haiku//august
one (hannah, before samuel)
here I am again,
weeping outside your gate, with
a prayer, a dream,
sure that what I want
will make everything okay,
or at least, better.
I can’t fathom that
you want me. my longings
take up all the space. two (the woman at the well, august)
here I am again,
at this well in the middle
of the blistering,
smoky afternoon.
I am so tired of this,
of the thirst and of
the coming alone.
but today, amid the irk
and the deep sadness
you are here, strange man
at the well—I am met in
the ordinary,
by your gentle eyes
so different from my wild
spirit. may I watch
you with a holy
curiosity, look up
at you, and say “yes.” three (eve, after)
I have heard the sound
of my heart fleeing from you
and turning to stone.
I have heard you, the
sound of you walking in the
garden in the cool
of the day, always
choosing a body to know
my messy, wild
existence, ever
since the beginning. I have
heard the crunch of leaves
under your bare feet,
your low, murmured promise: “I
will give you a new
heart, slow it’s frantic,
labored pulse. and I will give
you a heart of flesh.” five (psalm 23)
the shadow of death
hovers close, darkness keeps on
falling over us.
are you following
us, goodness and mercy, like
you once promised us? seven (we are the image, you the artist)
lean my ear toward you
like the audience at a
good play, or the way
I stand, mesmerized
by the swirling colors of
the truth on canvas. eight (to stay, or to go, 1)
I’m ready to go—
by which I mean to unpack
my bags, finally
to hang up my clothes,
fling open my heart’s door
and plant a garden. nine
twirl me like a tune
as you wrap me in your arms
and hold me steady.
make me to know you.
remind me of the true song.
teach me to hum it. ten (this is what it sounds like)
this is what it sounds
like to be in my body
today: a buzzing,
a hum, a shudder,
an echo, a crescendo
and decrescendo
a romp, a rain stick,
ripple, ramble, a pause, and
generous applause. eleven (psalm 27)
you live—dwell—inside
of me, so as long as I
pay attention to
it. you are my home
and I am yours, my body
your willing temple. twelve (psalm 28)
"face the peril," I
once scratched in the margin
of psalm 28—
face the peril seems
to be the singular way
forward, gazing out
over this growing
desolate abyss. will you,
can you, save, heal, help? fourteen
we sit, snuggled close
and giggling, my mascara
smearing down my cheeks,
heart beats aligning,
momentarily at peace.
oh sister, my friend. fifteen (to stay, or to go, 2)
you went, and I stayed—
backwards of expectation—
after all the night
travelling under
stars and inside cars packed full
of everything, all
our lives. in the soft
going and the brave staying,
the rooted things hum
a blessing as the
birds leave their branches. a risk
to go, or to stay. sixteen
in a lonely world
that values power, right-ness,
and strength, may I be
gracious, may I be
kind, may I love what is good,
may I be kept soft. seventeen (for afghanistan)
do you see them as
they hold hands, weeping? or as
the desperate arms shove
and clutch each other
in a futile attempt to
escape their own home?
I cannot grasp it
but can only read someone
else’s prophetic
ancient prayers, those
bold, true words of doubt, whispered
pleas for mercy. eighteen (abundance)
what would it look like
if we knew we were enough—
if we trusted in
your abundance, that
at your banquet table, you
won’t ever run out? nineteen (keep it going)
who is it for, this
new song, this shifting like
the brave westward wind?
for you? yes. for me?
yes, that too. for us all? yes,
very much so, yes. twenty (still life)
this quiet waiting
this breathing underneath
this slow growing vine
this accepted rest
this scratch of pen on paper
this humming still life twenty-one (some days)
some days you cannot
even make rice krispy treats,
much less write poems
so you throw the rock
hard failure in the garbage.
some days are like that. twenty-three (come and taste)
sometimes you have to
taste before seeing and go
before realizing
before the scales fell
off his eyes, he had to walk
down the strange road, blind. twenty-four (book launch!)
look at that! my words
in a book, all bound up, and
looking up at me! twenty-five (maybe what i desire is wholeness)
I want to feel like
each part of me is alive
tingling, ready,
useful. I want to
fight the fear of atrophy
with vivacity,
a whole-self embrace
of the stunning life you have
given me to live.
I want to hum with
the radio to the songs
of the saints, to dare
to drive down the dark
highway with the windows cracked
open, brave and whole. twenty-six (psalm 38)
my tumultuous
heart groans like a small boat on
a dark sea, and i
lean on the railing
looking for the light that is
gone out of my eyes
but you see it—see
the stars, and the puff of my
breath in the cold air.
we wait, floating, for
an answer, a touch. o god,
be not far from me. twenty-eight (in the sky, above nebraska)
when did we lose hold
of the magic of flying?
of the bright wonder
that is looking down
at the clouds instead of up
at them, of the sun
cresting the ocean
of cirrus, lighting it up
with its powerful fire,
painting the canvas
of sky simply by it’s
existing. now we
close our eyes, bored, shove
radios into our ears,
oblivious to
the snaking river,
the groaning, gracious world that
breathes, miles beneath. thirty (it’s not bad, it’s just true)
I try to explain
why I don’t call anymore,
that it no longer
matters in the same
way—that it simply matters
differently. see,
now my sister loves
that flannel, now he’s engaged
to somebody else,
now our settings have
shifted, like the seasons. part
of the growing is
the seed in the dirt
missing the sky. then, later,
missing the darkness. thirty-one (august benediction)
strange man at the well,
teach us to listen for you,
now, in the middle.
