Three Poems

What do you say to me this morning?

--

I am still fearful of what would be said
should all my secret sins be poured out.
If I told them, all of them, all of it,
I would be plastered with shame.
Yet none from you, Lord God Almighty.
No condemnation for which to quake, no fear.
For your love is greater than my sins,
all poison, black and vile, and real,
denatured, bleached and bathed in myrrh,
and really, truly dead, trod upon by an even more real thing,
your love

--

Why did you give the giraffe a blue tongue?
The neck I can fathom, deep as it may go,
but why did you give the giraffe a blue tongue?
You do not make poorly, create meagerly,
you did not run out of materials, or red paint.
Were you saving it for me? The red, that is, for my tongue and flesh and lips?
Why didn't you give me a blue tongue? Before I ate the blue ice-pop?

--

I know the language
and the game.
They will not assuage
the heartache
that longs for longing
and for love
in me my loving
to flow out
without anxiety
without doubt
of reality
that I know
and yet feel absent.
What say you?

Do not ramble in doubt
it darkens
your counsel to your soul
that needs all
the counseling you know
for truth flows
as a river through it
all. Trust me
when I remind you that
The river flows.
Starting shallow and small
at the table
through the haggard curtain
cut for space
to flow out of the door
to your knees
and before you know it
you can't turn;
the force of the water
unyielding
pressing onto your waist
and you step
because you have to
keep your head
above your four cavities
'til your toes
give leave of the ground
and kick off
to swim the river
to the sea.
It flows. Remember that.