Friday, September 07, 2007

shorn

I feel right when one or two
bricks are just out of place
I know that there are a few
Leaks in the faucet of flowing grace
I’m the snake in the field
at the children’s feeble feet
You’re the father with a gun wielding
A scowl on the front porch seat
I’m a whisper into the ear
of someone who shouldn’t know
and bear traps rusty from years
spent two inches beneath the snow
I’m the pastor whose face
travels further than his words
whose church is full of yeast,
whose steeple soars higher than the birds
I’m the factory whose pollution
hides the glory of the sun
The creek that dried up
before it had even begun to run
A lonely eyeball with no lid
to put to rest its lingering eye
and masquerader who never did
take off his party time disguise

My heart tells the worst lies to its own ears
ventricles have pumped it in and out for years
and sometimes it’s half true, so says the mirror
sometimes it all true, but grace pours down in tears


It’s one thousand times easier
to think of what I am,
Than to think of what you are
You’re simply love,
and maybe a really bright light, too
But I’m blood money,
briar brush, a bashed-in-guitar,
darkness, a leaky roof,
and a pre-harvest field fire
I write songs in a heart beat
of protest or of praise
Like Martha, cutting vegetables and meat
Around the kitchen I race
But I avoid sitting at your feet,
because I’m unworthy of your face
so I’ll never ever take a seat
near your shining, blowing grace

my heart tells the worst lies to its own ears
ventricles have pumped it in and out for years


But in an instant you shout back,
Like the mother of a boy beat in the park
that takes his quivering hand
and leads him home after dark
In one sweet, smooth move
you scoop me up into your skirted lap
saying, “I’m so sorry honey, you’re black and blued
you shouldn’t have to endure any of that”

You’re the betrayed husband
who takes back his cheating wife
And the son who forgives the man
who put his father under the knife
And you’re the finger and the hammer
and the white and the black keys
That gives purpose to us stretched thinner
and pulled-far-too-tight strings
You’re the cat tail that keeps
me atop the high fence at night
And the feathers of an eagles wings
that keep me up in flight

My heart tells the worst lies to its own ears
ventricles have pumped it in and out for years
and sometimes it’s half true, so says the mirror
sometimes it all true, but grace pours down in tears


oh, Lamb of God
you saw me when it was cold
so you sheared off your blessed wool,
and knit me a winter coat
while you stood there in nakedness
and sit-by-your-self shame
you knew I was I was never meant for this
still, you opened your door and offered your name

You watched me walking one mid-winter’s eve
Along a cold suburban street
And smiled as you heard my shouting voice repeat:
“God, I’m in your family. I’m your son”
and fell motionless, and silent, backwards into your love

Krispin Mayfield, 2007

1 comments:

Krispin said...

That's a good title for it, I hope you don't mind if I keep it.

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