Morning Office

written in the New Horizons volunteer room on a Tuesday before Drop-in

Sing praise, oh my soul,
For morning smells.
For freshness un-manufatured,
Neither bought nor bottled.
As if the newness and the unfolding could be contained --
But given!

For you, dear heart,
He spreads out another day.
Awake! Arise!
To rejoice is your duty and your delight.

Praise him.

The Amateur Psychologist Visits the Beach

Somewhere in this lake there's a song
But it's too expensive; I can't afford it.
If I throw enough stones in,
Will you sing it to me?

America's no good; this water's too shiny.
What did you say your name was?
You live alone?
Me too -- I live with some --
Alone, me too.

I've been here a while. Long enough.
Are you going to sing, or what?
Whatever's in your head --
Doesn't matter, just sing.

[Dedicated to my friend Jimmy, who might or might not have PTSD]

Reflections on Psalm 23

[Written in the Cascade People's Center P-Patch on a Wednesday not too long ago]

Lord, you are my shepherd
I shall not be in want.
You make me lie down on sunny benches
You lead me beside upstanding irises.
You restore my soul.

You prepare a table for me in the presence of my enemies,
And then invite all of us to sit and eat.
You lead me in paths of righteousness,
And although I do not know the way I do know the Way.

You quiet my doubts and you stroke my hair
You send me your Spirit to water the dusty, hard-packed ground
You anoint my head with oil.
You wash my feet and you hold my hand.

You sing through my voice
And shine through my smile
My cup runs over
And over and over and over again.
I will never run out
And there's more than enough to share.

Surely goodness! And mercy!
Will follow after me, skipping and twirling
Flinging seeds everywhere
Every day of my life
And I will dwell in your house, my Love,
my Lord. Forever!

Hallelujah!

A Cowardly Prayer

God, I have a cowardly prayer:
Can you show me your love,
But not too much --
Because I don't want to cry
Too hard during the meeting.
Nor laugh too hard
Either.

Oh wait, too late.

What Matters, Then?

What matters is the light streaming in through the kitchen window
The spatula and the spoon standing tall and straight as soldiers,
Barely resting on the mouth of the glass jar that holds them up;

The yellow wall, the bulletin board with its lovely
Inconsequentials -- impressionistic onions, photos of cabinets;
The table, tea station, and prim, expectant jars of unopened jam --
These things matter.

The faintly discernable hum of the power station across the street,
This also matters, along with the once-in-a-while chirps of birds.
The weairness in my body, this heaviness in my legs, the dirt
Under my nails - all of it matters.

The soft voice that whispers "Here I am,"
The quickening of my heart, and the falling,
Tingling answer -- "Hello again, love" --
That wells up inside of me; these are indispensable.

I Am From

I am from the yellow house with brown trim;
The neighbors with 10 pit bulls and more cousins than I could count
Who'd bring us homemade tamales when they had extra

I am from a street lined with mulberry trees;
A creek in which we floated down leaves like boats
And scrambled to the other side of the bridge as they passed below

I am from walks to Dairy Queen, learning to ride my bike in College Hill Park;
Long summer evenings and the never-ending chorus of the cicadas
Who left their shells on the trees to be picked up by brothers who'd scare their younger sisters

I am from water fights and playing in the rain
Streets made of brick and gutters overflowing;
Barefoot we run, twirl, splash, shove, drench

I am from the piano bench where I sit with my mother, refusing to practice
Even though it's only 10 minutes and you'd have been done a long time ago
If you'd just stop crying. . .

I am from home.
And I am still home.

Kenz's Poem

Here is the poem I wrote for Kenz's birthday.

 Rest

 In this one you are leaning your head on my shoulder as we ride the bus back from Pike Place.
Your hair is short and you carry, I think, the red satchel
Which will later meet its untimely end thanks to Clarence and his insatiable desire for cashews.

The sunlight falls patchily on us, illuminating fragments of ourselves -
The sleeve of my Ireland jacket, your glasses frame, my unruly curl.
My arm bends around your shoulders, snug as a ribbon tied around a package.

We are both smiling, perhaps in mid-conversation, mid-silence, or mid-prayer.
Having expended our earlier exuberance, we are still for now, letting the bus carry us
Our memories and camera full of the day.

There is no "ought" or "should" in this picture, no tug of perceived obligation, no ceremony to uphold..
What there is is stillness, breathing, communion, light.

Here we are, then

Oh dear. I seem to have just created a blog.