden,

from God's windowsill,

has rows of hearts

unhardened,

blossoms of His Will.

Catechism Coins I

Our worship is imperfect

yet He translates it to song.

The treasure trembling in our voices

has been His Kingdom

all along.

Sling Song

The fall of a giant

is just a stone's throw away.

It's not the skill of the wind up

when you let go and let God,

the purpose of heaven,

rides on your arm

to the degree you ride

your knees.

A prayer is both weapon

and shield,

rising like incense

with a megaton yield.

Even a mocker

in his midnight of days,

will cross his heart

and hope to die

forgiven.

It's that simple

and more than the simple

apply.

Clear your throat

and your conscience,

sing the song of a boy with a sling.

Hurl your heart,

hard and high,

'til it lands

in His Hands.

Jamaica Jif

Dawn breaks a robin shell sky,

Achai fruit too high for stones,

twitters, warbles, flute loose

bag of feathered marble notes,

hard shelled insects

stitching the air, 

'til heat

stills all but mango leaves.

Bougainvillea climbs clouds above

hibiscus hide a bus stop,

azuring sea, 

turquoise tin shack,

rolled lavender currency,

hot plate cappuccino, 

sweet Betty cream

dissolves a sugar block.

Perfumed patio, Patois patter

moving forward on the left,

bare feet, bear the weight on the Rock.

Swaying cane sign say,

"Walk good, keep fatalities low."

Hummingbirds and orchids twine

in salute of tangerine nectar.

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.