I Love The Man: Evening Ramblings and Morning Truth

In the evening,
I’m fifty-three.
I worry about my mother.
I just learned what a quark is.
Awesome, that.
I love kids’ word creations,
Like ‘fetch.’ No, not ‘go get.’
I worry about my daughters.
I know Jesus and know I shouldn’t worry.
I admire my students.
Art quilts are heaven to do,
But never quite reach what is in my head.
I doubt there’s much in my head.
Heaven, actually
Is to sit with other women and
Look at the Bible. Oh, wow.
Lady Gaga’s ‘Shallow’
Makes my heart ache
Or my stomach. Or both.
Tell me something, boy.’
And I am, like everyone else,
Undone.
I’ve been married thirty years, and men
Are still a Cipher,
Charming and operating under
Different code.
My favorite man listens to music really
Really loud,
And gazes at his vintage
Sound system and
Likes it.
My son grins when I ask, and says,
It’s all good, Mom.
But, I have to figure that it’s
Harder than ‘all good.’ I also
Know to respect the man.
I’ve known that since I had him.
Had him. As in, lying on a table
And shrieking, OH.
He doesn’t want to know about that.
That’s weird.
Tell me about it, boy.
~
Morning comes.
And I open the Book.
53 fades into eternity,
Eternity assumes the form of
A Man. Charming and operating
Under different code.
And He gazes on me and
Likes me.
He sings me a Psalm
About warfare, and how
When all is said and done,
What He says is what’s done,
And so, to gather His words
To myself as the gold of my life.
I love The Man.
~
Psalm 119: 162

Obedience Street – Part Two

Tiny glimpse
Beyond the veil,
Moment of deepest peace,
Knowing my Companion
On Obedience Road,
My walking Buddy,
Is the judge who acquitted me,
The lawyer who pled for me,
The prisoner who accepted my
Life sentence,
My three-in-one.
I would resist the word obey
Except that
When my heart’s Friend says it,
It seems to mean
Favored.
Favorite.
And that is irresistible.
That’s life
On this road.
~
Psalm 119: 153 – 160

December Into January And Yoga Pants

December into January,
From Advent to after,
Build-up to come-down,
Weighty to wayward,
And it’s raining;
The calendar has grown soggy,
Clumped into a fibrous wad,
Windblown and
Come to rest against
The dripping screen on a winter back porch.
Days don’t have names in the earliest moments
Of a new year. The year only knows it’s new
Because of the let-down after the feast,
When all it can contemplate is
Digestion, and maybe
A yard-sale in . . . March, when the
Day-names come back.
Meanwhile, I’ll put on my Christmas-new,
Cornflower blue
Yoga pants and ride on
Last year’s
Muscle memory to keep my heels together
Toes tippied knees back
Shoulders down hips tucked
Belly button in lungs respiring
Arm up high balanced at the barre,
Pulsing low to the downbeat of
Havana.