Disintegration of a Home

(I actually wrote this in November, and as I was cleaning out my desk, I realized I had never posted it.)

First a friend came over

And left with picture frames

And poker chips.

Brickabrack in storage

Emerged as hearty substitutes

For their departed peers.

When the plants walked away,

They left a barren wasteland,

Until we decorated for

One last Christmas.

Tomorrow we’ve invited loving buzzards:

“Come. Pick the flesh off our bones.”

How to donate the old piano?

Given us via cancer,

Too precious to sell,

Too large to pack.

Few, few, very few

Treasures will be packed,

The well-loved sediment of our lives,

Seeds to start again,

Grafts to rebuild,

As we move home again

To the place where we

Have no home.

Hamish, Shamish, Zephaniah, God, and Us - Zephaniah 3

I listened to a sermon by Peter Rollins this week, and he told a story that I’ve heard before, but he’s from Northern Ireland, so he has this great accent, and accents are lots of fun, so I’ll try to tell it in his voice.  (How’s that for a run-on sentence to start out a sermon?)

There was this guy named Shamish who was traveling by sea.  His boat sank, and he ended up on a deserted island.  He lived there all alone for twenty years, but his brother Hamish never gave up looking for him.  Hamish bought a plane and flew all over the ocean looking for his brother.  One day, he saw some buildings on a small island and decided to go down and take a look.  He was amazed when Shamish met him at the beach.

They hugged and cried and celebrated that Shamish was finally rescued.  But Hamish said, “Before I take you back, why don’t you show me around this place where you’ve been living for the past 20 years.”  

So Shamish took him to his “village” where there were three small buildings.  Hamish said, “What are these?”

Shamish said, “Well, this is my house.  It’s really quite comfortable, considering.”

Hamish looked pointed to another building, “Then, what’s this one?”

Shamish beamed with pride. “Ah, that’s my church.  I go there every Sunday for services, and I say prayers there on Tuesday and Wednesday nights.  It’s a wonderful, holy place.  I love it.”

Hamish nodded and pointed at the third building, “And what’s that one?”

“I don’t want to talk about that.”

“Oh, come on.”

“No, really, I don’t even want to discuss it.  Let’s go.”

“Come on now Shamish.  You’ve been living here for twenty years.  The least you can do is give me the full tour.”

“Oh, all right, that’s the church I used to go to.  Terrible place.  Just awful.”

Retro Poem #11: Nothing Comes Out

Do you know 

   that when you cry

   I feel it?

Do you know

   that when you hold it back

   I feel that too?

Sometimes I feel you

   hold down a great big sob

   but nothing comes out.

Sometimes the tears are there,

   but the fears are there too,

   and nothing comes out.

Sometimes you’ve long since 

   stopped the tears

   and I hug you

   and everything wants to start again

   but nothing comes out.

A great big cry

   bundled up with pain and fear

   and whatever else - I don’t know -

   surges toward the surface

   and slams into the wall 

   of your determination.

I am not sure exactly 

   what you are determined to do

   except to hold that bundle down

   and nothing comes out.

Your will is strong;

   you can do almost anything you want.

But sometimes I wish 

   that you would not master your emotions.

I wish they were free to be released

   good, bad

   strong, weak

   attractive, or not

   I wish they came out.

When a sob surges

   it needs to be released.

Emancipate the prisoners,

   and emancipate yourself.