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Frankie in a Dream

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It is odd

How sometimes

People from your past

Come to you in dreams.

Frankie died some years ago

Both her children too

Are gone now.

We worked together for years

In our good government jobs

(They were good back then

Long before I left to become

A minister

Long before I retired even from that

Second calling)

Frankie was my boss off and on

And I was hers once, briefly.

We always had

Each other’s backs

Fighting for the people

And what was right.

Frankie had heart.

I loved her

And she drove me crazy too

Sometimes.

Last night she came to me

When I was in the midst

Of a preacher’s nightmare.

A big service in a big venue

(Like that is going to happen)

And I’d forgotten to prepare

The order of service.

Frankie came running up

“No worries”, she said

“It’s being printed now.”

A flash of stress.

Had she picked the right hymns

The readings that I needed?

(She was Lutheran after all)

Then a flash of memory

Of recognition.

She always had my back.

I am smiling up at you

My old, and very dear, friend.

Thank you for helping me

Even in my dreams.

 

 

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Some Mornings

 

IMG_1996Some mornings

I have to drag my eyes open

With sheer force of will.

Stay asleep please

In the land of dreams.

The world is too full

Of nightmares.

But like a dried

Lily leaf

I rise

Looking for moisture

For hope.

Hummingbird Hearts

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We live our lives

With hummingbird hearts

Beating so fast

It seems we rarely

Find the time

To breathe

Racing from flower to flower

Our fragile bodies

Are always prey

To the shadow cast

By the hunting owls

Swooping down like death

Catching us

In mid-flight.

The only lesson

Is to keep drinking

That sweet nectar

While it lasts.

 

My Body

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Whose body is this?

Smaller than it was

The muscles firmer

The skin looser

But so much the same

The bones

The teeth

The joints

The smile

Every  ache and pain

The bruises and the scars

No miracle this

Just a change.

My body

Is the same

I pray it will continue

To carry me

As best it can.

 

 

Fire Light

The quality of light

Is different

Filtered through smoky air.

The quality of life

Is different

When a child is crying.

The quality of your soul

Will suffer

If you ignore their cries.

May the fire of the Spirit

Melt the ice in your heart

 

 

 

New Day

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There are days

When the effort

To rise from my bed

Is almost too much

The warm sheets

The blankets

Wrap me in dreams

Too sweet to leave

But the sun

Shines through

My window now.

And a bird sings

A familiar melody.

So I drag my bones

Up to greet

A new day.

Bones

Sometimes the images from old poems come to me.  Changed over time of course. dry bones

Dry Bones – Images from Ezekiel 37 (written in April 2004)

My bones know,
Underneath it all,
Within.
I have lived
In the valley of the dry bones,
Waiting for the four winds to blow,
For the holy breath.
Dry bones
Fragile and hard
Spin through the dance
As the rain falls.
Bones rattling to life
Spring is coming.
Praise God.
The Bones Now (June 2018)

These bones are old now

Dry as the desert again
Cracked with wear
The joints creak
From lack of youth
But they have danced
Rattling with laugher
While the rain washed over us
Spring and summer
Fall and winter
These bones
Have seen it all.
They will carry on
As long as the Spirit
Shall dwell within

Of the Earth

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In my years on this planet

I have found a few

Things that are true.

We are of the earth.

Our bodies are one

With the seas and the mountains.

If we could stand as straight

As the tallest redwoods

Still our roots would bind us

Close to the ground.

 

Like the earth itself,

Our bodies alter

With the seasons,

Eroded by time

Challenged by change.

May we rock gently in the winds

That blow around us.

May we keep our hearts open

To the warmth and promise

Of each new day.

 

 

Shrinking, Growing

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Am I shrinking

Or am I growing?

Both I think.

 

Outside I am changing

Slowly but surely

Reclaiming a shape

That will serve me better.

At least that’s the plan

 

The lavish blooms

Have faded

Winters have been hard.

Small seeds planted

Carefully

Might grow

To just the right size

 

Tend the ground

Tend your soul

Resurrection

Regeneration

Only takes

A miracle

Of mindfulness.

I believe

In miracles.

 

 

 

 

 

Intentions (for white people)

The road to hell may not be paved

But it is covered with the guano

Of our so-called good intentions

It’s a seagull shit so white

It covers the awareness

Of the pain we cause

By our fragility

 

If we slip and slide and blunder

And get bumps and bruises

On our egos

It is a small price to pay

So much smaller than the pain

Our ignorance has caused

 

Spirit give us the strength

To lean into the learning

May there be no rest

For the wicked

May there be healing

For the harm the “good” have done

Absolution will come later

If we can find together

A pathway to paradise

For all the hurting souls