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