Friday Night Dining.

Please walk out of the restaurant

one by one

and let him clean the tables early.

Please button up your coat

and take your bag,

pay your check

and take the steps

and let him run out of things to do.

(I miss him while he works for you.)

February 25, 2011

Small Talk.

The talk is so small.

Now I understand why it's called that.

So. Very. Small.

Can no one say anything worth saying?

Can no one open up

and pull out tangible things,

real things,

things that stir up something

more than drunk nights

and favourite spas?

People wine and dine

and talk like they're brushing past

a rack of clothes in a department store.

They feel the fabric,

checking how much they would have to pay

to get what they want--

is it cheap?

Will I like it once I take it home?

She giggles

and drinks her coffee,

one size smaller than his.

She's trying.

Attempting at petite;

inviting.

She leans,

brushing her hair out of her face,

touching her face,

wanting this more than he does.

He sits back,

telling stories he doesn't care about,

talking with his hands,

scratching his face,

gripping his own leg

with his uncomfortable hand.

He doesn't care.

Their words speak small talk,

their brains calculate.

They'll get up to leave.

It's a Friday night.

They're middle-aged.

She'll keep giggling.

He'll keep artificially grinning.

They'll go to her place,

and then

they'll fall in love

with someone

nine people

from now.

February 25, 2011

Resurrection.

The stars come out of their graves for You.

(I do too.)

Their white hot fire and my heart suffuse.

(It's all for You.)

Hot coals fire

where the diamonds blush,

treasures come up from

even in the rough.

A bloom in the ash

and a tombstone cracks;

a grave yawns wide for the men on their backs.

All that death could once control

falls away from my vibrating soul.

Dead at best, You knew she slept.

With nothing left, You called her back.

Awake,

awake,

awake into the Light.

When Heaven battles,

when old bones rise,

when Mercy walks among us

with fire in His eyes--

as the Earth has groaned

so the Earth will sigh,

as its old graves tremble

and its dry wells cry--

He'll walk between graves with the walking dead

with Lazarus hearts that got up when He said. . .

Awake,

awake,

awake into the Light.

His feet will walk on Earth again

as I hear her say,

"I remember Him.

It's been so long

since You've been gone.

I remember way back when;

I remember Him."

Oh, grave where is your sting?

Oh, death where is your victory?

Awake,

awake,

awake into the Light.

February 2011

Indomitable.

Give me the strength to resist the day;

virtue to grapple the perilous plight

of the fallen, disasters, and scorching melee

disillusioned in wastelands and blinded in night.

Leave me Your vision, returned by the light;

Heaven to help me incline toward the stay

of Your stronghold withstanding the force of my flight

and Your grounding ensuring I won't lose my way.

Serve me the means with which I can resolve

to find myself sated by every good thing;

convinced and invaded by Fullness and All,

left ruined to hungry things You did not bring.

Build me with knowledge's sure-holding beam,

giving my heart stone to footing and wall,

set against windscape and rain's biting sting,

stalwart and fiercesome to stand for Your call.

February 8, 2011

you wrote yourself upon my life.

I will sit here and try to think
of words for you.
And if I don't succeed today,
I will try again tomorrow.

February 1, 2011
. . .

I'll write of you, if I dare,
I will write in words that I can find,
if I can find,
if I can spy,
and when I do, I'll pen them quick
and kiss them well,
for they have been elusive things.

It is a lifetime's endeavour,
specific, and poignant, and ageless.
Words too large would drown you.
Words too small mightn't suffice,
but it's the littlest words that fit into these spaces
(the delicate, trembling,
secrets places)
I have for you.

So I will search them out,
on road signs,
and in library books;
on billboards,
and pages of Scripture;
on advertisements,
and in mindless files,
and in root words,
and prefixes,
and grammatical text.

I will look for your words
in lyrics,
and in postscripts,
and in old shoeboxes;
on discarded magazine piles,
on the backs of poets' receipts;
I'll trace out the stars
and connect the dots;
I'll tip my head and squint my eyes
to find you script
in paintings
and architecture
and antique tablature.

I'll listen for you
in childish prattle on the playground,
in my own head's recitations;
in quotation,
in poems,
in lexical lists I've filed in notebooks
on my dusty shelves.
I will sit inside myself, hours and hours,
I will sit and contrive;
I shall will my mind to dream up terms
and luscious phrase that can compare
to your face,
to our lifetime,
and to this breathlessness.

And if I cannot find you words, my love;
if I burn out this candle and cannot find
a second wind
and all the life inside of my exhales
until the flame is snuffed
and I,
like a tiny film of ephemeral smoke,
wisp into the air with my last breath--
if then I cannot find you language, love,
then know
I wrote you sonnets inside myself
on love, and awe, and silence.

February 1, 2011