Solomon tells God not to forget his promises he made to his father, David, of successors and protection.

     .     .     .     .     .     .     .

I wonder what his promises are to me
if he has made any at all.

But if he has not
he has in a million small and large matters
protected me
except when I didn’t allow him to
which is probably most of the time.  

Dare I expend the energy
to mentally list these matters?  

I seem so lazy  
when I think of my parents and how they sacrificed
their pleasure and comfort for me,
when I think of the pain I caused Mom
from the first weeks of conception on.
Oh how I have taken that love for granted.  
How much more so with my Creator.  

But truth is, I cannot separate the love
of Mamma and Daddy
friends who bore my boorishness
kin who’ve overlooked me overlooking them
I cannot separate these
from the fingers of the great sculptor.    

(See I Kings 8:25-30)

The wind and stream of this day
catch me
whirl me around and around
I wonder if I ‘m being ground down
to become a smother stone
course edges honed into sparkling sand
or will the deep-rooted hidden
sadness
doubt
and fear
replace the wind
with a kind of pitiful persistent darkness
that bedevils and erodes the heart
and swallows the wiggles and joy
of the giggling little boy
still alive inside?

On the other hand

Yet I search
like da Gama, Cortez and Armstrong
like Jesus, Buddha, and Black Elk
yet I hope for  
a kernel
a grain
a glimmer
of the overwhelming
never-ending
reckless love of God.

the skeptical scientific me
who wonders if it’s a show
people putting their best selves forward
for me and thee?

the faithful me who chooses to believe
in resurrection and life after earth
the me who remembers rebirth
and the joy that rained in my heart?

the me that lets go and falls into love
of the greeters and door-openers
happy to see smiling faces
on a day with parted clouds above?

the me bruised
with the bumps of reality and loss
nailed daily by the boundaries I cross
forgetting prayer and missing cues?

I know something of the person I am
but which self in which place
I fall into isn’t in a program.
In my better moments that fickle self
stumbles and falls into grace.

The ****** is part of the body
and I should love even the ******
but I don’t have to love the excrement
that comes from it.

I should not malign *******
for they serve a good and necessary function
but I can reject the stinking slimy crap
that comes from them.  

The challenge for me is to distinguish
between the ******, its product,
and the rest of the body.  

Even though it is difficult for me
I must pray hard for X-ray vision
and the observational ability
to see and hear the heart hidden
inside all of us.

I hoist the old scarred oaken chair
onto the workbench.
I think about how this nick
and that scratch
and that unglued cross bar
happened
and how many years it has withstood
the heavy weight of the humanity
who have found it and laid their burdens upon it.

And I give thanks that it is still repairable
still of use and available
for the brief respites
of those it serves.  

I give thanks that I too
am still on the workbench.

In this twilight
after the day’s rich brew
of joy and error
your cup is always ready
to receive my concoction
no matter how stout.

And I can rely on you
to sip and savor it
treat it with the respect
of a connoisseur
and keep it
entre nous.

I don't know why I allow myself
to be charmed by you,
your bright face and dulcet tones
promising me rich rewards
for my investment
if I give in just one more time
and return to you.

Why do I believe it will be different this time
when I have come back
time after time
submitting myself to your allure
only to see my efforts crumble
into a thousand pieces
like a clump of litter
from the cat box.

Maybe next time I will remember
the odor of those crumbles
and not allow my imagination
to fool me into returning.

But I doubt it.