Cloud of Praise

God is the only One

who's heard it all before,

every whisper tone tenor

in every Georgia juke joint

joining the jumble of julip glasses

and pay day smiles,

every under the breath grunt

of the pineboard piano player

counting his honeys and black worn keys,

the vocalisms of a fronting throat singer

that may have been golden or silver in youth

but has bronzed and brassed

with the crowds applause

or indifference.

"Why's the devil got all the good music?"

is the revivalist organist's accelerando.

"Well, he don't actually," is what God says

from the back corner booth

everything that has breath hanging on His 

every word. Rackety crickets pop

outside the window, crispy flying things

fry in zapper blowing under the porch awning.

Willow leaves whistle in their own night, 

nightingales prove the point in their black eyes

is a star from the far side of a cymbal ride

that has even the lamest feet tapping.

You want glory realized?

Trace the walking bass

to the blindless place in your heart

and the all seeing skirts of the dancers

that raise up the dust we came from

in a cloud of praise.

On Deck

All my prayers

are sailor's words,

trying to push the rain.

For three days

soldier grey cumulus

hid the arc of hawks.

Before pillows cool my head

I'm up, counting moons.

Is He walking on waves tonight ?

I'd call out through the storm,

but I know you too,

are waiting to hear your name.

Anchor

Straight as the crow cries

a dawn between storms

lights the rain weighted daisies.

Barrel bellied bees bungie

on long lavender wands.

I've got the straw beds down

between bean and beat rows

in case Jesus comes to lay His head

in the cool shadow of sunflower crowns.

I hope He finds me here

with a gentle pea pickin' heart,

butterflies curious if I'm as sweet

as swaying cosmos.

"I've come for the lost,"

and me mapping my way with lies,

forgeries, forced advantage,

foot in a snare,

hand in the cookie jar...

overnight a young green tendril

seeks anchor at the beanpole

of Calvary.

Push

I don't care more

than you care,

I doubt my lungs

take more in,

I'm a feather in the middle

that completes a wing,

a blueberry

balancing on butter just so,

if there's a diamond

abandoned in your mother's drawer,

a key to an office

long closed,

then I'm the right age

for coffee on the porch,

I'll remember books

and gospels long overdue,

if you get a phone call

that returns

and returns to a swing in a tree,

I'll push, do a duck under

and run.

Four Strides

Peas tall as rain,

winged flowers strung to a pole,

careful to plant boots

between ankle deep beans,

I snap pods for salad.

The whole patch is four strides

by ten, just enough mud

to stain fingernails

and knees. Late lettuce

bolted since the storm I hoped

would drown the mole.

No flaming sword at the gate

but it is a bit of Eden,

for beginners.

Footnotes

Feet on the floor,

one day the cold wood

could shock the heart,

the daily miracle of knees

interrupted.

Aspirin, magnesium, exercise, even

scripture, all cautions;

an ant wrestling crumbs

across a mountain of cake,

the arterial paths of stars,

the pulse of the moon.

We make our way, 

grunting turtles in the sand.

If it were just magnets and light,

this thing of mornings from night,

we'd not bother with letters or names,

or footnotes to the intelligent

design.

Mud of a Man

Airborne blossoms

simulate snow,

a blushed blizzard

of parachuting pear petals

touches down on up turned

ground, a new garden.

Seeds captive in a sack

await almanac

for thumb deep immersion

in sanctified soil,

new life in three days rain...

a bud added to the body

of earth to catch sunbeams

and make them fruit.

Unless a saint dies in harvest

saints can't spring up.

The Savior taught that from a tree.

Scorned, thorned, born

for this, to breathe His life

into the mud of a man.

Sparrows and Lilies

There is a gold

butter envies in a sunset

backlighting

a stand of long leaf pines.

Spring begins extending light,

gilding a dozen tree top sparrows

as purple crocus

thumb up from the ground.

Swaying maple buds

tap their hint at resurrection

against stained glass

as we ash our foreheads in

procession,

from the basement, a crashing noise

as the Life of the party

drops burial cloths,

and the faces of lilies

rupture death's dour door.

Loaves

Modest commerce,

trading Mingus recordings

for coffee, Coltrane for 'cados.

We make eggs from music,

a garage sale of loaves and fishes,

worn wicker baskets stacked to capture

the outpouring sun.

It's still too cold to consider lilies,

new birdbath is dry, drained

by an ice storm crack,

sparrows in tumult descend

on scattered seed.

A circus of squirrels tightropes the fence.

What we feed now

we'll shoo when the fruit

comes in.

Oreo full moon melts,

evening tea bags twice squeezed

to stretch the week.

We'll make it to payday

but not by bread alone.

Echo

The house is without onions,

grey has overdrawn the sky.

Silent cell phone in the other room

begs an echo.

The young girl's cat,

missing the girl,

nests anew 

in every chair.

We pretend to read,

fingers following every line,

but lacking pictures the pages

stay unturned.

It might as well be

the one night Jesus

lay dead.

Even the motor gunning trucks

are dry leaves in a blind alley.

Separation is not a mother's

favorite skill.

Bum ankle creaking stairs,

I cart the coffee trey and cereal,

ancient altar boy in steaming

processional.

As the cups are finished,

the calendar fast forwards

toward return.

Window Dressing

The day after sin sits

frozen, off yellow wax

staining the otherwise blue.

If it weren't for the light

of the Empty Tomb,

you'd think it ruined,

but as the window seat glass

reflects the wondering face

above approaching city lamps,

a whisper of angels

numbers a current of prayers,

circling in the air draft,

posting the eternal ETA

of our forgiveness

and future.

Far from home,

going home,

the jammed seats

face forward to a welcome

landing, the trained to be friendly

personnel assure us

the gravity we just defied

bears no grudge,

and the first steps we take

in the new, will much resemble

our last, dignified

by hope.

Common

My wit's end

is a balloon string

spectacular in release.

I lean into the wind

"blowing where it wishes"

and watch my apprehensive crutch

fall to the yard.

Messianic melodies

drape on a mandolin,

is it a mitzvah ?

Our Deity digs ditties,

a few angels spared

for the heads of tuning pegs.

Not yet old men,

our grown children

groan over our table manners

at the Feast.

Challah bread and jelly

not the only things

common  to our plate.

Lip

What God joined together,

a curt hurt

separated. The promise 

to have and to hold

tossed, crumpled,

by the road.

Though far out in a huff,

the proven meatball recipe called for a call,

cell phone tether

eased me back to a warm kitchen

and you, apronned, stirring

that famous red sauce,

tomato pasting our marriage.

An accosting lip is

better bit, tears

blinking to realize my stubborn steps

nearly led the eye to eye

to a storm.

 

Rib

On the day I was wrong

about everything,

far from Jesus feet

perfumed by the penitent,

I loosened my shoe

rubbing the dust of the world

from my soul.

What should've been love,

tore like a blanket,

stained coffee dark,

heart bitter.

This husband,

reduced to a mad pissing boy,

woodshedding tears,

wringing the too late truth

from a dish towel

after spoiling supper.

You don't make up for this,

the rib is missing,

apple bit.

Sit sunken in a cornered couch,

watching His wash basin

circle the upper room.

Aqua Caliente

Hot water with kale and wide noodles

is soup.

Steep comfrey leaf with raspberry

for tea.

A basin with soap bar

makes a bath.

Only by itself is hot water

considered trouble.

Walk/Don't Walk

There's new blue paint

splattered in the crosswalk.

I don't know if its representation

of where Eula Long was hit,

or if its random pigmentation.

Fifty feet of pedestrian yo-yo,

the body whistles by,

an elder loon voice

broken by inattentive steel.

I heard the story

just a week before she died.

A lithographer, Eula went

to poetry seed when blind hands

refused paper and pen.

More barbed than the bark

of Saint Burbank's roses, her crone croon 

recorded "Cats and Doggerel",

just eight years short

of a very personal

century.

Roof Drums

Painted parrots border the ceiling,

expensive rubber roof

drums under rain,

sweet smoke of pecan wood

rises and reflected flickerings

play shadow puppet on the Persian-

Iranian carpet.

Home has moved indoors

for a season,

at brightest noon maybe

a cup of tea at the covered pool,

Saturday we'll gain back that hour

that would've helped me

at the bank.

Elections, play-offs,

birthdays, pumpkins,

short calendar, long

blankets, hour by hour

the breath draws closer

to frost. We don't rub our hands

together just to pray,

but we do pray.

Porch Light

Late summer, early evening bat

picks off no-see-ums

under circling swallows,

once again humidity reminds me

what i have in common with Banderas

is sticky t-shirts and jeans.

I down a bucket of iced hibiscus

and plot pennant races,

eager beaver stars

pop between whispering clouds,

ain't nothing here to hold

til it turns blue,

everythings numbered,

even the days til the stitches

come out of my dog's eye.

The command is to be still

and know which side the Bread of Life

is buttered on. Easier to face

in the face of a breeze, cricket chorus and solo

frog adding harmony to 

folded hands and bending knee.

Porch light plays out the night,

waiting for the prodigal,

robe folded in my lap,

the weight of a ring

turning cool in my palm.

Civics

The dog days are not

a month to me, unless

it rains, I stash plastic baggies

in my civic duty pockets 

and allow two morning leashes

to pull my shoulder sockets

to the curb.

The still orange sun bedazzles

dew wet tips of fresh mowed green

as a squadron of dragonflies

hums yellow and blue beside us,

the pup following a nose

with time leaps of its own,

the matron content to trot a long,

as long as I follow protocol.

I married into this privilege

of seemly suburban postcardism,

convicted by an Irish movie script,

"if ya cain't love a dog, ya cain't love anything."

For all my choir singing and grace before meals,

it's somehow very tidy

that the depth of my heart is known

by morning romps and brushings

and fresh water in a bowl.

Hand Span

It's not good for a man

to be alone,

except at the piano.

If your right hand offend thee

add a bass note.

Strolling blues,

the envy of angels,

hand span halleluiahs

crimp demons, double octaves

chase the devil from chorus

to coda.

Exchange the time clock

for a metronome

and you're home on seven

continents.

Bars and spaces

frame the soul,

long dead Europeans

and ghetto saints

lay out the truth

on black and white

keys to the kingdom. 

If Mama made you play

thank her today,

if she didn't,

she will.