We Wait

There’s a trembling in my bones
that shudders to the beat
of a windstrung song and shouting throng
and a hundred thousand feet.
For my Father comes in power
and he’s coming for the weak and waiting.

Will you come, Lord God, in quiet thunder
and echo throughout empty spaces
of decadence and desolation?
Will you come and burn with fire fury
the tears off of our faces?
For those who hear you coming
put our ears down to the ground to feel the earth shake
and wait,
we wait for you, our coming swift salvation.
The king of a thousand armies calling
in the thump and wink of a heartbeat.

Eyes forced and held open in an act of trust while
desert dust is flung in our faces and our eyes 
water freely
bleary and fainting
droplets hissing in scorn-filled heat.
Here together with arms held and up high,
forcing breath out weakened lungs
to the angry sky,
a "Hallelujah!" chorus is
our unified cry–
as we wait

Temple Complex

Why are the nations enraged?
When you tear down the DOW
flip the market upside down and say,
“This was supposed to be about prayer!”

How do the governments survive?
When the parasites filling up 
slick suits and nice ties—
pompous puppets—finally suck their people dry?

Where are the pretend priests—
the pastors and their staff protecting—
their teeth sunk deep, their bleeding-out sheep?
After all, a man’s gotta eat!

Can the gods among men,
even hear you when 
they kneel to crush? 
How can they hear you, if you can’t breathe?
Hands in their pockets, do they even care if you praise them?

Yet you, Good God and Shepherd, show 
to mend broken hearts with your own clothes
to walk with the weary through the shadow 
straight through to tomorrow.

Our sacred cows are slaughtered,
Lady Liberty led off in chains.
Left to choose between the narrow gait or Broadway,
we sit to entertain ourselves, (unfettered . . . unbothered).

Skyscrapers fuel the pyre.
Not one Yankee-doodle cobblestone unturned . . . unburned.
Hosanna, Hosanna! He comes with fire,
germinating his own empire,
fed by the tears of the crushed and perplexed
that profit and priest never saw,
fallen through the cracks of the temple complex.

Fruitfulness in the time of pandemics

Land your hand on my shoulder, Holy Dove. Hold me
down to the ground, a paperweight rock on my fluttering heart—
frantic feather between your fingers inscribing 
indescribable things. 
Please, keep me from flying away.
Speak your words over me, ‘til they drip like
oil-like-lead down into my shoes.
Keep me planted on the earth. 
Sink deep roots through my twitchy feet. Feed me
from the bottom up—up from earth’s core,
deeply dug glory, subsisting in subpar, sublevel
underground stories of futility:
the fickle smear of bone and fleshy vanity,
digested, petty dreams.
Break up, tear down,
Humble, till, and turn my ambition and excesses into
life-giving nutrition.
Compose me new in compost piles. 
Re-make me true.
May the holy seed rise up
in me, a growing in obscurity—warmed
by a single naked beam of your kenotic light. 
Bow my neck and bend my boughs
in ignominious productivity.
Burden me with real success, branches filled by, 
stooped, by bearing Spirit’s fruit.