Bread Crumbs

 
I walked on unfamiliar ground today
Leaving thoughts, like bread crumbs,
Between the down of thistles and parched green weeds,
So I could find my way home if I got scared.
Maybe my crumbs were like a prayer,
That someone would pass by,
And piece together these bits and find my heart.
There was innocence in this ritual;
I still hoped that casting my bread upon the earth
Would yield answers the whole of humanity had not offered.

But there was a surprising wisdom in the journey as well.
In the beginning I would have traded my solitude
for companionship for fear of wild bears.
But here, in the clear light of day after a long walk alone,
the slow emptying of my heart for the birds
Created the sweetest voice that sang my own silent words.

Poets and Sunsets

If you look at a sunset anywhere in the world and let the beauty of the sun kissing the day goodbye sink into your memory, it gives you a poet’s mind. If you look at a sunset anywhere in the world and see with clarity the shade of orange and the state of the cloud as a shadow stretches taut, it gives you a prophet’s vision. If you look at a sunset anywhere in the world and hope in the sunrise coming, it gives you a disciple’s heart.

 Poets and prophets live in all of us. It is becoming faithful in loving God that makes poets and prophets disciples. Becoming a disciple means becoming a servant and trusting the spirit will come like the sunrise. All of us are born with everything we need to make the journey. Everyone can see visions: Visions are sight, filled with grace. Everyone can be a poet: Poets are people who see visions and are willing to bear witness to them. Everyone can be a Prophet: Prophets are people who are willing to speak the truth of their visions to the world. But to become a disciple, a hopeful servant of a loving God, takes us a lifetime of sunsets.

We could write poetry forever about the subtly of the pink in sunsets but if we are not caring for the creation, we are wasting precious paper. We could preach forever, railing against the injustices of the principalities, but if we are not acting to ease one another’s burdens, the words are hollow and self-serving. The story of becoming servants of God is unfolding in the great span of time before and after sunsets. It is the story of a practice of love lived out in our individual and communal life.

Decanted brandy

a poem I wrote earlier this Spring.

 
I am happy sitting with my thoughts.
They are rich company.
Memories, like flowered wallpapers,
Hung when time was slower,
Decorate my interior halls.
Fading makes them sweeter,
The aging more tender.
Desire, like decanted brandy,
Sits on interior shelves.
Knowing it’s there, capped,
Makes my throat burn.
Travel is easy in this space,
Where dreams are free to take time.
Thoughts, beyond words, live in wind,
And carry me quicker than smell,
To sacred ground I once walked.

March 24, 2007