Siren Song

The siren, a timeless symbol, inviting
you to that timeless place between
work and home. She sings
her song, welcoming us all
to more than that favorite brew
or bag of beans, more
than that perfectly prepared,
custom latte, but also
to smiling faces, friendly conversation,
an atmosphere of warmth
where, for a moment,
you can relax,
breathe, and simply
exist.
Starbucks--
pairs well with Life!

In Amazement

And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters… (Genesis 1:2)

Crystal eyes, whose full perfection all the world amazes… (Shakespeare “Venus and Adonis”)

We see cracks in the pavement, little broken openings--

hairline fine—that run along sidewalks, blacktop, dirt paths,

deep, deep beneath the ground, into the earth, up

through home foundations, stone, brick, wood frames,

and windows.

We follow these cracks, barefoot, wandering

alone along broken roads backwards. We wander

wondering who we are and how we got here and how

we get back or move forward.

We forget, when moving and feeling behind somehow,

that all movement is forward and back, a rocking

like the chair the Lord sits in singing lullabies to our Spirit

as our Soul slowly finds its way home. A rocking,

like ocean waves pushing up toward shore and receding,

moving upon the earth to draw it into water.

And it is there, at the place where earth and water meet,

that God’s Spirit moves—one great hand-shaped cloud.

And the water becomes a blanket He inches up, over

our toes, our ankles, our legs, our torso,

our neck, our chin, our lips, our nose, our eyes,

our hairline

until completely covered, our breath stills

and we dream of open windows and rainwater

filling rails, flowing over and flooding

our most intimate rooms.

These dreams, like waves or falling rocks

strike our forehead, rendering us unconscious

so that we float in a daze, spiraling up, up, up

to where the Three Kings of Orion sparkle like crystal

or like the eyes of an unblemished bride.

In amazement, we see a band of angels, pure winged white lights,

coming down like the watery wall of a water fall

through the many-layered atmosphere to touch

the center of the earth, that fiery core, then rise up

again to God.

And we feel, for a moment, the world spinning,

our head in a whirl as one great finger reaches

down to seal the cracks our feet have walked upon

in every place we’ve wandered.

...And Suddenly I Descend

Always, we walk two ways.

One way down that way, to the place

we know we ought to be. And one way down the other way,

to the place we want to be. I walked for many miles in many directions, knowing

one thing:

everywhere I turned refused me what I wanted. So,

I distanced myself from all places

knowing I could never exist fully in any one place, only

in part

in several places. To him,

I wished I were the mysterious woman worth pursuing, worth taking time

to write too many letters to,

worth making a fool of himself for.

As it turned out, it was I who always turned

fool. I wrote the love letters, and I remained faithfully

unsatisfied, knowing that I was turned the wrong way but still

wanting, oh, so desperately, to remain there,

imagining one day I would be alluring

enough to sustain one’s attentions and desires. But I failed

on this account as I could never be enough for him, and I knew I could never be,

but again and again I tried. I tried like mad, wearing

fancy dresses, speaking in a language of grace and elegance, relating witty comments.

He was never what I really wanted, only

a dream, and knowing that he was only a dream,

he faded away, like all dreams do, until I was left

only with the reality of cold truth. No truth is warm

or tenderhearted or gracious. It is only cold, and hits you

like large pellets of hail and pulls you into the whirling wind

of the tornado only to throw you hard out into the impossibly still world again. 

And so, we always find ourselves walking in place, only

pretending to move, but never really getting anywhere.

We wish we could be who we wish we could be, but we never can.

Our wishes, subject to the earth’s gravitational pull, fall. They become

buried one hundred times over, beneath the weight of other wishes and that of our bodies

which follow. Who is it we wanted to be? Self-reflection

is a difficult task and for many not worth the effort. I am always

falling.

My hands fail to maintain

their strong hold on the seventh floor

window sill,

release their grip,

and suddenly

I descend. Yes,

 I do hear the choir of angels. Saints

whisper in the wind.

But there are no familiar voices.

The stringed instruments make a pretty sound,

and heavenly voices run through each one. I become

no longer in my own place, but instead

in the place of those before me

and ahead.