Chasing Santa

“Grandpa, what are you doing out here?”

He was standing in the snow

leaning a couple long 2x4’s

against the house.

“I was chasing Santa Claus,”

he explained.

“Almost had him too.”

He handed me one of the

biggest sleigh bells

I’d ever seen.

Then he showed me

two long, straight depressions in the snow.

Santa’s sleigh had taken off

seconds before I burst out the back door

in hot pursuit.

Grandpa was a right jolly old elf

but not the one I was chasing.

We walked back inside

recounting our versions of the evening.

Grandpa stayed home to ambush Santa

while the rest of us

drove around looking for him.

After 15 or 20 minutes, someone yelled,

“LOOK!  Rudolph’s nose!

He’s heading toward Grandma and Grandpa’s house!!”

We whipped the car around,

blazed home, and ran inside.

In the living room,

presents spilled from

the outstretched limbs of

the glittering Christmas tree.

Kids and grown-ups alike

dove into the pile,

divvying up the loot and ripping open packages.

But I kept running.

Just ahead I heard jingling and laughter.

My heart and step quickened

as I strained to lay hold of

or even glimpse

the mystery

cloaked in red.

I was close, so close…

but not as close as Grandpa,

who plucked the jangling fruit

now in my hand.

It was still in my hand

as I fell asleep that night

while my new toys lay elsewhere,

half-forgotten.

But in the morning, the bell was gone.

“It’s a magic bell,” my mother explained.

“Santa’s bells are so special

they only stay for the night.

Then they disappear.”

Years later, I learned

Grandpa had no idea

I was chasing him

as he ran out the back door

ringing that bell.

No one expected me to do that.

He barely had time

to get the 2x4’s out of the snow.

The sleigh bell was a gift from a German friend.

It seemed there was

an explanation for everything.

But what made me

dash past presents

in pursuit of something

I’d never seen?

I suppose

truth always rings

just ahead of us

and gives us reason

to run.

Driving through the Fog

Driving through the fog

this morning.

Visibility

is less than 100 feet

in any direction.

I can’t see where I’m going.

It’s all just white

like a blank canvas.

Shadows grow into dark shapes

that suggest

things ahead:

trees, houses, telephone poles.

But I can’t really see

anything

until I’m almost to it,

and I never know

which way

the road will take me.

In my rearview mirror

(which isn’t much bigger

than a photograph)

I see those things

that are behind me.

As I get further

past,

details become hazy

and colors fade.

Soon,

there are just phantoms

slipping into the fog.

Looking back

won’t get me anywhere

but in the ditch.

Since I’m uncertain about

what’s ahead,

I slow up.

There’s still a ways to go

so I look around

and think about

my plans for the day.

As well as I am able,

I pass the time

that is left

and continue

through the fog.

County Fair

It’s as if

someone sprinkled magic seed

overnight….

Summer’s last flower—

the Ferris wheel—

pops up

in the fallow fairgrounds,

followed by a whole

garden of earthly delights:

Roller coasters

snake and twine

like enchanted vines,

the carousel blooms

in smiling colors,

and the sweet fragrance

of cotton candy

drifts

invitingly on the breeze.

For almost a week

the whole town

lies under a spell.

But one morning,

quick as a hypnotist

can snap,

people wake

to find the fairgrounds

empty,

the sky powdered by clouds

like a blackboard just

erased,

and, in the place

where the Ferris wheel

was,

leaves turning

end over end

in the breeze.

Doing Nothing

The coffee shop is lit and alive.

Music pumps, pulses, and circulates.

Hands dance and heads bob in conversation.

Behind the counter

it’s all cha-ching and movement—

strictly business.

My eyes wander out the window

across from me.

It’s black out there.

Ghosts of the hanging lamps inside

float in the blackness;

trees swirl in a wind

made silent

by the glass,

and I’m out there—

a reflection

adrift in the dark, wild silence—

looking in.

Narrowing Sonnet

Could we put oceans in a cup,

a desert in an hour-glass,

the skies in a falling rain-drop,

the planets in a marble-bag,

it wouldn’t touch the Lord,

swaddled in a body,

who also humbly wore

the girdle of our laws,

was threaded through

the streets of Jews,

endured the spit

and then was split

like hairs

of truth.

Good Friday (for Dad)

It seems like a misnomer

at first,

or a bit of black humor…

“Good” Friday….

the day when betrayal

came with a kiss;

the day when the seconds were marked

by whip-cracks,

and hammers tolled

like bells;

the day that clouds closed

like eyelids over a dying sun;

the day the earth shook

as if in a sieve.

And now

(as if it wasn’t

“good”

enough already),

it is also the day

you died.

A tomb sealed with a stone…

A coffin nailed shut…

A grave covered with dirt…

The good news is

this is as dark as it gets.

"For God, who said, 'Let light shine out of darkness,' made his light shine in our hearts to give us the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Christ" (2 Cor. 4:6).  

Waiting for Snow

“WHAT A GYP!!”

With raised fist and gnarled face

I accuse the skies.

I have been waiting for snow,

wishing for snow,

praying, hoping, and fishing for snow.

I have been daring snow,

oh where-ing snow, and

(for reverse psychology’s sake)

not-give-a-care-ing snow.

All this and not one single flake.

But as my fist drops and my eyes come back to earth,

I sigh,

“God knows best.”

And this is the proof:

that between the second coming

and the fall of man,

I can get so worked up about something

like the weather,

and can fill a book with idle words

by which to be judged.

(Did I say not one single flake?

Well, there might be one here…)

Yet, I believe you understand.

I believe you do not think it petty

to be a man,

or to care for the sparrow,

or to pour artistry

into the icy iron-work

whose feathery falling

makes winter crunch deliciously

like the year’s dessert.

For this season

you precipitated:

spirit crystallized as flesh,

deity danced where the wind willed—

out from its cloudy veil,

down through empty skies,

and into arms that waited

faithfully.

The Wind and the Shadows

Around 2:00 AM

I hear the wind roaring

as it brawls

with anything and everything

in its path.

God knows where that came from.

For awhile I try to ignore it

and go back to sleep.

But after half an hour,

I give up

and go to the kitchen

for a glass of water.

On the way back to bed

I pause in the living room,

which seems to glower

in the moonlight

shining through the windows.

It’s been a long night.

Since I can’t sleep

I sit down on the couch.

Outside,

the wind rages

and rounds on itself

in the dark,

filling the room with

shadows

that hold my gaze

as they lash out

and gesture furiously.

Hymne to God the Father*

Before time

            your counsels chose

            that you would lose

eternal ties

            with your one

            and only Son.

Not sparing Him,

            you let the whips

            fall and the blood drip.

Judges condemned

            as the priests quipped.

On a dark hill,

            like Abraham,

            you left your Lamb.

No bright angel

            unveiled a ram

snared in thickets

            by its horns.

            Instead, the thorns

on Christ’s head caught

            the sacrifice

            of God’s own life.

Nails split

            His wrists and feet

            and severed sweet

communion, which

            left you bereaved.

Not even birth

            pangs compare to

            what you went through

at your Son’s death.

            Abba, thank you.

*The form of this poem was borrowed from Hymne to God the Father by Ben Jonson.

 See Ben Jonson's poem here:  http://4umi.com/jonson/hymn

Triptych: A Tree in Three Seasons

I.

Atop a hill there is a weathered oak

whose listless limbs spread so wide it seems

to hang by them and not to stand.  It’s bark

is scarred by whips of wind, by scratching beasts,

by birds that pierce its trunk with beaks.  When fall

arrives, a crimson stain spreads to all

the leaves.  They slowly trickle down beneath

a blanching sky, and then, leaf by leaf,

their reddish carpet covers up the ground.

It seems that with the leaves a peace descends.

The breeze breathes a sigh, perhaps relieved

and ready to forget how summer lived

intemperately.  But seasons change.  Amends

are made.  What was before cannot be found.


II.

Like a single, massive stone, clouds

roll in heavily overhead, sealing

everything in the darkened earth.  Stealing

downward, ashen snowflakes fill the ground.

Hours later, the landscape is buried

under whitish mounds.  The oak tree’s

limbs, covered in snow, slowly ossify

in the breathless, frozen air.  Nearby,

icicles curl over a stream, gripping

its banks like the fingers of a glass

skeleton.  The sun turns its vacant stare 

on the clouds, helpless to move them.  Everywhere,

silence keeps its secrets, and the days pass.

Winter is here: grave, still, and waiting.


III.

Early morning—like the first day

of creation—waits in dark mystery

for the light.  The dawn paints gradually

on its black canvass: first gray,

then color returns to the world’s

face like a man reviving.  All

winter long, the land has drunk the cold,

melting snow.  Underground, in small

gaps and crevices, things sprout and grow,

nourished by the runoff.  Flora raises

above ground, beyond the earth’s hold.

Limbs outstretched, the oak stands in bold

relief, suddenly shot through with the sun’s rays,

which crown spring and renew everything below.

Crux

Here—

where clouds overhead

and crowds at your feet

thicken into an untimely

darkness—

you can’t tell

miracle from murder,

blessing from curse,

God from your enemy.

Here—

where vultures overhead

and priests at your feet

circle, waiting for a

body—

you can’t tell

mystery from mockery,

life from death,

wine from blood.

Here,

beams, bones,

paths, purposes,

swords and fingers

cross;

“X” marks the spot

where you hang,

and

all you know is

you are

here.

Grief

Stepping out for a walk,

I see the fog is back.

You never know when it will come,

when the clouds will settle heavily,

blocking out the sun

from the sky to the ground.

It rolls in softly.

Almost before you notice,

it permeates everything,

and the chill is beneath your skin.

When will it lift?

No one can say.

As it comes, it goes.

It always evaporates

after awhile.

The last particles of mist

sparkle as they dance

and sublimate in the sun.

Until then,

I’ll just have to walk

in it,

keeping the company

of the silhouettes

that appear, memory-like,

in the vapor.

Farmland in Winter

Fallen timbers

criss-cross like bones

protruding from shallow graves.

They were once barns,

sheds,

outlying buildings.

Among other things,
they kept

what the reaper brought.

Now,

for all of us who pass them

as we travel this rural highway,

they hold the future,

haunted

by snow that drifts ghost-like

through the empty fields

where they lie.

Rise and Shine

The percolator

bubbling and puffing,

the clink of dishes,

feet thumping overhead,

the hiss of butter or bacon

on a hot pan…

Morning sounds,

like sprites,

hovered around my head,

until I was drawn from sleep

by their spell.

But it was the laughter,

the voices

spry with conversation,

that finally got me out of bed

and bounding up the stairs

from my grandparents’ basement.

What jokes had I missed?

What stories or discussions?

Had an aunt or uncle stopped by

with cousins in tow?

I didn’t know it then,

but now I can see

the face of God

behind the smiles of relatives,

the shadow of communion

in the buttered toast and jam,

the resurrection and the life

as I woke from sleep

and found the arms of grandma

or grandpa

open

and waiting.

Waking & Sleeping (for Dad)

It was like so many other times

I’d seen you sleeping—

on the couch after dinner;

with a baby on your chest;

on a lawnchair in the back yard.

Of course, you weren’t so thin then.

Your body wasn’t gnawed away by cancer.

Still, it wasn’t so different

with your head slightly cocked

and your hands resting on your chest.

The real difference

will be in the waking.

You won’t yawn and reach for the remote;

you won’t stretch and scratch;

you won’t roll out of your chair

to grab a cold one.

This time,

you will wake

where no eye has seen;

you will wake suddenly from troubled dreams

only to find yourself safe

in the secret dark,

arms enfolding you.

Once More (for Dad)

I learn that a friend had twins yesterday,

a year after her mother died.

As I go my way, I smile.

My mind drifts

to a scene

of grass and flowers growing back

at time-lapse speed

over a grave site.

What is mortal

is swallowed up by life.

My own father’s death

is just a few weeks past.

The ground by his headstone

is still broken and churning,

hard clods lay on top

like fists,

and though the dirt was replaced

the hole remains,

a scar in the grass.

But the spring rains will come.

With the whispered hush of their falling

they will wash and settle

the churning ground.

Even the clods will soften

and open.

Underneath,

roots will mend

their torn fabric;

shoots will find their way up

through the broken places,

and flowers will lift their faces to the sun

once more.

Crying in the Wilderness

“Are you the one who was to come,
or should we expect someone else?”

That day by the river—
in front of God and everyone—
I pointed at him
like I was leading the cavalry
and cried out,
“Look!! The Lamb of God
who takes away the sin of the world!”

Later,
as my disciples were leaving by droves
to follow him,
I braced myself,
and explained to one of the few remaining,
“He must increase, and I must decrease.”

I believed it…I believed it…
I believed it so much
it was my undoing.
And because I believed it,
everyone else started believing it.

But now,
the dead air grips my bones
with both hands
and shakes the cage of my ribs.
Now,
the stench of wasting humanity
makes my head spin
like a busted compass.
Now,
in the twilight of my heart,
it’s either him
or me,

and I need to be sure.

Rise and Shine

The percolator
bubbling and puffing,
the clink of dishes,
feet thumping overhead,
the hiss of butter or bacon
on a hot pan…

Morning sounds,
like sprites,
hovered around my head,
until I was drawn from sleep
by their spell.

But it was the laughter,
the voices
spry with conversation,
that finally got me out of bed
and bounding up the stairs
from my grandparents’ basement.

What jokes had I missed?
What stories or discussions?
Had an aunt or uncle stopped by
with cousins in tow?

I didn’t know it then,
but now I can see
the face of God
behind the smiles of relatives,
the shadow of communion
in the buttered toast and jam,
the resurrection and the life
as I woke from sleep
and found the arms of grandma
or grandpa
open
and waiting.

Frame of Reference

My grandma used to paint.

Of all her paintings, my favorite
depicts a dirt road in an autumn wood.

The road stretches out straight ahead
from the foreground
and leads to a weathered gate
in the center of the painting.
Beyond the gate,
the road curves off to the right
and disappears into
orange, green, and gold foliage.

For years I’ve looked at this painting
and wondered:
Is the viewer arriving somewhere
or leaving?
If arriving or leaving, where?

I could ask my grandma these things
but she’s dying.

Once
I was drawing a picture,
and one of the trees
wouldn’t entirely fit
on the page.
Grandma said
I shouldn’t try to make it fit.
She said the picture you’re painting
is always bigger
than the canvas,
and you have to let things go
beyond
the field of view.

As I look
at the road in the wood again,
grandma’s words return to me.

The answers to my questions
can’t be found within
the frame
but lie outside it
where the road leads.

Arise Beautiful One

My lover spoke and said to me,
“I tell you the truth, a time is coming and has now come
when the dead will hear the voice of the Son of God
and those who hear will live.
Arise, my darling, my beautiful one, and come with me.
See! The winter is past; the rains are over and gone.
For as the Father has life in himself,
so he has granted the Son to have life in himself.
Flowers appear on the earth; the season of singing has come,
the cooing of doves is heard in our land.
The fig tree forms its early fruit;
the blossoming vines spread their fragrance.

I am the resurrection and the life.
He who believes in me will live.
Arise, come my darling;my beautiful one, come with me.”

(SOS 2:10-13; John 5:25, 26; 11:25)