Sometimes Loving God is Hard

Sometimes loving God is hard.
Not our man-ufactured ideas of God but
God the Actual.
The God who disappears for months
then shows up as if it were no biggie, relax.
The God who the psalmist describes as a
moth that eats away all that is dear to us.
The God who, let’s face it, 
seems without apology to have favorites.
 
Sometimes loving me is hard.
I’ve no doubt God would say that, say
You’re no walk in the park either, pal.
Still, I want to be able to flaunt all
my eccentricities and still keep
smelling like a rose.
Shouldn’t a similar turnabout be just?
Shouldn’t I be big enough to love God
for who God is?
 
Reverend Maclean preached that
we can love completely without complete
understanding.
This I too believe and seek to practice with
those I walk the earth with.
I am learning this line applies to God as well.
There are times when this is effortless,
times when I say God is beautiful.
But sometimes loving God is hard.
 
 
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Now You Are Ready

Your eyes are tired, telling you
you’ve looked at the wrong words too long.
These words are not wrong for others
but they are for you, always have been.
Yet you had to apprentice yourself to them
for years and seasons in order to learn
to hate them for their barrenness.
This was the only way, to grow to despise
the many so in turn to truly love the few.
 
Now you are ready to say Jacob have I loved.
Now you are ready to vow fidelity to stillness.
Now you are ready to stumble into the night
liquored up on aged kindness.
 
 
 
 
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Either Way

The way dew clings to grass can
capture my attention for a spell.
Or maybe its the way grass clings to
dew that has me so fascinated.
Either way you cut it is a wonder
in a way the new Apple Watch isn’t. 
Maybe that’s because I’m getting older,
or better. Either way I find it simply
hard to care about the shiny things while
sunlight woos the morning dew away.
 
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What The Beloved Heard

Most commentators insist that
when the beloved disciple leaned
back into Jesus’ bosom he heard
the heartbeat of God. Or possibly
the pulse of compassion. Or something
similarly soothing to our senses.
This is yet another example of the
mistake the commentator mind makes,
trying to think beyond what it knows.
John’s proximity gave him access to
Christ’s longing. And anyone who’s honest
knows that meant he was near enough
to hear the universal whisper that
revealed Jesus truly was our brother:
I just want my old man to be proud of me.
 
 
 
 
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Seldom Simple

Is it true? That the only
happy men are wounded men?
 
This thought rose while multi-tasking
(scrambling eggs for my daughter
and listening to Roger Whittaker).
 
Yes. I believe that is true. But while
tempting to qualify the wounds –
as in only those received in love’s service –
such poetic filters can be thorny
for love is seldom simple.
 
There is more to breakfast than breakfast.
Likewise for our last farewells.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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At some point along the way

time begins to hemorrhage.
Efforts to slow its flow are vain.
Go ahead and try so you can say
I tried. But I’ll say I told you so.
Whatever you thought life close
to fifty would look like, it doesn’t.
You find yourself sifting among
the ruins searching for clues as to
what you’ve been doing all these years.
You come across a pill box full of
children’s teeth, a half-read copy
of Blood Meridian, fading obituaries
of classmates, and the black seeds of 
dreams planted that you still have
hope might one day soon bloom.
 
hemorrhage
 
 
 
 
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Born This Way

I was born beneath a sentimental star
always looking over my shoulders
not forgetting what lies behind
(so sorry, St. Paul).
Strange speech often
erupts from my lips like
I gotta see a man about a horse     or
That’s a fine how do you do.
Generally people at parties
find this charming at first
but then it makes them nervous
so they step away to rub their phones.
If asked to explain this warmth
in my bones all I can say is 
I was born this way. I do my part
to melt the world’s cold cold heart.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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