Where the rubber meets the road
A force exerted means
That motion rotary converts
To motion linear.
In other words:
The wheels turn;
The car moves.
A curious relationship!
Change the gripping force
Between the tire and the road;
Change the motion.
Too much friction
Glues the surfaces together.
Now they’re stuck!
Too little – like the snowfall –
And the tire spins.
I’m stuck again.
Friction makes me move.
Friction brings me gently to a stop.

There is an analogue
In human social interaction
(Imperfect, like all metaphors).
Some stickiness in my relationships
Helps them to move.
A little roughness, touch of grit,
Prompts conversation,
Spurs communion.
Lacking friction, a relationship
May glide like skates upon the ice
Until abrupt collision with a wall
Or languish, stuck, unmoving, dull.
Too much friction makes us motionless as well
No longer dull,
But joyless.

So God, may there be friction
Between us, you and I,
Sufficient to propel us
From the place we are
To where we ought to be,
From tedious stability
Or furious contention,
To ministry in motion.

How can I kill thee? Let me count the ways.
With firearm, with sniper’s aim, with gun
Close laid to hand when my quick temper frays,
Laid low by aircraft on a bombing run,
By majesty of justice bent to end
A life, by lethal intervenous dose
Or hangman’s noose, or an envenomed blend
Within a glass which brings the a dios.
So many ways! By implement, by hand,
With social sanction or with criminal
Intent. Such vast destruction we have planned
That we abide in a condition liminal.
Too many and too easy for my will
To take a life, despite, “Thou shalt not kill.” 

Kyrie eleison.

There was a time, they said, to wash disease
Away. “When angels’ wings disturb the pool,
Its waters ruffled, seize your moment! Step
Into the roiling basin, then its power
Will heal your body, mind, and soul.” Alas,
For years which mounted up to thirty-eight
The man lay, watching, struggling, straining to
Attain the waters as they stirred, alone
With none to carry him, too slow to seize
His time before another stepped into
The pool and won its healing. Thirty-eight
Frustrating, painful years, until the day
A stranger said, “Pick up your mat and walk,”
And walk with wonder and with joy he did.

One mystery of healing, so it seems
To me, is finding my due role and place
In treating my own wounds, in easing my
Own pain. For some, my body’s own resource
Suffices. Bruises on the knee, scraped skin,
Small insults I can brush aside. But when
Is my own agency required, and when
(and where) should I inquire for a pool
Like Beth-Zatha and its five porticoes?
When should I gaze for sign of angels’ wings
And strain to place my injured body in
The place where healing dwells? What hurts or pains
Surpass my power to recover? When
Must I seek aid to take the trembling steps
Into the pool? Or when must I await
The stranger’s visit, and the words, “Arise
And walk,” for even helping hands can not
Assist me to the pool in time to touch
The troubled waters and receive their balm.

O Holy One, you know the pains I bear.
You know which hurts persist, which injuries
Endure. You know where I have trusted in
My own resources foolishly. You know
Where i have sought (and missed) a fountain of
Invigorating agency. You know
Where I have lain and gazed despairing on
The troubled waters, wondering when I
Might find my turn to bathe and heal. You know
When even tender human hands will not
Avail to bring me consolation. So
Tell me, for I confess my wisdom fails.
Tell me to wait, for time will heal this hurt.
Tell me to seek for water’s ruffled power.
Tell me to strain and claim resuscitation.
Tell me to walk and bear my mat away.

O Holy One, you know. Tell me, I pray.
Amen. 

The drive is cleared of snow
To a standard that I would have judged
Inadequate
Not quite two months ago
But now I find miraculous.
I lift my thanks
For big kid boots
And even better, for
A young adult who’s home for break
(one which we’ll have to name as “winter,”since it clearly isn’t spring).

Enter cravings.
I want bacon. I want eggs.
I want sausage, fried potatoes, ham.
I want cheese and corned beef hash.
I want hollandaise
And bacon rounds
And English muffins
And a barrel full of coffee.
I want carbs and fat and salt
And I won’t tolerate a glimpse
Of greens.

Not good for me, you say?
What matter?
All I ask is that this diet kill me
Before the dread arrival
Of another winter storm.

This poem is not, technically, part of my Lenten poem-prayer project, but I suppose it could be labeled a heart-felt lament.

The street and drive outside
Are once again adorned
With argent splendor.
Overnight the overhanging clouds
Discharged their crystal burden
To blanket and bedeck
The sleeping world
Now rising to remove
Its hazardous allure
From thoroughfare and walkway. 
I, however, choose to heed
The siren song of inspiration
(And of Lenten obligation)
Which calls me to create,
Craft words, assemble syllables
Into a poem-prayer.
Come, heavenly and Holy One!
And fill me with a long and lengthy lay
That begs to pour itself
Onto this odd and insubstantial page.
Come, Spirit, come!

 

 

Come, Spirit, come!

 

 

I don’t want to shovel any more.

 

 

Really?

 

 

 

Sigh. 

One well establshed view of Lent exempts
Its fasts from Sundays. I suppose that means
I could relax a little more these morns
(Although I note, amused, that Sundays spur
Me from my bed and on the road to church
Before I must bestir myself for work
On Monday; ’tis the choir singer’s lot),
Leave for tomorrow poem-prayers, relieve
The mind of searching for a word that suits.

Today is Resurrection Day. They asked
Of Jesus, whose disciples failed to share
The common fast, why they would celebrate
And eat? “But who could fast,” he said, “Who are
Companions with the Son of Man?” So who
Could turn aside from joy the day that marks
His resurrection? Who – not I – could miss
The opportunity to praise the One
Who gifts us life, and life eternally?
And who, despite long custom, can restrain
The inner song abjured in Lent, and with
A softly joyful voice, murmur in
The heart its “Hallelujah!”? 

O God,
You offered no suggestion:
You commanded
That we take a day of rest.
High upon the mountain
Moses waiting, listening
As you demanded
Sound and righteous
Rules for living.
Do not do harm to neighbor.
Once given, keep your word.
Don’t give your trust (or substance)
To an idol all unworthy
Of your worship.
Take one day
And keep it holy.
So here on my day off
I rise, and shower, and dress,
And steer my car to work
To set my mind to wrestle
With a task so far intractable,
In hopes that this last effort
Will bring it to completion.
I sacrifice this Sabbath
So my heart may have relief
From obligation overhanging.
A Sabbath for a Sabbath:
Is not that a fair trade,
An exercise of faith
A holy day tomorrow
For a labor day today?
It’s not like any other project
Slumbering will wake
In days ahead, and claim another day
And claim another day
And claim another day…

But did you not also proclaim
In Psalmist’s song:
“Be busy, and you’ll know that I am God.”
No?
You didn’t?
Oh.
Amen. 

Sensation
Of a finger
As it glides
So tenderly
Across the cheek.
Sensation
Of hands flat
Upon my shoulder,
In the hollow of my back:
Gentle pressure
Drawing me
Into the warmth
And softness
And firm strength
Of chest and shoulders,
Hips and waist
Before me.
Sensation
Of lips dancing,
Fingers flowing. 
In a single life
This is some of what I miss.
Transcendent One,
In whose image I am made,
Could the wonders of
Sensation
Be one reason you
Enrobed yourself in flesh?
Do you miss
The calloused fingers
Of the fisherman,
Your mother’s cheek
Against your beard,
The arms of Magadalene
Against your back
As she impulsively
Embraced you near the tomb?
Sensation
Of your lips
Brushed lovingly
Upon her brow? 

I read a story on the Internet
This morning, how a young man pulled upon
The bra strap of a classmate once, and twice,
In fact so many times they both lost count,
Until the teacher told her, “Ignore him,”
Until she off and banged him in the nose.
Her mother, summoned, heard the sorry tale,
Demanded why the teacher failed to stop
A sexual assault upon the girl
And why her daughter now faced discipline
For acting to defend herself when the
Officials of the school would not. This prayer
Is not about the girl. This prayer is for
The boys, the boys and men: the boys and men
Who act as if they own the women they
Encounter, act as if the metaphor
Of Adam’s rib grants power that cannot
Be questioned. “Once the rib was mine, so you
Are mine, and I can follow every whim,
Shout epithets, touch wantonly, decide
For her, invade her body sexually
And surgically. As if the rib was not
A sign of shared connection, seal of joint
Authority. O God, you came to Earth
A-walking in the robes of man. You stood
Upon the temple with the tempter, looked
Across the world a-glitter, turned aside
The proffered gift of power. “Lead us not
Into temptation,” you invited us
To pray, who knew temptation’s charm and lure.
Equip us to resist temptation, we
Who cannot seem to understand that we
Deserve no privilege of power one
Over another, no ability
To shape the life of woman (or of man)
To our will. Equip us to resist
Temptation, and deliver women from
Our evil. In your holy name, Amen.