Killing the Mouse

My daughter’s eyes were huge

pointing into our garage and 

claiming she saw a mouse.

We thought she’d seen one

scamper across the concrete

but there it was, sitting still,

eyes closed and not moving.

Something must be wrong as

it tolerated our movements 

getting closer and closer to it.

I put the mouse trap in front

of it and pushed it with a stick.

The mouse sniffed it a bit but

did not try and get the food.

Something was definitely wrong

with this mouse, but how were

we to get it out of the garage?

I’d seen its droppings in the 

past few days behind the freezer

like tiny bits of charcoal and ash.

My eyes swept around the garage

and fastened on my combat boots

sitting dusty and unused by the door.

I told the kids to move out of sight

while I put on the boot and tied it up.

The mouse’s back was to me as I

quietly clomped forward in my boot.

It did not seem to know I was there

even as I raised my foot over its

small furry form, lost in some reverie.

I hesitated, my son peeked around

the corner, “Go away,” I said as 

his curious smile receded out of sight.

I hesitated, hoping it would run away.

But when it did not I took a deep breath 

and brought down the boot hard.

I gave it a moment or two and it did 

not move or squirm beneath the sole.

No wonder.  Under my boot I found

intestines and little white bean-shapes 

that I am sure were its kidneys.

This was the second lethargic mouse

in our garage likely poisoned elsewhere.

But it didn’t make it any easier to know

that the mouse was surely on the way out.

Tomorrow I will have to force myself to 
take our dog of 15 years to the vet to be 
put to sleep.  She has suffered long enough.

***

The Porch

It seemed he’d been on the porch for forever, maybe even forever and a day.  He’d claimed a corner of it at some remote moment and arranged his meager belongings around him like the walls of a home that he did not have.  

The roof kept the rain off but provided no heat.  The door was too low for him to enter upright, though he’d seen others bow or crawl through it in his dreams (or were they nightmares?).  It just seemed so undignified.

He was resourceful, clever even, finding twigs and trash to make a little fire that he could warm himself with.  But then there was the smell of flowers that would waft through the door on the wave of a tripartite tune and so move him that his tears would extinguish his pitiful pyre leaving only damp ashes to contemplate.  

But this place was his and his alone, after all.  He would not leave it for another to claim.  Still, it seemed he’d been on the porch of the temple forever, and yet another day had passed.

___

It wasn’t until I’d finished writing this poem that I realized it was echoing a scene from the life of St. Mary of Egypt in Jerusalem.  Like her, I’ve found my way onto the porch of the temple but it seems I can go no further without repentance.

___

The Molotov Cocktail

I’ve decided to riot today. 

I’m totally fed up with myself.

Someone will pay for my 

insecurities, let me tell you.

I’ve made a molotov cocktail

that I’m afraid will not work

but still, it feels good to imagine 

I could heft it at my foibles

and fathomless failures

setting them aflame in a 

glorious display of defiance.

***

This Tapestry of Life

Hello, world.

This is me saying “Hi.”

I am simultaneously

terrified and thrilled

about this particular day

that lies before me

full of surprises and 

chance meetings

confined as it is within the 

lattice-work of routine.

I am under no compulsion

to do or say the right things

but my willingness to do so

will strengthen and beautify

this tapestry of life

that we are all woven into.

Wish me luck…

***

Rain Faith Others

It rained today

of that I am certain.

It rained today

behind the curtain.

I took it on faith

when told it was true.

I took it on faith

what else could I do?

Dependent on others

in so many ways.

Dependent on others

for all of my days.

***

Listening to the Voices

It's like the words are whispered into my ear, 

voices that I pull onto paper and then cock my head 

to listen for more while perched on the front porch.

I am no great font of wisdom, no mystic crow

or seer of mysteries and so I wonder, 

where in the world are these words coming from?  

All I know is…

if I write them down I feel better,

less burdened, less bowed

by the weight of what I do not understand.

***

A Boy named Christian

It was a small town that seemed big to a boy.  My father was a preacher and small business owner.  We attended church twice on Sundays and once on Wednesday nights without fail.  Our particular Protestant denomination was on the strict side of things with a litany of prohibitions to help us avoid being tainted by “the world.”  The women wore dresses and out-of-date hairdos.  The men never wore shorts or went shirtless outside.  It was all about modesty and self-control, not to mention submission (especially if you were of the female gender).  My friends from school did not share our particular kind of faith which made for a rich missionary field of lost souls who needed to find their way to our sure salvation.

There was a great deal of guilt tied up in all of this.  Always a question of whether or not we were “witnessing” to those around us.  We were to share the “good news” of the Gospel which entailed imploring people to say “the sinner’s prayer” and then follow all of the rules of dress and conduct as well as attend those three “services” a week.  

The most anxiety provoking part of these services were times set aside for people to “testify”  (I keep putting words in quotes because there was a lot of lingo in that particular culture that is probably unfamiliar to most people).  My grandmother was particularly good at testifying.  She had suffered a lot in her life (much of it self-inflicted) and I am sure it was an opportunity for those rush of feelings and disappointments to find an outlet.  How could it be anything but cathartic as her voice swelled and quivered, ending in a dramatic wave of her hand exclaiming like Job before her, “I know my Redeemer liveth!” after which she would gingerly lower her arthritic self back into the pew leaving us all a little weepy and shook up.

I was a shy kid and the thought of standing up and “sharing what the Lord had done for me” was a terrifying prospect, but I was supposed to set an example for the other young people in our church.  It was a tremendous battle in my head as I would sit there with sweaty palms and pounding heart.  If I could just reach out to the back of the pew in front of me and rock forward I would be able to find my feet.  Being the only person standing at that point would force me, against all my natural inhibitions, to speak.  “I just want to say… I’m thankful for…” it was choppy and awkward.  I felt like I was going to throw up, but after I finished and sat back down it was a feeling of tremendous relief and accomplishment.  As a father now, I can only imagine my Dad also felt a sense of relief and accomplishment at my brave act.  His son was walking in the “narrow way” after all.

But this story is not about me.  It is about a teenager named Brian Christian.  I had first become aware of Brian’s existence through a neighbor friend’s older brother who played bass guitar.  Brian was a drummer and had a catchphrase that he would use regularly, “Neil Peart, no problem.”  For those who are not in the know of nerdy teenage musician-wannabes, Neil Peart is the drummer for a band called “Rush” and is considered one of the greatest rock drummers of his generation.  Brian was spreading the Gospel of Rush by greeting people with those words.  He and some older teens, both boys and girls, were hanging out in my neighbor’s basement when I stumbled upon them.  They made no exception to my presence as a much younger kid, but also did not refrain from telling crude jokes  and engaging in explicit banter that left me feeling uncomfortable.

So this is what little I knew of Brian Christian: drummer, Neil Peart devotee, and rough around the edges.  But then somehow he came into the orbit of my family.  It may have been that he was working for my Dad.  My Dad owned a carpet business and hired older teens to work on his carpet-laying crew, mostly during the summers.  Shoot, I worked with him some summers beginning in middle school when I was strong enough to handle carrying at least one end of a roll of pad or carpet.  It started with simply bringing him the tools he needed and progressed with time and maturity to actually doing the work itself, wielding a hammer and then a carpet knife loaded with razor blades.

My Dad must have invited Brian to our church, but not only that.  He invited him to bring his drums to help with our little impromptu band that was set up in front of the church opposite the piano.  My Dad was playing trumpet, my sister was on saxophone, I played the baritone, and another teenager honked on her clarinet.  It was a motley crew of amateur musicians playing along with hymns and maybe even being featured for an instrumental or two on Sunday morning, songs that had been practiced after church on a Wednesday night.

I’ll never forget that first time we went to pick him up and load his drum set into the back of our van.  I was fascinated by the sparkling red toms and shiny cymbals.  I was also perplexed.  Didn’t he have gigs to do or friends to rock out with?  Why on earth would a rock drummer in the prime of his teen years be playing at a church with a group of off-key horn honkers?  And to further add to the surreality of the situation, he could only use his brushes because the leaders of the church thought his drum sticks would be too rock-n-roll like, ie, “worldly.”  This may sound strange to someone who is used to seeing drums in Protestant churches these days, but at that time it was unheard of, especially in our particular denomination.

I was in awe of this guy.  He had such a kind and humble spirit which completely blew my stereotype of him out of the water.  No one was forcing him to be there and if his friends had seen him quietly brushing those toms and tingling those cymbals in our church I am sure they would have had great fun at his expense.  

I am not sure how long that arrangement lasted and I do not know what became of Brian Christian after we eventually left that church and moved to a different town.  I can still picture his unruly hair, five o’clock shadow, and shy smirky-smile.  It is thirty years later and I have just recently become a Rush fan (the ring tone on my phone is their song “Tom Sawyer”).  Brian is long lost to my life story but I trust he is doing OK and that his life is truly “no problem,” Neil Peart or no Neil Peart.

***

The Missionary

It was a paperback book on my father’s shelf of religious books that heralded the first stirrings of what would later develop into the sexual awakening of puberty for me.  I was a curious five year old snooping through his office when I stumbled upon it.  The cover featured a painted illustration of a beautiful white woman’s face peering out at me with dark brown eyes, rich black hair, and full red lips.  Behind and surrounding her on a smaller scale were menacing bare-chested African warriors with shields and spears.  

I don’t remember the title, but I knew it was a story about the dangers missionaries face in deepest darkest Africa.  I don’t know if it was some kind of early example of Christian fiction that is so prevalent in Christian bookstores these days or an actual account, but to my young eye it was exotic and quite alluring.  In retrospect, it smacked of sexism, racism, and other typical isms of 1970’s America.  All I knew at the time was that if it took going to the “Dark Continent” to get a wife that looked like that, it was the missionary life for me.

*** 

She Floats

She floats in the darkness of my heart  

glowing with a tender fire that dispels

the cold and black places that seek to 

overtake me in my state of fallenness.

***

The Ants

His wife had awakened him 

in the middle of the night 

with a grand gesture

towards their bedroom door.

“They’re coming!” She exclaimed,

and through the fog of sleep

and a darkened room he peered 

in the direction she pointed.

“What is coming?” He asked.

“The ants are coming in the door!”

He placed his hand on her extended

arm and pushed it down to the bed.

“You’re dreaming.  Go to sleep.”

His own dreams were troubled 

and the sensation that his back

had fallen asleep annoyed him, 

all prickles and movement of 

a thousand determined bodies.

They carried him down the stairs,

his dreaming body nearly weightless

in the unwitnessed darkness.

Birdsong awoke him lying 

on the grass, hair dew-speckled,

the steel cable of reality now just

a thin thread wafting in his head.

***

An Infinite Sea

He’d grown up in a backwater of Mars 

amongst crumbling infrastructure on the 

“outer rim of the dreaming dead city”.  

And from there his family’s fortunes had only slid

planet by planet, away from Mother Earth

farther and farther into the growing void.  

He had no secret lineage or 

latent super powers to save him

like in the stories he consumed.  

His father had spaced himself 

shuttling back from the asteroid mines 

leaving them to fend for themselves.  

He was a boy born to a time and place 

that seemingly did not want or need him,

but really only could not fathom him.  

He was a dreamer in a time when dreams were drying up 

as the solar system shrank, dark and depleted, 

hollowed balls used up and bobbing on an infinite sea.

***

restless creature

What does a restless creature do?

It flits and floats, up and down, 

forward and back and side to side, 

an untraceable line to an unknown 

destination, like an orphaned bird 

knocked from its nest and looking 

for a home that is no longer there.

***

Creator of Worlds

You are a magician, a creator of worlds.

Your mind perceives what can be,

sending out and bringing forth 

good gifts or rotten fruits, by choice.

You are a full participant, a shaper of reality.

If what exists behind your eyes is guarded

and dark, expecting the worst from others,

that is what returns to your shuttered keep.

To see what is true, right, and lovely changes

not only your heart and mind, but other’s

as well, like a particularly virulent virus that 

burns away wickedness with a terrible fever.

The love of God is an all consuming fire

that purifies through the pain of suffering.

It heals and destroys simultaneously

leaving only that which will always endure.

***

I am the Left Hand

It hadn’t occurred to me before,

while at the gym snatching up 

the dumbbells one at a time to 

return them to the rack, reaching

down and readjusting so that 

my right hand was the one to 

grab hold with a confident grip,

not even thinking about it.

I am the left hand

The less confident appendage

that asserts itself in surprising 

ways (in sports, for example).

It stays out of the way in a near

constant state of unobtrusiveness

until the time is right and it 

swoops in to save the day 

like a crooked-bill bird of prey. 

I am the left hand

Not a leader, but not exactly a 

follower either, someone who likes

to work behind the scenes because

too much attention saps my will

and clouds my brain with foreboding. 

A wise book teaches there is

one body with many parts and 

the world needs us all, every one

and I am the left hand.

***

She's Terminal

She’s terminal, well, we all are really

a few days, weeks, months, or years

the big sleep can catch us napping

so let’s stand vigil together allowing

for both laughter and tears, thankful

for every single moment of a life that

is like the flash of a firefly in the dark.

***