The power of words

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I have been working through the power of two ordinary words–insubstantial and last.

Sometimes the forms we use to write can seem arbitrary or essential–poetry might be either feint or love song, prose the empassioned plea or the ordinary transmission of thought.

So to have two words with such strong ties to poetry and be stuck in prose seems remedial.

Remedial.  Another place to dwell in the in-between.

Last is powerful.

Last supper

Lasting love

It is either the end or the enduring.

While insubstantial could be a sum of cash, a minor wound, a flimsy shelter in the wind.

Or it could be the kite by which we see the strength of wind.

The papery thin construction of human meaning.

The space of a commercial on tv.

I will still abide with these two words, still puzzle over their highest use.

Prose until I can adequately distill ordinary nourishers into

…strong drink.

Apparition 

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after years measured in either sabbaticals or fists

The woman in the box 

Realizes she has only been an apparition 

Sorting through previous 

Versions of “her”

She sees one to nurture– 

No lines around the eyes or heart

An ordinary girl

Who believed in human intervention

Fragile thing, scoops her up

Just a bird in the hand;

Looks for a place to set her down

If only to assess 

the utility of wings

Older Brother

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My son tells me his fears and I tell him mine are remarkably similar–fear of the tragic loss of love.

Sometimes he and I get to the end of an ordinary day and he says our crew is still together, Mom.

We are citizens of a dangerous and lonely kingdom.

But only because the true King travels in disguise.

He is this magnetic force–scarred forever by his tragic love for us, hole in the chest and again in each Vitruvian extremity.

Stranger at the party.

You should get to know this guy.  His words and actions may seem either simple or radically divisive, but His gaze is irrevocable.

He is the perfect older brother, fierce in both love and justice.  When I dread this fallen world I turn to Him.

Knowing He will never fail.

Monsters of righteousness

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Imagine them as you will but never

Assume your scepticism will make them 

Mythological again

In the smoke of our discarded daughters 

/commerce of indifference 

Shoots craps in crowded rooms

Sweat-palmed cash for common shame

Summon  these 

Monsters of righteousness

From this fire we

have made of love.

Walmart Sunday School

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As much as I feel like I have won the lottery when I go to Walmart and snag a short checkout line, I have a pocket full of unforgettable stories that only happened because I had to wait in a monster line.

Last night I did not have to wait and got the story too.

I asked my cashier if Father’s Day was a busy day.  She said not too bad but that Sunday after church is no picnic.

Apparently some of the church crowd can be a little preachy and impatient, lecturing the minimum wage employees of megastores on how they should not work on Sundays and…goose things up and move the line faster.

While she and I commiserated on the hypocrisy she very efficiently checked through my groceries, including a bundt cake.  The customer next to me exclaimed toward the cake–

What-is-that!?

Unlike our often fussy, judgmental, loveless brand of Christianity, the bundt cake was unmistakable inviting.

Thermal Paper

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I try to write you

Words of place

Search for ways to make monuments out of sheer

Thermal paper…

Keep your receipts

Each time the shopkeep

Asks us the question 

…need your receipt?

Say yes Darling

Take these scraps of who we are 

Were, will be

You and me, Baby

This inkless, thermal magic only you

Can make your indelible mark on “we”

Words written on paper 

Miraculously appearing with just the fire 

Of the friction 

Between our fingers

Hey Miss Veronica

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When I first saw Finding Nemo it was so much about you.

And after all these years, Finding Dory is much the same.

I may have been your brief and most arbitrary mama, but I will love you forever.

And your foster dad and I will never stop laying down the shells…not just for your way back to us, but as a mosaic for how you changed us forever.

You, beautiful girl.

I hear ya, Ayesha

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I don’t tweet, in fact I don’t socially mediate outside this blog…but I totally–totally support Ayesha Curry’s 1st amendment right to speak up, Girl!

Which leads me to the question I can’t believe no one else is asking–

Is she right?!

Is the game rigged?

I have the highest level of respect for Steph Curry and I am a total second-hand NBA watcher.  To me it is a high-priced game and a reminder that the women of the WNBA are getting shafted.

So sing it, Ayesha.  Tell me more about rigged contests for ratings and money.

And shame on the game if we let the old boys run the show just to line their pockets.

Underestimating Dragons

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I love them when they snake totemistically through the clouds, smoke before the storm

And when they are filigree-perfect by the pool, along the slender branches of new trees

Skin the same green as the leaves

But when it is the serpent 

Climbing vertically toward the sparrowlets,

I cannot either 

Turn, ignore 

Or observe with the objective skill of a naturalist

intervene

Knowing grace is more than words before a meal

Or a sticker you wear to church on your lapel

Grace is the Hand that

saves the sparrow

Even at the mortal expense

Of the dragon.

Come Rain

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we watched the old man

Build his doohiggy in the yard

For a hundred years

We mocked 

his talk of “rain”

Unaltering our behavior

To the very end

Through the procession of paired creatures

Too quiet, too orderly, in hindsight 

No longer

surprised when he shuts up his wooden spaceship 

Seven day still

Then 

Come rain

Rise relentless river 

Through the rooms of our careless together

Drips, drops, seep, torrent, flood

words we coin

In the last moments of our lives

As the world entire

Recedes