Echoes and Moments

The Last Cup We recline, The last bits of meat, figs, and dates roll around The bronze, the wood plates and cups - a testimony to Enemies made friends through the long journeys now Complete in this room, this upper place prepared By a Stranger. Take comfort in the smiles, the Laughter that will soon be forgotten, soon fleeing fast As you scatter into the night, frightened by Swords and clubs, the chains, the Whips and chords wrapping tight around My Bleeding arms and legs as I walk, Never to see My Face like this before you again. Conversation quiets, the chuckles hush, and Attention clings to me again like so many Afternoons before the crowds in my Galilee, these boys and men still fresh From lives lived among them who now Remain Outside it all. "Why is this Night distinct among all others?" They stare, and I lift this wheat, simple flour without yeast Fired in clay and baked for sustenance As it was in generations past. "Remember the Ni...

I Am Tired (A Lament) I am tired; my eyes trace another stone Hurled from hateful hands, flying unhindered To crush my bones to powder, my blood to rivers Again the death I fear reminds me there Is a fool's hope for escape. I am tired; my nose fills with smoke As fingers fling matches burning Pillars of flame sear my hair to cinder And their snarling laughter purges This heretical body of its unholy love. I am tired; I stare into the rifle's barrel yet again, My eyes obscured from my neighbor's face Hidden behind a black helmet and plexiglass shield, The land their people stole filled with black smoke Trailer traffic, and a long, steel dragon swallowing Oceans of black poison sucked dry from Earth. I am tired; my shoulders ache under the weight Of this beam thrust upon my shoulders, the Jeers of the crowd now hurled at me, though I Was minutes ago just another pilgrim here for worship, Now staring into the face of a bleeding man who can Barely ...

My mind is busy when you enter, the first one who comes today The space where I work full of books and writings, all Testaments to my people, their pictures covering my desk. Your question is innocent, yet opens wounds again You did not know, and so I answer in truth: "When you ask 'What part Indian are you?' it reminds Me of the way this question was used to separate my people From yours, defining lands and breaking treaties." Yet you persist, and still you ask; the wound becomes A chasm of blood, driven into me like a knife Ten thousands generations deep. You say you know my city, but you do not. All you want is for me to endorse your cause, but No cause will ever heal the war between us, one That wages on because of questions like this, when Our people become numbers instead of flesh And these answers never satisfy your need to Go home justified before your Maker. The violence is done, you shake my hand and leave As I return to the space an...

Sunrise at Haleakala, Maui. Sunlight screams into my eyes, The heat melting any illusions Or ghosts that haunted me before I awoke. Still my heart longs for the day When listlessness will be replaced by Memory Intact And the breaths come easier, freed From yokes of self-constructed shackles. The thrust of my regret keeps jabbing Inward, deeper, to the center Of great Longing, where all doubts gather And pool at the feet of my Memory, The tower that I long to tackle yet never Seem to surmount, its lofty heights Climbing beyond the first breaths of the dawn. And then the Rest returns: That great awakening in my mind, Where once I failed to understand all Now the hopes and dreams come screaming back, yes back! Again is my hope kindled. Alive am I, a man - fear need not hinder me, Let it fade beneath a soft, swift sunrise.

Author's Note: This poem is born out of some therapy that I did this past month where we visualized our "inner child" in its natural environment. Unsurprisingly, my "inner child" was, to my mind's eye, surrounded by the verdant greens and summer hues of suburban Richmond, Virginia. I encourage you to check out one of my more recent blog posts to get a sense of how I relate to the natural world, and in the meantime, enjoy my latest work, taking the form of a series of questions to this metaphorical young one within. In case you're wondering, this conversation goes back in time, starting from my more recent memories and ending from a time quite a long time ago, in my estimation. Oh child, why wander? Why doubt the intentions of your Creator? Why suffer under the yoke of your own words? Did you forget the cool breeze outside, The warmth in her eyes, And the laughs shared at that place down the street? Did you forget the stories you used to tell ...

Why weep when there will be nothing But hard ground to receive the tears? Salt remains after water returns to the sky, an Offering to the Creator yet again, but bitter. In the lands where His son walked There are tears again, and blood. In the lands of many more There are tears again, and smoke. Why weep when the tears cannot nourish The earth and its fruit, the grass And the life that blooms without me They do not feel my grief, but still grow. I've made this offering before When a devil snuffed out lives in a school, In a church, In a restaurant, In a theater, But also down the street, in a blue uniform. Here, too, the tears cannot nourish For nothing grows out of the asphalt, Yet He whispers for me to let them fall I obey, I shudder, and they do. And so the Mountain Spirits dance around, Their healing from ages long gone. Creator's Mother looks down, and smiles The snake destroyed beneath her heel. This is why I weep: I see those Who Have taken...

Spring and Fall, by Gerard Manley Hopkins Márgarét, áre you gríeving Over Goldengrove unleaving? Leáves like the things of man, you With your fresh thoughts care for, can you? Ah! ás the heart grows older It will come to such sights colder By and by, nor spare a sigh Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie; And yet you wíll weep and know why. Now no matter, child, the name: Sórrow’s spríngs áre the same. Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed What heart heard of, ghost guessed: It ís the blight man was born for, It is Margaret you mourn for.

When the waves rush in and I cannot take the fall that Once broke through feeble bricks and Nearly left me slain, fallen Subject to a torrent of temptation, And wracked with guilt a hundred times. When that storm hits, you see I brace myself for another Gust of grace, that furious force That allows me to stand and See a new horizon, with lines Drawn anew in the morning. I am weak to withstand a new Onslaught of love, that wondrous Energy that fuels my heart, its Tendrils trailing from infinite skies, Passed beyond eons of knowledge: Yes, enough to get me past the pain. So I yield anew to this day, Wondering when you'll come again And confident of new flames Kindled in depths once unspeakable Once open pits of despair now that Great cavern of hope that wells within.

Composed on Good Friday, 2014. It's dark, so dark and My eyes grow heavy, lidded Like iron from shackles and fetters Those that you break to make men whole. Multiplying loaves, you asked us if we understood you and we stared ahead into the depth of the unknown And seeing, we did not perceive. Now tonight you ask of us Just to watch with you a little longer To utter prayers to the Father you call and we seem to have forgotten. Hark! They come in the night With clubs and chains to bind you Though we know you have power over wind and waves, not so now. No, a simple kiss, planted on lips That open the eyes of the blind, That speak to cast out demons, Now mute to the hatred of men. My sword I reach, and I see Your stare disarms me, the weapon Is of no use here, you must face The blows of hard hearts without it. Alone you go, for we turn Away and watch their arms wrap you up Forsaking years of following your lead And weeping nakedly, we run.

Don't  Surrender  Your loneliness so quickly,  Let it cut more  Deep.  Let it ferment and season you  As few human  Or even divine ingredients can.  Something missing in my heart tonight  Has made my eyes so soft,  My voice so  Tender,  My need of God  Absolutely  Clear. -Sufi Master Hafiz

My Heart Breaks for you, Daughter of long sunsets I let so many of you down, Tears falling from eyes that I failed to tell Were so precious in sight not mine My heart Yearns for truth And lips with speech unleashed Passion to captivate a kindred near Our sight restored to horizons wide Unfailing in its courageous breadth My heart Streaked with spilled blood Poured out from crosses carried daily And lifted from night unto night Whispering words from the wounds I failed to let Love carry My heart Loves to love Heals each time you call And breaks each time we fall Bears new scars from ages gone by And dreams for a dawn's golden sky

I awoke with fires in my head; They fanned out with a quickening spark, That inspiration found in the quiet nights And lonely highways where my mind Wandered, and we held onto fading thoughts. No, they were not the kind to shake me gently Or care to dance me into day's light Rather, thoughts burned screaming To be released and washed into an ocean Of noise that the world already had room for. Why does this dream haunt me so? Is there a return yield on investment That I was unaware I sowed into, Long prayers uttered in the darkest hours And awakening ancient rhythms to my lips? A party, some say at times: Others, simply voices Making the mind bend to allow for things That only seeded fear would shake That someday will collapse into canyons of memory. One voice rests quietly within Stillness seeping down into the cracks Where the fires once blazed violently The balm to soothe this weary mind-- The voice gives life where life once left. Yes, it is the fli...

In the middle of the night When dreams suspend belief In the shadows of death's fright I saw you. You wailed my name aloud Before your arms stretched wide With hospital gown a shroud I saw you. The whirlpool of death's shame Your tyranny so clear Mind breaking every frame I saw you. And grace imbues the whole Sick with grief you wept Your majesty so bold I saw you. Mistook your "I" for mine They locked you in that room Shoved pills in every time I saw you. Naked you crawled in mourning Alive you were indeed The yoke lifted soaring I saw you. But me you did not trust You kept your mind's old game And played the part to dust, and I saw you. The little ones did say Reminding you every night The childlike way to pray, I saw you. My father raises life Adopted now you he claims Your broken tattered strife I saw you. My shoulders are enough You've suffered here and far No road will be too rough, for I saw you. And win...

Sufjan Stevens in 2005. My latest poem was inspired by an album that I listened to as I drove from Fresno to my current home in Roseville. The music? Sufjan Steven's classic album Come on Feel the Illinoise! . Because it came out in 2005 (a pretty dead year for good music), and because of how much I enjoyed this guy's stuff as a teenager, I was surprised by how much the music holds up after such popularization. Kids in my generation know "Chicago" for its movie soundtrack overtones  (click if you don't believe me), or even "Casimir Pulaski Day" for how Stevens uses a religious experience to inform his perspective on a close friend's death. People of all ages should listen to it because it is just good music. I'm still holding onto the dream that he finishes his project to write an album about every state! Only 48 to go! Same guy, with his wife and kids in 3005. This poem's title is my tribute to that great dreamer.  But the p...

Yup, today the Government shut down. It's on days like these that I don't particularly want to hear a song about how great it is to be alive, in love, playing with your puppy, whathaveyou.  That's probably why I write songs like this, an homage to a semi-obscure live cut by my favorite artists, Radiohead. If there was any occasion to link our collective simple desire not be alone with the heartbreak of being let down by those we trust, well, we found it today in our Congress (and, probably our President, as much as I hate to admit it). I'm definitely putting this one to music. Call it a cover/extension of Yorke's song. Just imagine his trembling tenor soothing you with these lines. All my thoughts are drowned when you make my make believe We'll tumble to the ground Just to sink too far beneath See life's a little brighter From the blinding of your gaze But what once drew me higher Now leaves this bitter taste Don't leave me here alone ...

Allow the great near-eastern poet, Kahlil Gibran, to woo you with his words from his masterpiece, the Prophet , which provide me comfort as I reflect and remember the power and beauty that words can hold... In the depth of your hopes and desires lies your silent knowledge of the beyond; And like seeds dreaming beneath the snow your heart dreams of spring. Trust the dreams, for in them is hidden the gate to eternity. Your fear of death is but the trembling of the shepherd when he stands before the king whose hand is to be laid upon him in honour. Is the shepherd not joyful beneath his trembling, that he shall wear the mark of the king? Yet is he not more mindful of his trembling? For what is it to  die but to stand naked in the wind and melt into the sun? And what is it to cease breathing, but to free the breath from its restless tides, that it may rise and expand and seek God unencumbered? Only when you drink from the river of silence shall you indeed sing. And ...

Some lighthearted content this week. Okay, perhaps not. Let me start with a premise: Winter seems a ripe, ideal time for existentialism. In this season, we Christians meditate on the mystery of the Incarnation, a leap from reason that God would climactically enter into human history and begin the grand erasure between infinite divinity and the sorry state of humankind. Yet some of us have a more difficult time grappling with God in the face of the difficulties that can arise during the winter. Although the holidays have subsided into the renewed rhythms of January, the trauma many of us experience amidst family conflict, hellish travel scenarios, and (this one hits me in particular) our culture's obscene consumerism can leave their mark into the New Year. If anything, we long for more, eagerly awaiting the warmth of the sun as the earth surely does. On a recent plane ride I burned through  the Stranger , by Albert Camus, in which the main character finds his own violent, sens...

This poem is inspired by my recent relapse into the post rock records I loved when I first came to college, plus those old psychadelic rock, classic rock, and glam rock records I loved to mime on guitar.   Our mind's web reaches to the far ends of the deep. Space, A place where the paintings turn to dreams And the light unshielded shines. Out there no thought can break what is not matter, what cannot be pierced, And though I fire these questions like volleys They are lost without an echo, without a tracer to guide the next shot. I am sick as I search for you, the great Dreamer whose masterpiece weaves through all thoughts, and binds what I thought was clearly meant to fail, This experiment I secretly feared was doomed from the start. But the Breath spells hope in those cold deep spaces, in The darkness no soul can bear, Your silence breaks in like a tornado It repairs all my engineered disasters, that I a happy fool, spend these eons to make.