Sprint to the filament of open hands

He did not love first

He was love

Lie on lily pads wide and round

He did not love first

He was love

Climb low to middle earth warm

He did not love first

He was love

Be honored in hearing all the chapters

He did not love first

He was love

Stir it inside til you have been made new

He did not love first

He was love

Listen to me

At mom’s table

Find me there

Less sure

And simply less

Pass around

The lemonade pie

And just

Let me listen

And observe

If it’s ok

Don’t ask me

Anything

And know that

I do love

And I do care

And I am not

Better than

Or higher than

Or more noble

In truth

I’ve never

Thought this

I’m merely

Looking for

Anything familiar

Or similar

Sniffing the air

For hints of home

The tank top fell off

Landed on the dead man

Then the calendar

If you look closely

You can see a bull’s eye

On every date

Crunch through the snow

For several winters

And everyone still asks

Am I to blame

Peace to your window
Unrest at the door
I wish you a long stay
In a rather large home

Horses and dogs
To eat from your hand
Or whatever it is
That carries you

A blend of your songs
And snippets of your script
With hot tea and toast
And plenty of time for naps

I’ll hem you in with interest
And make you a quilt from curiosity
I’ll ask the questions that prove
I am home and you are home

If I’m wrong
Everyone is much more
Of a victim
Than I can see
Cause it quite seems like
Behavior to behavior
Behavior to behavior

If I’m wrong
Everyone is much more
Hoodwinked
Than is observable
And perhaps exempt from
Behavior to behavior
Behavior to behavior

If I’m wrong
Everyone is much more
A marionette
Worked from above
And strung along from
Behavior to behavior
Behavior to behavior

If I’m wrong
Everyone is much more
Like their mollycoddled-self
Allowed to dress unsupervised
And plod about from
Behavior to behavior
Behavior to behavior

If I’m wrong
Everyone is much more
Capable of refusing
To kiss the clown’s ring
Thereby condemning
Behavior to behavior
Behavior to behavior

If I’m wrong
Everyone is much more
The prisoner of something
With teeth and length
And a tag-a-long born from
Behavior to behavior
Behavior to behavior

To all of the whimpering hounds
Tail-tucked, whiny, and head down
You rode me and you climbed my name
You bit my cheek and shared my stage
I served you like a star-studded Live Aid
And promoted your fresh-faced act
In the most relentless and generous ways
I linked us together high on the marquee
Introduced you as the world’s next big thing
I did what I said I would do to the T
I did what I said I would do genuinely
I consistently spoke courage as you slithered on
I inserted courage as you complained and yawned
So forgive me if I don’t bow or cry your name
I’m deaf to your roar, your moan, and your thunder
You only have yourself to blame
For your short-lived weak one hit wonder

When the bottom line
Shows years of
Skillful accounting skulduggery
Stand on a chair

When the comma of it all
Serves as a fork
Announcing a million tributaries
Stand on a chair and woo

When the windowed mind
Always plays the hits
Of every summer ladylove
Stand on a chair and woo and raise a glass

When the brief-cased version
Of vizard after vizard
Twinkles loud and clandestined
Stand on a chair and woo and raise a glass and bow

He was correct
That old man who said
Enjoy ministry in your 20s, Son
Cause people bathe you with “naive” then
But when you enter your 30s
You’ve entered the “know betters”
Where others are quick to say
That you should know better
And then the 40s plod in
And you realize that the instincts
That served you well at one point
Aren’t always firing on all cylinders
The 40s call your name and then look away
The 40s wear a mask that’s light in the night
The 40s wear a mask that’s dark in the day
And the 50s, oh they’re hollering
Just echos of God asking loudly and often
Loudly and often and so loud and long
“Why aren’t you asking for what you want?”
Well, cause in my 20s I had no holy wants
In my 30s I was more prone to accept
In my 40s I couldn’t shoot content in the gut
So give me a second, would you
Oh, the 50s in ministry
A new day

If you’re only hoping for air
Are you really drowning
At what point is giving up the fight
The same as suicide
In the movies it looks so peaceful
Death serene and languid
When gulps of the wild river
Replace gulps of modern air
And dancing floating hair
Replaced brutal trails of tears
I just wonder – I just wonder
When do you see and know
The wicked finality of it all
How soon is the winner declared
Before you give up the ghost

A little bit, a cemetery heat
Black crow on the lawn
Perpendicular feathers show
Some type of inconsistency
Has grounded the poor soul
And the poet crow bops along
Seeming to worry about
Perhaps for the first time
Agility that may not come
Just as she may not eat
Just as she may never taste
The sweet of writing it all down
The pure zen of adaptation
See, the poet crow is a crippled bird
The poet crow is a haunted hound
The poet crow, just a tortured background doo-wopper
Always coming in too early or too late