I need...

...this baby. 

Not a holy, Jesus baby, 

not someone sacred and sacrificial. 

No need for future parables

and making blind men see.

No, I do not need that baby. 

I just need to feel the babyness within. 

The small eager hands, the eyes searching. 

I need a belly-up way of being,

completely vulnerable, expectant, 

confident that I will be fed and loved. 

I do not need a manger or wisemen bearing gifts. 

The stars can be hidden beneath a cloudy midwestern cloak.  

My mother does not need to speak to angel, 

my father does not have to be a carpenter. 

In fact, he can be a retired banker with a smoker's cough. 

Please god, find me. 

Make me a muslim child, 

an asian buddhist baby with a big belly. 

Circumcise me following Jewish lore,

it does not matter. 

Just shed the years that hardened me, 

slough off the doubt. 

Take away my words, my walk, 

swaddle me in used muslin. 

Find me, sweet new me, and wrap me tight. 

  

sketchbook #2

If I told you what this is meant to be, 

you would laugh -- and by you, 

I am thinking of a specific person. 

So I will not tell you about the body, 

the seeds, the rooting, the strong cornerstone. 

I do not know if I believe what I believe anymore. 

Instead, I will point out the blue against the black, 

the interesting twist of turquoise against orange, 

the comfort of brown.  I will make you look at the green, 

yes, you would ask you to look at that a long while. 

Then I would take you back to Howe Elementary School, 

that huge art classroom in the basement.  

The teacher, whose name you cannot remember. 

I would take you back to the day 

when you were five and saw the color wheel.

When she talked to you about 

primary colors and secondary colors.

I would take you back to that exact second 

when you learned that green 

is made by mixing blue with yellow. 

How you folded the paint together and saw it happen,

this magic alchemy rolling together in so many shades. 

And I would ask you to remember that now, 

that green is made by mixing blue and yellow,

that newness springs -- in one quick twist -- 

from the deepest sadness finding its light. 

That's all it is, this lifetime.  

Making green.  So lay it on the paper, 

a big first grade blob of blue 

and turn to the brightness in your life --

that saint, that sanctuary, 

the new song that won't stop spinning.

Turn to the poet on Duncan Street, open that favorite book, 

eat three slices of warm pork tenderloin. 

Walk to the tree, hold the baby, 

do whatever it is, find whatever it is 

-- your yellow--and slather it in.  

Then start stirring, 

swirl one into the other, 

your sadness and your hope, 

until the new hue feels just right. 

homecoming

In the twenty three hours I was in the hospital, 

my front yard and porch were transformed into this. 

Have you ever seen anything like it? All love and sparkles?  

Gifts from my friends glowing me home. 

As someone who has easy grasp of words, 

and knows what to say in most settings, 

I fall silent.  All I can say is thank you to you, 

and thank you to God  for you.  How lucky am I?

we are

...the seeds, the water, the incremental growth. 

We are the eyes, the mouth, the hands reaching. 

We are one body united, 

individually indispensable. 

We are one strong foundation, 

many leaning on the same cornerstone. 

We are the living stones.  We are the living stones. 

Can you hear me?  We are living stones

so ancient and able.