BACK TO THE DESERT

I've returned to the desert to refresh and renew.
(And also to hear Hambone and Karin sing...)

ODE TO KARIN

Rumor has it that honeybees leave the county
when they hear a hint of Karin's voice
on the wind. Soft but strong; think Annie Oakley
with a guitar whose strings will pierce your heart.

Butterscotch boots barely visible
under yards of an old Mexican skirt.
She strides to the microphone as if born
in a trunk on an old concert hall stage.

A quick sideways glance and a grin at old Hambone -
all the strength she needs to be on her way.
That first note a clarion to those who love
neither wisely nor well: time to break out the whis-kay.

Dispensing a balm to comfort us all
we're led on a tour of her considerable heart.
With assurance that grace and time always heal,
she sends us back to our world a little more whole.

ODE TO HAMBONE

Despite his size, Hambone sort of sneaks in
unnoticed, scanning the room, spotting a
familiar face, his eyes light up and
a drawn out smile emerges on his face.

From uncombed hair to black-horned rimmed glasses,
to sandaled feet his grace and presence bid
the world like a well-worn chair to sit, rest,
listen and take a load off for awhile.

He doesn’t sit as much as fit in the
space between the bench and the piano,
a breathing symbiotic partner who
gives life and coaxes beauty from within.

A preacher’s kid who hears the silences
between the notes and plays them deftly as
the sure sounds summoned by his long fingers
lead our hearts to blissful remembrances.

Notes so sweet, his special girl thinks he plays
just for her, and so she sings of “whis-KAY”
and dreams of nights danced on the kitchen floor
and mornings when dogs woke them with their tongues.

BE STILL AND KNOW

The road to heaven
requires no steps,
lay down beneath
a summer tree
and close your eyes to earthly sights.

Gently listen
and soon you'll hear
the words of One
who longs to hold your sweat-stained hand.

Breath slow and deep,
let your heart sing
as unheard words
infect your blood
and dreams begin to come to life.

MY BELOVED

I long to be entombed
by the Spirit that calls me.
No longer taking measured steps
of cautious retreat
from former innocence.
I remove the mask of fever,
discard the robe of flesh.
When I close my eyes
I hear your voice
wracked by violent tears.
I was never yours to own anyway.

HOT PRAYER

The sun still sets slowly
on this sultry summer night.
My shirt slowly peels away
from the ancient varnished pew
as I lean forward to pray.
Fans five stories overhead
stir a ruah of relief
that makes the steamy night
just a little more bearable.
I struggle to pray,
but looking straight ahead,
I delight in the bright, deep colors
of the stained glass nativity;
winged angel faces, royalty on knees
distract me for a moment
from my Saviour’s glowing face.
Slowly I consider Joseph
as the years seem to drop
from his face even as I watch.
Eternal father, now in his youth,
strong, brave and gentle,
ever source of comfort and care.
Suddenly the bells
of the high tower pealing,
bring a cascade of refreshing sound
falling on my head like a blessing,
acknowledging my prayer.

FOURTH OF JULY

On last night’s steamy Fourth of July,
the window fan spun feverishly
trying to cool the bedroom
but at the same time
sucking in the sulphur fumes of fireworks
that I really struggle with this year.

I've never been fond of fireworks.
Oh, the pretty ones up in the air are fine,
but the heart-rattling, booming ones
whose sole purpose is to shake you to your core
are not my cup of tea.

This year I hear the loud booming
as a mockery of the horror
we’re inflicting on the rest of the world.
We proudly puff up our chests
as we claim to celebrate our freedom.
I pray that most folks,
if they looked deeply in their hearts,
would realize they’re celebrating
our crumbling empire's domination of others
and those sounds they hear are a death rattle.

A friend wrote today that on days like this,
he pretends he’s Canadian.