The Meekness of Soldiering 

When it becomes warmer

we will fish by the sea,

and watch Pisces rise

from behind our wanderings.

The waves will quiet under

the Pelicans salty breath

and sand castles will give way to

ocean kingdoms.

 

We will watch it grow darker

until the sun fades below

a weathered pier,

and appear the light of men.
Not a scholars game,

not a prophets name,

only God and I and You:

Six quiet feet marching

as meek soldiers

toward the next continent.

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The Art of Holding Thistles 

You have taught me hard  how to hold on to thistles

while holding the wheat,

the art of not losing the crop

just to soothe the long ache that the thistle brings as it bites and burrows beneath my skin.
How you have become the very

thing that I must always lay down,

so that my arms can carry more thistle, pick up the plow, blister my hands, work the soil for the honey golden wheat.
You will not see my labors

here but you know them.

I know some of your tears.

I have bled some of your sweat,

and the rain will not wash it away.
What a wide wide field,

far reaching from East to West.

And the sun is still noon high.

I don’t know if I will

see the honey in your eye

as sun sets and rest comes

over this land.
After harvest, the table of eucharisteo will be large enough for all of us.

I will give thanks for you there in that farmhouse without walls as I do in the hot and toiling field.

I will give thanks for your bowed head and heart and blistered hands.

We will give thanks for the cool breeze that finally plays upon our necks as we laugh together again.

The Ground Beneath My Feet

1. soot:

a black powdery or flaky substance consisting largely of amorphous carbon, produced by the incomplete burning of organic matter.

 
Black soot covers my hands.

Proof that I dance with fire

without being devoured.

I rub my hands together,

watch as the black turns to gray.

Flame becomes a fierce comfort,

forcing the stains on my heart

and hands to be forgotten.

I think of Moses and the burning bush as I remove my boots and

feel the warm floor beneath my bare feet.

I did not expect to stand on

Holy ground today.

I never expect it.

But God is always there,

in the fire,

in the lines that draw my

hands into working hands,

In the heartbeat beneath my stains.

He is here in the provision of warmth and sacrifice,

creating a place for me

to dance barefooted and holy

on the ground beneath my feet.

Anointing Tangled Hair

I remember when your mother braided my tangled hair.
I wanted my hair to look                                       just like yours,

like golden hay from the summer field.

The same hay that I watched your     little horse chew on endlessly by the pond.

I know that your mother tried               her best to make my hair                      look like a loved bird nest.

But I was not her child.

The love did not pour out upon my head and I could feel her distance as she wished that my hair were cleaner.

These days I find myself searching  for the heads of  motherless children.

 I will braid their hair like summer hay. 

And pray that Love anoints those heads.

Peace to Keep

 

prayinghands

My wrinkled skin will still feel my youth

caressing yours.

My fading my mind will always 

wander back to our magical corridors. 

 

 

I cannot make the rain come or go, 

nor can I make you stay or leave.

So I embrace it all.

The aging, the losing,

the battle of wills.

I surrender.

my flag is yours.

 

Keep peace in prayer, friend. 

The young girl will be old one

day,  keeping you in hers.