retrospect II: he called, but I wasn't home

(I came across a poem I started in March of 2012 and decided to finish it. It's the follow up to one I wrote in June of 2006, called retrospect: what I found instead.)

I've gone looking for Peace before.

One time I drove for hours,

crossed a state line, walked unfamiliar streets

where I imagined I might find him.

Peace wasn't there. 

I met his brother instead-

He sneaked up silently

and kept me company on the drive home. 

That time, it was enough for me.

Lately, though, I am missing him. 

I think of Peace's warmth,

his arm around my shoulder,

and I find myself in search of him again.

I'd drive to Cheyenne, 

but he wouldn't be there.

And I probably won't find him next week 

in the desert

on the sandstone 

in the endless expanse of sky.

So I write him letters,

I look at maps,

I meander down side streets and 

I ask others if they have seen him.

Some have

but they can't say more;

They can't say why Peace eludes me.

His brother-

His brother, Quiet, likely knows,

but I elude Quiet just as Peace eludes me.

I fidget

I search

I consult maps, friends, books.

I keep company with Noise, instead. 

I drive across state lines

again and again,

leaving Quiet

alone on my couch,

alone

with the answers

I've gone looking for. 

sometimes the road seems long

It’s dark in this place,
this chamber where I fight my lonely battle
with the never-ending onslaught of
temptation,
of shame.
I don’t (do?) want to give up,
but,
[as you know]
I’ve been asking for my freedom for some time now.

There are days when
it begins to feel futile,
this pleading with you to remove the poison,
entreating you to lift up the shade
and let some sunshine in.
Yet the venom
it seems
remains,
rising up from some inexhaustible place,
some giant aquifer of tainted water
filling me up on the inside.
I feel
sometimes
that I am like a polluted well.
I am to others
like a glass of water in Mexico.
Like Montezuma’s Revenge,
I am bound to wreak my own brand of relational havoc.

[I admit]
there are other days,
when I am able to see them:
tiny flowers emerging from
what looked to me like a sickening plot
of heart-soil
[a soiled heart?].
Sometime I catch a glimpse of
the paradoxical way
that this misery is mulch,
loam
for the lot
where the beauty of redemption takes root.

Yes, sometimes I’m able to see
that it’s all exquisite
under the light of grace.
But today I do (don’t?)
want to give up.
Today I feel like there’s
no end in sight.

Perhaps in my weariness,
in this dark place,
I simply want to find a breathing space
[for one day]
where a life that displays
his beauty
leaves me in something
other
than muck.

collision: a proverb and me

{The Scene}
A phone conversation

{The Players}
-"my voice"
-my brain
-[my actions]
-(my internal corrective, a.k.a. the Spirit)
-King Solomon, the Proverb man



{Act I}

"Really…yeah."

You have got to be kidding.
Have you lost it?

(listen!)

"I’m sorry, can you say that again?"

[despite effort, return to pondering my rebuttal]

This is

"uh huh….good."

not good.
Shoot, am I lying?

(come on, now , listen! listen!)

"Was it…?"

Crap, that's a loaded question.
[mentally struggle to unload question]

ugh, are you serious?
[start to squirm with irritation]
Is this logical, or am I just...

(seriously, Katie, you’ve got to listen!)

{Enter: Solomon and his darn Proverb}

He who answers before listening— that is his folly and his shame. (18:13)

{Act II}

"Yeah. Good."
This is craz…
[let it settle]

"Mm hmmm"
But I…
(give it time)
[wait]


"Good."
[breathe and let it go]

[sigh]

Oh man, I disagree.
But for now (Lord help me)
before I speak,
I’ll listen.

grief is never quickly gone

I read Psalm 8 today, and was reminded again that it was a favorite of my friend Jeannie, who died of cancer last August. We sang it at her funeral, and I think it will forever remind me of her. Anyway, I pulled out a poem I wrote not long after she died, and figured I'd let it be today's post.


I didn’t know.
The last time I heard you laugh
when you joked about growing old,
and when you greeted me with a hug-
I didn’t know then
that I should have been memorizing it all.

I would have taken a million mental snapshots:
The look on your face as you led us in song,
hands rhythmically directing our voices,
your eyes ever reminding us to smile;
I would have framed that picture.

I am making mistakes more freely now,
Jeannie,
trying to sing my wrong notes loud and long and strong,
trying to learn to throw my head back and laugh,
to fully enjoy the humor of my own foibles.
I heard those words before,
but I’m listening more closely now.

And how I want to sing!
To raise my voice to keep you near.
“May your gifts always include music,”
you wrote to me.
I’ll do my best, Jeannie
to never live a life that’s void of melodies.

I just didn’t know you would be gone
so soon,
long before I could call to say I’m in town,
long before I could fill you in on every major milestone.
I didn’t know how hard the tears would fall
once you’d left.

The gifts you said I have,
the strength you saw in me,
the life of love you lived…
I heard those things before, Jeannie.
But as they echo through death’s silence,
loud and clear,
I am listening a lot more closely now.

whistle stop

T minus two lanes until my insides calm down.
70, then 45, then 35, and now 15
mph through my ever rushing mind.
I stroll down main street with my thoughts.
I learn their names.
We talk longer than the usual 20 minutes.

Seventy in church this morning.
In the fellowship hall,
cub scouts sold their mothers' cake
to old ladies wearing Sunday best.
No talk of calories.

Two, ten
no, sixteen hours til their Sabbath ends.
Time for a cafe brunch,
time for an afternoon nap.
No concern for hours lost.

Population million, thousand, now just
800 stories to tell,
Six generations of friendly hellos.
They played football together,
she watched them as children.
I'll return to a different demographic: a populace of
370,000 ways to rush through the day,
370,000 worries over efficiency and image,
370,000 "just don't have the time"s

There, I'll wake to the longing
for a two lane heart,
a quiet conversation with my thoughts
(what were their names?),
a pew that they know is mine,
a booth in the local cafe.

Sometimes, it's
T minus too many days
til a small town girl
finds home.


(Written after a Sunday outing described in the previous post)

the prophet's words, take 2: for a people

Sing, my people!
Shout your joy from the rooftops!
Let your hearts be glad!

I am relenting from my anger.
I myself am pushing back your enemies,
those instruments of punishment,
all who have made you tremble and grow weary.
I am among you, your king!
You do not need to fear;
No, never again will you need to be afraid.

I say to you, "Lift up your heads!"
I am with you,
a mighty warrior on your behalf.
You are my people, my delight.
Be at rest in my love for you,
hear the songs of joy I sing over you,
my people, my children.

The weight of your sorrow and mourning
will lift from your shoulders.
Vengeance is mine against those who have hurt you.
I am your defender; leave them to me.

Ah, my broken people, I will rescue you;
I will gather those scattered by fear.
In every place where you were put to shame,
I will restore you to honor,
and the world will know that I love you.
like a Father loves his children.
Yes, the whole world will see.

I promise this to you, my scattered people-
wait for me, and I will gather you to myself.
Yes, I will bring you home.


(for earlier post on this passage, see "the prophets words become my song")

the prophet's words become my song

Sing, my daughter,
shout with joy like children do!
Play! Laugh! Dance!

Come out from your hiding,
from all your fearful cringing.
Open your eyes, look up!
I have taken away the hand
that was raised to strike you.
It's over now,
You're safe with me.

Don't hang your head, my daughter,
I am with you!
My strong arms will calm your trembling,
and my deep love will quiet you
until you can see the delight in my eyes,
and hear the songs I sing for you.

All the sorrows you have carried,
the weight of guilt,
the burdens that are all you have known-
I am lifting them from you shoulders;
Rise up, stretch, run without heaviness!
I have seen the wounds you've taken.
I will deal with those who crushed your spirit.
I saw it all, and I am for you.

Though you limp, I will call you to me.
I will gather every broken, scattered piece of you
and you will be whole.
Yes, my daughter,
I will bring you home.
Every place in your heart that has been ashamed
will know its worth.
I will lift up your head
and you will stand before the world as my precious prize.

I have good things for you, daughter,
gifts of love withheld from you by others.
I myself will lavish them on you now,
all your needs and longings will be restored to you,
restored before your very eyes.

This, my daughter, is your Father's promise to you.

(from Zephaniah 3:14-20)

homesick

I live in Babylon,
a land of riches.
I am presented with abundant fare,
amazing feasts,
only to find each mouthful laced with poison.
I am offered a million pleasures that turn out to be
the slowest kind of dying.
My captor feigns generosity,
appeases to quell rebellion,
all the while slaying
through a million toxic subtleties.

I cringe at times, to see myself
sample the hemlock from hunger,
reach for the pleasure from longing...
embrace captivity
because I know nothing of home.

I have never seen my country-
just postcards and letters.
I sit so many mornings, so many evenings,
staring out at the expanse that separates me from You,
watching until it seems that hope
disappears over the curve of the horizon,
the promises a million miles away.

You sent word once through a messenger:
"On that day, I will gather you..."*
Our captives returned,
our shame wiped away,
the land stretching out, vast and free, before us.
My heart open wide, whole and free before you.
But tonight I go to sleep again
in Babylon.
How long, my God,
until you bring us home?

I'll watch for you,
until you bring us home.


*Zephaniah 3:20

Solomon and Starbucks

(a poem for big life decisions and the need for wisdom)

A coffee date with Solomon would suffice.
I’ve got nothing that would add to his fame, really,
no battles over children that I don’t have.
Just a chat over mocha,
you know, get some things off my chest.

You told me to go ahead and ask for insight,
so I guess he and I aren’t all that different, really-
both of us young seekers,
promising to sacrifice wealth for the wisdom we need-
he, to rule a people,
while my own request seems a little silly;
I just want to know which exit to take off of I-70
when I drive east this fall.
Or west?
You are full of surprises.

I think he’d probably chuckle at me, old Solomon,
tell me to chill out,
and that You weren’t joking about giving generously
to those who ask.
To which I’d reply,
“Easy for you to say.”
But thanks for the talk, Sol,
and good luck with that “many wives” hang up.

I’ve done my best not to let my hope get waterlogged,
you know, “like a wave of the sea, blown and tossed by the….”
the instability of doubt, that’s it.
I’ve tried to fight that off.
And I think I feel it coming, that promise of Yours,
even without the coffee
[though I hate to miss out on a good latte].
Not so much a roadmap, or the exit sign I should look for,
but a garland of grace.
You know, like beauty for ashes-
much cooler
than good old-fashioned advice.

things they don't know in Hawaii

(written while sitting outside Starbucks in downtown Honolulu)

I’m watching this lady,
[maybe sixty]
wrinkled and too thin,
with hair shorn to no maintenance,
wearing her hideous muumuu and dragging on a cigarette
(extra long).
She is quirky in her movements,
smiling at the little dog under the table next to her,
then glancing back up,
hoping for conversation.
Its owner
[sporty, tanned and pony-tailed]
reads her novel, looks annoyed.

Maybe they don’t know about this
in Hawaii,
but she is really a truck stop waitress
asking in a gravel voice (with attitude)
if you want cream and sugar in your coffee,
[a sickly black potion in a thick, white mug, slightly chipped-
guaranteed to get you through to Memphis by morning]
And did you want the cherry, or the apple pie.
She wears a blue diner uniform,
a messy used-to-be-white apron,
a pen behind her left ear.
She’d most likely call you honey,
[even now]
would call anyone honey,
if someone would just talk to her.

But around here,
[what is a truck stop?]
she doesn’t remind anyone of fresh baked pie,
greasy, down-home goodness.
She is just an elderly lady
[the Starbucks black sheep]
wrinkled and too thin who,
cigarette in hand,
just makes us wish she would stop smiling at our dogs.

Vincent's Blues (Seeing Vincent)

(written for a young man named Vincent whom I met at the teen center I helped run in college)

Vincent Van Gogh would have tinted his oils blue,
a thousand shades of sadness,
before he laid his lines thick in the shadows of your face.
Yours are the shadows of
your alcoholic father,
as if a shadow were something genetic,
inherited.
As if the shades of his hopelessness
were inscribed on your newborn face.

In my mind, I watch Vincent lay down his layers.
I wonder how deep they are,
how long the paint will be wet.
I see another deep, blue line
and want to ask him where his highlights fall.

The paintbrush will not capture
your fifteen-year-old frame,
nor the styrofoam Sonic cup
and the smell of liquor it left on your breath.
There will be no canvas portrayal
of my awkward attempts to touch gently on your harsh realities.
Neither will Mr. Van Gogh be painting your mother's portrait,
though I wonder if she misses you tonight.

It would be easier for me to sit here
and hang your present condition like a sorrowful painting
on the walls of my wandering thoughts.
But I am no Vincent Van Gogh.
So I will throw away your empty Sonic cup
and gather the courage to sit down beside your
fifteen-year-old frame,
talk about the stories behind your shades of blue,
maybe even catch a glimpse
of where your highlights fall.

Mr. Van Gogh can keep his midnight blues
for the sky of some starry night.

V-Dub

My parents own a VW camper van,
a real beater (brown, with a hand-painted yellow stripe down the side)
the kind you usually see propped up on cinderblocks
in some overgrown, midwest junkyard.
It is the child of my mother’s mid-life crisis,
purchased without consulting my father,
whose irritation quickly dissolved during their first camping trip.
I’m not sure how,
but that automobile has become a meeting place
for two people who,
all my life
have seemed painfully separate.

It takes them all kinds of crazy places,
that common ground on four wheels-
it sets up house in the high mountains they love,
putters across long stretches of desert highway,
drives them to small town diners
and into quirky encounters with other traveling eccentrics.
The thing breaks down all the time, of course,
and being a foreign car, and old,
it’s a pain in the rear to find both parts and an able mechanic.
The rest of practical America would cave in and buy a sedan,
to save the money, if nothing else.
But not my parents.
Unlike many other things in life,
they seem to believe, without question,
that the van is worth it.

In some small way,
that nasty brown van gives me hope,
suggests the existence of a promising principle.
In so many ways, I, too, feel a bit like a beater-
like I break down easily and am hard to fix,
like I fall apart all too often.
I imagine myself the kind of heart that should be propped up on blocks,
alone in some weed-infested junkyard
reserved for the relationally inept.
I spend most of my time
convinced that I live in a world that would much prefer
a Taurus-
more economic, stylish, and reliable-
a lot less putter and clank and exhaust.

But maybe, just maybe,
I have the hidden value of my parent’s van-
that secret treasure, that diamond in the rust.
Perhaps the Father has made me to be
a safe place for broken people,
an open door to shared adventure.
Yes, maybe I, despite the toil and cost and roadside fixes
will someday, by someone,
been seen as totally,
unquestionably
worth it.

it begins with a name

It begins with a name
the first (Rick) is a step
the last (Bennet) is a leap.
Did he go by Ricky as a boy?
The Bennet family, the Bennet children…
[uh oh, here we go]
A brick falls when we hear him laugh,
an entire wall when he admits that he might cry.
He has a daughter (age 11)
Last week he tried to buy her a skateboard.
It got stolen.
[No turning back now]
He drinks because of a broken heart.

Another crashing sound
comes behind the stories of his father:
how they owned a Harley museum,
how he died of cancer.
His mother went not long after.
[we’re goners for sure]
It gets old, he says, living on the streets,
curling up in alleys for a decade’s worth of cold nights.
[suddenly I am imagining the chill of the concrete]
He gives advice on panhandling,
shows us a card trick, a coin trick, a smile.

It’s a risky business, letting it begin with a name;
a step, a leap, a crumbling wall.
Two days later, when I walk past him asleep in the sidewalk,
and I pause to watch them carry him away to detox (again),
I find that I have given up the right to say
“Look at that homeless man sleeping there.”
Yes, look at that unknown, unclean, inhuman
crumpled man in front of the Starbucks
where I study for my middle-class master’s degree.
I gave up that right
when I asked for his name.

Now all I can see is Rick Bennet,
who lost his father
and misses his daughter
and is curled up drunk on the sidewalk
because of a broken heart.

for all my fellow lovers of the written word...

This is actually an old poem (also the source of the line used in my blog description). But as I have been talking to so many who share a love for word-smithing, I wanted to post it. This is for all you who love the way that a word is born...
______________________________


It is a way that a word is born,
forged into new life
when perfectly placed,
artfully laid
in the aesthetics of language.
It is the crafting of expression,
the breathing of sound into silence.
It is the sculpting of the emotions of the speechless,
granting freedom to mark themselves messily on the page,
pour themselves out as a bottle of ink,
like the proverbial bleeding heart.

It is because the spoken word is so final,
yet fleeting:
the paradox of a thing that is
both irrevocable
and easily forgotten.
But my pen,
my pen can change its mind,
scratch out the expression found wanting,
redeem the shortcomings of the first attempt.
And when the portrait is done,
and the ink is drying in the final etchings
of the passionately scrawled portrayal of self,
it is then that the pen preserves
the irony of the moment,
the instantaneous laugh,
the knot in my stomach,
or the way he looked at me.

It is because words are a companion,
wrapping around the soul,
a warm body in the cold room of silence,
an ally in emotional solitude.
A well-crafted poem will
join me for coffee,
listen long into the night,
and call me out to dance an intimate slow dance.

It is to find myself when I am lost,
to give shape to my sorrow,
lineation to my laughter.
It is because I must.
And because when I do,
you can no longer look straight through me.
So that both of us can see;
that is why
I write.

retrospect: what I found instead

I was looking for Peace, I think
when I ran away across the state line
[this time, Wyoming].
As if I would find it,
dressed warmly and walking toward me
on a sidewalk in downtown Cheyenne.
“How about dinner?” Peace would say.
I would just sheepishly smile my relief
and collapse into his company.
But Peace was not there.

I eat dinner and drive out of town.

I would like to just turn south now,
tell myself that Peace must actually live in New Mexico,
instead.
But I know I can’t afford the gas it would take
before I passed the mile marker of concession,
the last yellow dash before admitting that Peace
is not a resident of any of our 50 states,
doesn’t patrol a certain interstate,
and is not sitting at the counter in any specific
small town café.

What I find instead in these hours of driving
is Quiet,
stretched out like a strip of asphalt that runs from
here to there
there to here.

“How about we just rest?” Quiet says, his arm around my shoulder.

I am smiling sheepishly, as I imagined.
I breathe, smile up at his gentle face.
“That sounds nice” I say,
and we drive together, into the night and all the way home.

For any who wonder, "scribbled ink portrait" comes from a poem I wrote in college, which follows:

Portrait

You nodded politely,
half-distracted,
and brought your eyes back to my face
in time to smile weakly.

I'm glad you heard my noise.

I suppose I had hoped
my words
would help you reach me here.
I hate His silence
yet, again,
and forever,
your answer brings no satisfaction.

Just go.

Scribble, crumple-
this paper holds no peace for me.
Scribble, crumple-
breathe.
The words have come
with only my face to react.

Reread and rest.

Tonight,
don't call me a poet.
A poet writes poems.
But I,
crumpled,
grasp a scribbled ink portrait
of myself.