We Want So Much

 

We Want So Much 

We want so much for a soul.
We want so much for a man
To know
Everything now.

The taste of that fruit is everything―
Everything we think we need to be
And know and do and have
Right now.

We want so much for a man
That we forfeit his soul
And our peace
To hold all the fruit we and he might ever bear
In our own arms right now.

We want so much in a man
That we force-feed his spirit
In bushels per second,
With mouthfuls of fruit too rich to swallow whole.

Is there so much difference, then,
Between spirit fruit
And forbidden fruit
If we want so much to have
Everything now?

God is not a glutton.

We ask so much from a man,
But God deals in the exchange of the infinitely small
For the infinite everything.
He portions out time in ones by thousands
And in thousands by ones,
But we want so much for a man right now.

We want so much for a man,
But God counts hairs and stars.
He measures in fathoms and fractions.
He writes infinite numbers of names on the palm of his hand
And firmly grasps that one grain of sand
He is perfectly capable of holding fast for eternity
Or for a split second more.

We want so much for a man
While God speaks words without a word.
He can slip the Word in edgewise.
The tiniest seed dropped into a crack in the driest place
Becomes a new thing,
Now or later.

Don’t you think he knows
Where the dormant ember hides in a man?
Don’t you think he knows
The language in which to whisper the breath
That warms a frozen filament into tongues of flame?
Don’t you think he knows
Where to put you in all the wide world
To ignite the spark in a man
And how?

We want so much for a man:
All the things God holds in rolling billowing waves of molecules.
His everlasting arms encircle
Infinite eternal spirits dancing on the head of a pin.
He tracks them all through a thousand years of days.
He attracts them each,
By one and by a hundredfold,
Day by day for a thousand years.

We want so much for a man
That we ignore the drops and crave the flood.
We forget that Jesus steals in like a thief in the night,
Whispering a man’s language―
The one he speaks only in memories―
Hovering over still waters,
Like a lingering lovely scent floods a man
For a fraction of a moment with place,
With smell and sound and space.
It’s enough for a man to follow tentatively.
It’s enough for right now.

We want so much for a man
That we forfeit his soul for a crown to exchange,
But what can we exchange for a soul?

We want so much to be there,
To have the whole man―
The whole soul―
Right now.

We want the man.
We want so much.

―erinrmsocha 2/2/2023

Chicks and Stones

 

Chicks and Stones
(Matthew 23, Mark 12-13)

Look!
Massive manmade glory,
Magnificent, your God-gifts glare—
Stones on solid stones blare
And broadly broadcast greatness
(Yours).
Your robes fall heavily as you brush by
And bless all
With a bland smile, a nod,
Focusing just beyond the small,
Seeking only eyes in which you see
Your own reflected greatness.
No one can outweigh you.
No one else is worthy.

Listen.
Copper—
Clink.
Clink.
Eternity echoes in one soft heart
(His).
Her rags skim over the dust and you see
Too late rocks,
Solid sturdy stone on stone,
Future rubble thrown down,
Separate stone by separate stone
Singly cold, steadfast, alone,
Just beyond the aching warm wings
Where the chicks knew to gather.

—erinrmsocha 3/25/2021

 

To the Gas Light

To the Gas Light 

Too much you is blocking the view.
We need a modern-day Luther
Or King
To follow the Word
To follow the one
Who follows the One.
If A equals B equals C equals D,
Then yes we can see
Some King
In you,
But too much you is still blocking the view,
And we strain our eyes
To see the real
Behind the construction
That’s built in your image
Because too much you is blocking the view,
And too much you is blocking your view
Of the one
Alone
Right in front of you.
We need a modern-day Luther
Or King
To draw the line between blindness and truth
Because too much you is blocking the view,
And we
Can’t
See. 

—ermsocha 2-9-2021

Break (Psalm 29)

 
Break (Psalm 29)
 
Adhered.
I find myself stuck to the ground,
Trapped in the earth,
Captive of the world.
Gravity is too strong,
Too grave.
I demand to know:
Am I an ant that I should bear
Ten times my own weight
For even ten hours more of waiting?
Am I a mere ant?
 
I’m not native to tunnels,
But somehow I find myself here often‒
Buried.
Encapsulated.
Aching to straighten my limbs.
Breathing back the same air.
For a while
I had an extra inch to spare,
But now I’m close to frozen.
Like dreams
In which I can’t scream,
It takes all of me and more
To make a squeak
That anyone at all might hear
And recognize its meaning
And come to let me out.
 
Yet I find I can muster a peep.
And with that whisper of a breath
I can ascribe
Just one stroke of one letter
Toward the telling of his glory,
A scratch on the concrete that encases me,
One fingernail tip tap toward my freedom,
Toward the glory due his name.
 
A key the size of one grain of sand
Unlocks the kingdom,
And the king himself is coming‒
He was already on the move‒
A thunderhead looming,
Advancing over the waters,
Accelerating in my direction.
Mine!
 
I’m sure ants would feel the tremors long before I do,
But at long last
I’m straining toward the thunder in the distance.
I crave the impossible crunch of the cedars breaking.
I glory in the splintering twisting of the oaks
And the blast of the storm that shreds their leaves.
There is such relief in the impact
Because I am saved.
I am safe.
I am free!
I can breathe.
 
From deep within the temple,
Almost unbidden,
Bursts forth the purest cry:
Glory!
An answer to his thunder:
Glory!
He spent his strength on me!
And I am resting,
Bathed in spirit wind
Atop the tenderest shoots of green
Under a clear vast sky,
In perfect peace.
 
‒erinrmsocha 8-17-2020

Bản Giốc

Bản Giốc

You are sitting very near the impossible thunder of the waterfall,

And there is no relief from the sound.

Nature is peaceful

And wild,

And the water keeps coming and coming.

It is lace with weight,

Immeasurable watery weight,

That smells like the breath of the rounded rocks it pounds on

And looks like a million brides plummeting,

Beautiful and violent and over and over.

There is no relief from the sound.

A thunder like this should drive you away,

But it draws you

And a thousand other people.

You wonder what it was like

Before they turned on the waterworks

And the tourists came, cheerful and chatty,

Like flocks of sodden birds,

Red and orange and turquoise and wet,

Getting impossibly close to the show

On gritty, slippery feet, legs sunk in green water up to the knees,

Or in a timed parade of funny little boats,

Mini maids in the mist.

You imagine this place empty. . .

Before the ponies showed up, ringed round the neck with bells and flowers

And frayed ropes held by waiting photographers.

Before you could get four bars,

Plenty to post that selfie

With the falls and the clouds and the crowds in the background.

Before the tents popped up selling tea

With the leaves floating in it

Poured in glasses quickly rinsed between customers

Who sit on those plastic chairs

That force your knees very close to your chin.

Before the souvenir market bloomed,

A segmented tunnel closely peopled

With beautiful dark heads, kind eyes, open smiles,

And the pulse of wrists expertly flicking advertisements-turned-fans

To stir the stillness.

Before there were stalls of little needlework dresses hung thick like curtains,

And tables of bracelets of beads and silver earrings already tarnished,

And jade Buddhas, big for your massive altar

Or pocket-sized for your souvenir shelf in Ohio,

And plastic Mickey Mice that don’t look quite right about the eyes,

And red t-shirts with yellow stars hung side by side

To make a faded garland just low enough

To brush your mist-dampened head with that certain kind of humid dust,

And warm Coca-Colas,

And rows of fruits you’ve eaten but don’t know the name of in either language.

Before the air held the smells of hair and heat

And salt from bodies and frying food

On the other side of the torn blue tarp backdrop.

It is its own kind of heaven.

You love the noise of voices and colors

And the misty pound of the falling water.

It draws you

And a thousand other people.

Still, sitting here, you dream of before all this.

You dream you discover this place when it was only white tumbling over stone

Under a rare blue sky with no one else around.

You find it quiet, undisturbed.

But, of course, it was never quiet.

The tumbling brides have always been here

Hurling themselves over the top,

Drop after drop after millions of drops.

None is the same as the one falling before it,

Yet somehow it is always exactly the same.

And there was never a time without sound.

To have been here before the constant roar

You would have to be God.

Your dear brother says as much to you

As you sit side by side on a wet stone bench,

Misted and moved by the pounding sound.

The two of you sit,

One young and brown and talkative

And the other older and pale and shy,

Having the same thoughts about eternity.

‒erinrmsocha 7-13-2020

Consolation

Consolation

It’s shocking how fast darkness strikes the heights

Where I’ve glued my feet to the narrow path.

The cry tears through my chest,

A song interrupted.

My foot is slipping!

Help! My foot is slipping!

Like Peter striding sure on the sea,

Right after left after right,

I’m stranded suddenly and sinking,

Smacked in the back by the wave of fear.

Curse that opportunist that follows so closely on the heels of faith!

Sheer terror curses, too:

Oh God! My foot is slipping!

Drop.

Is that really what I heard?

Yes.

Drop the heroic wave walking.

Drop from the high wire you strung up yourself

And named the narrow path.

Drop.

I will catch you.

I’m much too clumsy to execute a dismount.

I drop everything,

Good and bad both:

It’s all or nothing with me.

I freefall fast, flailing,

Wailing.

I told you my foot was slipping!

The jagged edged echo of my accusation follows me for a time,

But soon I’m so far removed from it

That it’s somehow ceased to be important.

With a grace not my own,

My fall is finessed

Into the perfect tuck and roll.

I’ve taken on the shape of a small smooth stone

That lands polished in the palm of your hand.

I meant to do that.

It’s not my voice that says it

To salvage a shred of my pride.

It’s yours.

I meant to do that.

There’s a chuckle in your words.

They’re not unkind.

After a time,

When the shaking has stopped

And my breath has slowed to match your heartbeat,

You uncurl your fingers.

I take my first timid steps back on high ground.

I can sing a little bit now.

The notes come out light,

And the words are small and distinct,

A trail of smooth white pebbles.

The path is indeed narrow,

But only where the light hits the pebbles,

Marking one sure step at a time.

“When I said, ‘My foot is slipping,’ your love, O Lord, supported me. When anxiety was great within me, your consolation brought joy to my soul.” ‒Psalm 94:18-19

‒erinrmsocha 6-24-2020

Expectation

Expectation

(Psalm 5:3, John 11:1-44)

In the morning, O Lord, you hear my voice;

In the morning I lay my requests before you and wait in expectation,

And wait in expectation,

And wait. . .

Unto death.

Unbearable is the winding down to the whimper

That ushers in the void

Lurking on the back side of expectation.

It happens too fast

And much too slowly.

Here in our shuttered room by his side,

Time creeps at lightning speed.

Why are you not here yet?

Come quickly!

I need your grand entrance.

I watch the door in expectation.

Every moment balances on the verge:

You bang open the door with a brassy blast of triumph!

You don’t.

The only sign of life in the stifling room

Is the constant zing of my anxiety.

Strangely, it breathes freely amid the fug of despair.

And strangely, but slightly less freely, so does hope.

I know you’ll show up.

I wait in expectation.

Whatever happens next,

I will still have faith in you.

I know that you are God.

When asked, I will still declare it.

But, Jesus, must we miss out on our chance for a miracle?

You heal the masses!

He’s our brother whom you love,

And you love us.

We sent word!

I cannot know that even as I wait expectantly,

Even as he breathes,

Breathes again,

And soon will breathe no more,

You know exactly what you are doing.

How must you be feeling?

You deliberately delay your coming

With full knowledge of the risks‒

My deflated expectations,

My grief,

My misunderstanding,

My accusation‒

And with full knowledge of the other side of that moment

When you will show me more of your glory

Than I even know how to expect.

You will weep.

You will weep for my pain

And for the very real limits of my very real faith.

In this moment,

I believe in you.

I believe I will see the glory of God.

And so I wait in expectation,

Here by the side of my dying brother,

Not yet knowing we are all on the verge

Of life after death.

‒erinrmsocha 6-1-2020