Nets of Promise

Nets of promise broken

contents falling

into the hands of God, caught

never lost, held secure

for another time.

Of Leaves and Life

This week, I raked summer shade

into piles, heaps of leaves assembled,

the closure of a season.

This week, two died younger

than me, a friend of a friend another,

the father of my daughter’s friend.

Perhaps, this is aging, dropping

people like leaves raked

into piles of passage, reminding us,

testimonies of warm,

shaded summers when

we sat outside in laughter, not thinking

about our coming fall, of our falling leaves

giving way to our winter.

Unexpected Heroes

Unexpected heroes, emerging.

Those given up on

by the masses, proven

in moments reserved

for others, the presumed.

Unexpected heroes stepping

into destinies not imagined. 

This is the work of God.

Recalling History

My grandfather riding

home in a horse-drawn buggy

one sunny afternoon

when, as a young boy, 

saw a man swinging from

makeshift tree gallows 

in the fall of 1889.

My father, born at night

in a sod house in ‘08

on the Oklahoma plains

west of Guymon. 

Horse and buggy hitched up

outside, waiting, just in case

granddad needed to fetch a doctor

for my grandmother’s labor. 

Family on my mother’s side ran

into their house one night, in fear. 

A “machine" seen for the first time trundled 

down Chicken Row 

headlights flashing in the distance, approaching

the family farm outside

Quitman, East Texas.

That first generation of automobile, 

a spacecraft occupied by

alien lifeforms of modernity.

Each family carries similar

histories, revealed if explored, 

oral transmissions of life-legacies 

from another time.

Our own history now developing, 

familiar to us, will be viewed 

someday in a distant future recalling

days long past, distant vapors

of history and experience.

We are living our moments

to be recalled ahead of us,

stories heard by future hearers

as strange to them as 

a man swinging on a rope, 

sod houses and horse-drawn buggies, 

machines riding through 

an East Texas summer night,

headlights bouncing along a dirt road.

Angry Scissors

Anger rising, creating

edges, sharp edges of opinion 

always cutting, flashing out 

against opposing thought.

Our voices becoming

angry scissors cutting

each other.

Why so angry? 

Violent words, a bloody 

dialogue falling, dripping 

red ink upon

blank pages describing

a future no one wants.

Quiet Confidence

Somewhere in the journey 

we come to realize

we were being led 

to a place called

Quiet Confidence. 

Arriving there removes

our need to grasp, 

to be anxious, 

to suffer worry,

about our future,

about our present,

about eternity,

about anything.

Creating, Always Creating

It’s all art, this creativity.

We write soul-poetry looking

over still water as loons cry

our verse written 

upon early morning mist parchment.

Touching smooth river stones 

we sculpt, 

arranging little rock piles 

in river shallows

balancing their rockiness wet

with dark water ink.

Holding brittle leaves of autumn color

kicked from piles,

we paint on a grass-canvas

our feet as brushes.

None of this is non-art. 

Each work an expression found outside

frames and canvas,

potter’s wheel, 

the poet’s pad.

God, the artist Father

created us to become

expressers of His Creator touch. 

Creating, always creating.

"Half Moon, Whole Heart" guest article by Anna Elkins

Last summer, I camped by the Salmon River for the first time. The riverbanks spread wide their stony shores, the August waters low. I drove shuttle for kayakers and practiced the art of waiting by water.  After a few hours, the water begins to speak.

Beneath a spring half moon, I’m back. Now the bars of rock are thin, rushed by water that flexes its green and fast muscles. Like men at a gym, this constant roil—noisy and strong. Yet gentle too, like mothers humming lullabies.

How do we hear the river?

When God speaks, we are often the crowd that hears thunder or angels—everything but his words.

I thought I heard the river telling of men and women. But I think it was also speaking of “other.” Of whatever it is I haven’t learned to listen to.

Perhaps the weight-lifting—wait-lifting—water is the sound of women building muscle beneath the frothy soft of their surface. Perhaps it is the song men sing when no one is listening.  Perhaps it is every word we open our hearts to.

When we see an other approaching and we hear nothing but the rush of water, we pretend that’s the only sound a river makes. Oh the strength and sweetness we will miss.

And now I am off to listen to distant seas. Here's to hearing.

Open my ears.  

"Older Preachers" by Garris Elkins

Older preachers like me

see the treadmills of passing ministry 

as foisted rides in some clergy amusement park.

To roller coaster rides of success we were drawn

the rising then the falling,

stars on the upward climb

the ticking, clacking sounds of approval, rising

taking us up to the crest for release

towards the bigger, the better, the more,

becoming models dressed for ascent

soon to be clothed in mid-life therapy.

New books now written on the healing ride down

filled with sage advice to not,

to not board the ride in the first place.

Remaining earth-bound now

reconnecting with deeper things discovered under foot

than the high ride can promise,

things missed the first time around.

At this age these rides make me dizzy.

Ride if you must,

youth may require it of you.

But here's my ticket-to-ride, its yours.

I say cash it in,

buy some cotton candy.

Then take a long stroll, look up and pray

for those on the roller coaster ride,

each one a cotton candy candidate.

Random Verse

REFLECTING LEAF 11-3-10

On a hike this morning

in the hills above Jacksonville

I saw a fallen leaf shaped like a bowl

filled with rainwater

becoming a reflecting mirror of my face

as I sought the face of God.

TOWARDS FOREVER 12-11-10

Like toy soldiers marching,

wound up but winding down, waiting

for the Hand to twist again,

to set in motion

this march towards forever.

WHITE TRACKS 11-23-10

Walking up an unmarked trail of snow

the first of the year

white, unprinted by foot, claw or hoof

circling around the mountain

in a loop

untouched, pure,

atop a canvas of frozen paint.

As I circumnavigate this path

I come back around to my first tracks

cutting the white on the trek up

and meeting myself in print form.

I stop and ask, “Am I a different man?” on this way back down,

than the one who walked this way up.

It is strange to meet your tracks once again,

footprints as reminders

of who one is, both up and down.

Snow is honest.

COMPREHENDER 11-24-10

Comprehension,

enemy of knowing.

Comprehending the God of all

a goal he never posed.

To be, to walk, to sense, to touch together

is the knowing.

These never designed for the comprehender

but for the lover.

Lying side by side

unspoken words

having no comprehension,

yet together.

"Reflecting Leaf" by Garris Elkins

On a hike this morning

in the hills above Jacksonville

I saw a fallen leaf shaped like a bowl

filled with rainwater

becoming a reflecting mirror of my face

as I sought the face of God.

"Poised" by Garris Elkins

Poised and suspended

now attached to what is known, familiar, doable.

A release is coming,

a falling

and a rising up to meet me,

of something new and undefined.

Needing, even wanting, to see the release,

trembling like a water droplet hanging on

clinging amidst the vibration of what is coming

the trembling before the drop

a shaking me free to fall.

Ready to exchange one form for another

that is why it is called a droplet

the drop had to let

the release come in faith and anticipation

of the dropping to become a splash

a change of structure

still wet.

"Beginning and Ending" by Garris Elkins

I would not venture to guess

where she ends

and I begin.

Of one flesh we have become

both losing ourselves and finding ourselves

in that oneness.

Still a mystery

how we cannot tell where each ends and each begins.

Of oneness we are.

"Fire and Rain" by Garris Elkins

I've seen fire and I've seen rain

in the song and in this life.

Burning passions fired for Creator

a rain not quenching but flooding

a distant longing and its approaching rumble

has engulfed me

A burning man quenched.

"Life Bloom" by Garris Elkins

We all like flowers bloom and unfold.

From bud to blossom, new to full,

from young to old.

The summit of a life cycle no one knows

the height, the apex of life's arc

from fullness to withered petal.

But life is,

from beginning to end,

from tender shoot to brittle leaf,

all part of the bloom.

"A Soul in Drought" by Garris Elkins

To the despair in this dry place - listen

Listen to the approaching sound

of a rising tide of answered prayer

Mounting upon a wave of his presence

breaking down upon this soul in drought

upon the despair in this dry place.