Amen amen, You the host of all,
You the manner in which we speak,
You the one who carries us on articulated breath.
So be it today as yesterday,
and all days moving forward,
though we who are weary
may not see it.
Amen to you who hides behind waves of sadness and grief,
fearful of your own hand upon the page.
Amen amen for those who need assurance,
and reassurance, too. So be it.
So be the tides,
and the seasons,
and the turbulent seas hedged in on all sides
and on none. Amen.
For it is the land, amen,
that is hedged in.
All rivers leading to the same oceans of connectedness.
All lakes and streams evaporating
and ending up who knows where.
And amen again.
For be it rain,
or be it snow,
it goes nowhere but here.
And we are all connected to the same Source.
The Source that is You,
You whose articulated breath
breathes us into being. Amen.
Call it what you will,
but this turbulence of soul
is subject to pattern,
an order we who are but dust,
even of stardust,
cannot fathom or touch,
at least not for long. Not long enough
to recount it without losing the heart of it.
Thou be my vision.
Thou be my dregs
of a once cherished clarity.
But my unarticulated
at least I hope and pray.
I pray for it to stay,
stay with me always, for
is in shambles...”
And yet I must trust that transformation is bigger than Rome,
more eternal than nation,
more essential than plague,
and dung beetle.
Wisdom stands back and allows the children to play in sun-rays...
...for a little while.
I hear the heartbeat.
Thready and faint?
He walks with us.
She talks to us.
They carry us from day to day in this consentless
From beginning to end
to beginning again, “Consent,”
“The evidence holds
that the thump-thump will not hold forever.
That entropy will have its way with you
to this consentless life
until then.” That
But I have not the power of amen
beyond the will of my tongue.
An invitation implies consent...
as the articulated breath
“But consent anyway,”
Who knocks at the door?
Who carries the torch in the night of darkness?
A stubborn one.
Who cries out for more
at the Lord’s Table?
The knight of faith?
When we reach the edge of the sea,
and still we have breath articulated in our lungs,
we’ve no idea if the tide is going out
or coming in
because the clouds
cover the moon.
When we reach the edge of the sea,
it is on the beach that
Even in our watching—the movement
pulling away from us,
luring us into believing we’ve come upon
it would then be wise
to pause first
Let not our eschatological hope blind us to apocalyptic
I stand now at the beach.
The shoreline between insurrection
and what the breath knows
Can we ever say,
“Amen to ‘next’!”
not so long as there is tomorrow
Asynchronous heartbeats are breathed into being
on a rhythm the breathed cannot perceive.
And so someone will always,
until Always is all-ways,
walk into the tsunami and give it strength.
They will walk into the tsunami
thinking themselves a dam,
a ‘here and no further,’
but will instead be nothing
but a chunk of steel
landing on the one who ran away
just as likely as on the one who stands
on the shore
“But, perhaps, that ‘just as likely’
is an imagined calculus,”
says the one on the shore.
But the articulated breath
The silence thus wearies the one on the shore
She whispers amen again.
...She turns now to the sand,
and the bubbles of sand-crab
in the wetness
and tern flit
and float between approach
captivated by the boon on the expanded shore of edible creatures before them,
but pulling back to the skies for a better view between dives,
a better view of the coming tide