Be a lamp, or a lifeboat, or a ladder. Help someone's soul heal. Walk out of your house like a shepherd. (Rumi)
At times I feel poetry with
no words. Feelings whitewater
through me with the scent of purpose.
Memories crash against the banks
of an unexplored river looking
for their level, promising to be
tamed by language if they can
get still.
Titanic movements swell inside
with a seaspray of hints at
profundity. My life will be
forever changed if this water
falls into vocabulary.
So I paddle on, still believing.
Still believing.
Still believing.
In Sunday School,
I learned that a
person could live
inside the belly of
a great fish for
three whole days
And a boat could
be built that would
hold two of every
creature ever born
plus a family of
eight
And that a barely
pubescent shepherd
could slay a giant
with a slingshot
and a well-aimed
stone.
And the Jesus
we heard about
fed people and
welcomed children and
told stories about
kind strangers who
cared for others
And he talked
about mercy and
he talked about hope
and he talked about
loving one another,
not as good ideas, but
as the essence of
righteousness.
And how the ones
who taught me that
became advocates for
a theology of meanness,
mouthpieces for a
politics of hate,
soldiers in an army
of exclusion,
is a kind of reverse-
miracle I’ll never
understand.
A volunteer of green clings to
the edge of the sidewalk
at an out-of-the-way place
the weedeater may miss
long enough to sink roots
deep enough to support
the flower.
The seed was planted in
mystery without intention
or design but still somehow
managed to land in a
spot conducive to growth,
just enough soil and water
for life.
And now the decision,
to let it remain and do
as it will, to attempt a
transplant into an
established bed, to dig
a whole new bed around it,
or kill it.
The latter is inconsistent
with my soul, the new bed
is a commitment not yet
called for, the transplant
is risky and could cause
its death, and so, for now
it remains.
As is, growing in the squeeze
of pavement, bringing
beauty to a barren place,
offering itself just as it is,
just where it is, to help
joy flower in a heart
craving joy.
Flowers fade, but some
come around same time
next year, returning
again and again to a
spot that welcomes it,
volunteering again and again
to blossom anew.
You had the perfect response
almost. I believed I’d be
safe with you, and I know you
believed I was. But almost
perfect can turn un-
certain in an instant, in
a word.
You listened to my story
with gentle eyes, eyes care-
fully set, and a mouth firmly
neither a smile nor a frown. You
wanted to be seen as taking
me seriously. I held your
attention with a panoramic
memoir of my life in love.
I offered my journey as
evidence in the trial of my
authentication. I explained
and explained and explained my-
self.
And you gave an almost perfect
response. It should have been
three words, but you added
a fourth, and that one word,
that fourth word turned a corner
you didn’t intend, I am sure, but
still, it careened right into
qualified acceptance, head-
long into good will with
a short half-life.
I love you
anyway.
I hear
Even though you’re wrong,
I love you
Even though you’re strange,
I love you
Even though you’re less than,
I love you
Even though you’re abnormal,
I love you.
Even though you’re weird,
I love you.
Even though you’re gay,
I love you.
To which I say,
(sigh)
I love you for trying
anyway.
Deb Moore 