The Wind and the River

 I wrote this yesterday when I was out for a walk. It was for my kids . They liked it so I thought I'd share it here.
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I went the the edge of the river today. I was watching the place where the current meets the wind. I imagined this conversation between the two .

 "Hello wind." said the river curtly " I see you've come to trouble me up again. I  haven't seen much of you lately. I hear you've been pretty busy down south."

"Well, I do what I must.", breathed the wind in a self assured sort of a way. 

The river continued as though she hadn't heard the wind at all, "Having you gone all this time has caused me to reflect (in a way that only calm waters can). I was thinking of you and how you seem to be your truest self when you're moving."

"That's the silliest thing I've ever heard.  If I didn't blow, what kind of a wind would I be?" he said with a hearty laugh

"You're very unpredictable. I thought I resented that about you. Then I looked myself over. I scanned my banks. Completely untidy.  I love to spend my time flowing and trickling  gently . Without you, though,  there's no one to blow the refuse downstream. The fallen branches and the dead blossoms lay still, waiting for you to push them to my edges where they can return to the earth and make themselves useful again."

Then the wind touched the river and they danced  in ripples and curves that turned in on themselves gracefully. A long time passed quickly, the way it always does when something sublime and beautiful is going on. The river admitted how nice it felt to not be dancing alone.

"We have our own song,  don't we?" the wind respired  "You're so lovely to dance upon and I can only be seen in what I blow on. I don't look like much at all on my own. You do realize that without me you'd be a stagnant mess.  You're so full of your meandering thoughts and fruitful flows. I love that about you. It's just that I was made, I was meant to move you along."

The wind murmured something to the effect of the river having already known all of this. You know, about needing him and all. He said it delicately, so that the reeds and the beavers wouldn't hear.  He loved the river though she fought him and, when he was away, he dreamed of her and how she moved along so well and swiftly when he was near. Filled with affection,  he blew through the branches of the flowering apple trees and showered her with springs sweet version of the snow.
The river blushed blue. That is, of course, how a river smiles.

The Times That Try

This is a page from my journal. In January, our oldest daughter was very sick and in the hospital. There were a lot of other terrible things going on at that time too. It seemed like our little world was short circuiting. We prayed, we took all of the best advice, we asked for deliverance and closed every conceivable open door. We juggled flaming Bibles and stood on our heads. When we did all we could think of doing, we stood. Some of those dismal circumstances have changed. Some haven't. It's okay and God is , as always, very good.




This is a journey- ceaseless, so make me fly.
Life is inconclusive. That's the verdict, the final diagnosis.
All of my cards just can't be played in one hand so I keep on flowing and sometimes
I'm stopped by fear or pain or just plain shock- like a slap in the face.
I hear whisper-y lies that say I'm all alone,
that I've gone too far-
That I thought I heard you-
That I got it wrong.
"It's the sin that so easily besets you."
All shock and awe.
"You may have washed the feet of Jesus, but you're still a whore.
And this is why your dreams die and your daughters' sick."
Like poison darts, the lies come hot and quick.

But there's another kind of fire.
Forging. It takes so much fire.
Of course, I think, if i really never would have asked. ..
But it's too long gone
because my words, like Yours-- they don't return void--
especially not when I've asked for what you've been wanting to give me.

I know there's a depth in you God that cannot be plumbed-
it cannot be sunken into but by this boiling and burning.
My God, it hurts!
You slay me , God
But you're no savage.
A savage has no higher reason.
You take me onto this rickety altar of shaky circumstances.
You strike the match and light the fire
but, in the end I am the one who lays down.
I have to be.
Like you, I show the authenticity of my love when I do it willingly.

Here's my new blog

I know that some of you used to follow my Myspace blog (now you know how long it's been since I last blogged ) Anyway, I've posted some more recent poems and I hope to post some short stories and commentaries. I am looking for feedback. I'm contemplating going back to school this fall for a writing class or two. I figure this here blog is a good way to brush up. Big hugs to all :))

another poem

This motion, this river, this wave, this brook, this stream,this flood, this ocean.

First a trickle, then a gush. When it's coming, no one can stop it.
Dam breaking
Earth shaking
Love making
Risk taking

No
more
ebbing

I am crawling, falling, hurling
into this deep that calls me.

Perfect

Dead in a garden.
Yes. Not far from the place of the first breath.
Perfect.
Dead on a tree. Ugly as sin.
Not for goodness' sake,
but for all of the things we couldn't do.
For a decent, full cover
in the fig leafs place.

Somewhere, in the synapse,
in the space between,
this creation remembers
what is was meant to be
and it yearns, it yearns-
for the perfect.

Red

Spills and burns and flows
lava hot
untidy and wild

Supple, plump, vibrating
on your own special frequency

People love you.
People hate you.
You may be attractive,
but must you come on so strong?
red
like the sins of the fathers
and the fruitful tree of the womb
fiery, saturated, smoldering
I'd be more comfortable
liking you from a distance.
still, you are inside of me.

A Song for Paul

The birds sing a different song in the sun than they do in the rain
it's just not the same.
Flying high on a word and a prayer
they brace themselves against the cold air.

Still they sound a song
with the rain in their wings.

I cried about you the other day
because you don't see yourself in the right way.
Just like Joseph locked beneath the ground
saw his ray of light upon a dream sound

Then suddenly
he was freer than he'd ever hoped to be.
He was stunningly, astoundingly free.

A poem

Like trade winds blowing over the deep,
I always come back to you, my muse.
The tomes of humanity lure me away,
and I am enchanted for moments and hours.
The words of men peak my interest and then,
like a flower in bloom for an inkling of time,
their lines fly like feathers and I come ,
returning to your eternal sweetness again.

We are all little men in a world that's gone blind,
tatterered and scattered in the attic of time.
Cut from the root, still appearing alive.
But that life's like a boiling pot left alone,
evaporating slowly 'til the water's all gone.

You've come to graft the vine, to gently restore
what was lost.
You come like a fire and a flood, like a tiny flame
or the spring rain.
You present yourself in whatever way you must.
For the sake of the joy set before you.
And still, I can choose to ignore you.
How your love trumps the wisdom of men!
I am riding the trade winds again.