IF GOD IS LOVE

 

When he smokes his cigarettes I find it is very easy to talk to him. He must be used to it now, because whether I am outside already or walking around the corner, I never fail to find him when he is smoking his cigarettes. Perhaps he just smokes a lot so that it is not exceedingly difficult to find him outside smoking, but I like to imagine it is something more profound than this; besides, I like to imagine he will live long enough to watch his girls grow up.

There are two things we talk about, in general, and they are his daughters and God. And no matter how many times we have talked with the same words and the same questions and the same sarcasms, there is still something so sincere about the conversation. Because I know when he goes to Church every Sunday he talks to God, but God doesn’t talk to him; and I know that he loves to watch his girls play sports, and that they have their dad’s height, or in other words, they are both taller than me—a point that comes up fairly often. And he knows that when I stand there and talk to him, I have nowhere else to be; and when I talk to God, I do it with a walking stick in the middle of the forest, or bare foot in the rain, or huffing and puffing up a hill on a bike, or in the middle of the day, talking to him while he smokes his cigarette.

And sometimes he takes out another cigarette because it is better, he says, than sitting at his computer twiddling his fingers. Our conversation lasts as long as the cigarette, slowly smoldering to its last breath. He sighs and squeezes what is left in between his fingers and grinds the burnt parts in to the ground. Then he ends the conversation, always, with his eyes lowered as he discusses his anticipation of happy hour or that beer on the beach with his friends. And I know that sometimes happy hour entails picking up his daughters from school or driving to some far off basketball game with a camera and a big foam hand. Though it is always apparent to me when he turns to go inside that he is wondering why love doesn’t seem real until a man has several beers inside of him.

So I was searching for an answer for him. And instead I was told all of these things to which I have to conform. Because they say I need a house and I need all the luxuries of a house and all the luxuries of money which is easier to obtain with the luxuries of education by which I can have all the luxuries of luxury until I am standing still for a moment and watching the slowly smoldering cigarette. And I am finally wondering why so few conform to love. Because everything else I count as loss.

When he opens the door to go back inside, he says, “As always, the conversation was good.”

SPEAKING OF A PLATYPUS

 

Tell me something real.

Perhaps it is a strange request.

A platypus is real;

It is a mammal that lays eggs

And apparently it is venomous too

Which I didn’t know but know now

Because of a child to whom this knowledge is real.

Tell me something real.

Perhaps I should explain.

Some people, they don’t say much of anything

And others say much, yet they don’t say anything

And still others speak their mind concerning everything

Yet of things real, they don’t say much of anything.

Tell me something real.

Perhaps it is really rather simple.

Like the bird in the forest

That called out in melody

And when I asked him why

He listened and then called out again;

And like the other bird in the forest

That called out in melody

And when I asked her why

She listened and then called out again.

Tell me something real.

Perhaps it is like a melody.

Because when I stood in the heart of the forest

There were no longer two birds calling out in intervals

But one melody rising to the Lord.

Tell me something real.

GOD, WHY IS THE SKY BLUE?

 

He was walking in the empty fields

Except for all the birds

And God was walking with him

When suddenly he turned to God

And he asked Him,

“God, why don’t You walk with me every day?”

And God replied:

“Son, why don’t you turn to Me every day?”

And then he was sitting in the plain fields

Except for all the lilies

And God was sitting with him

When suddenly he reached toward God

And he asked Him,

“God, why don’t You speak to me every hour?”

And God replied:

“Son, why don’t you listen to Me every hour?”

And then he was lying in the quiet fields

Except for all the laughter

And God was with him.

 

He was looking up into the crisp blue sky

Wondering why the sky is blue

Though science had taught him all about

Wavelengths and Rayleigh scattering.

And he was listening to the laughter

Wondering why love isn’t so extroverted

Though life had taught him all about

Introversion and overt sarcasm.

And he was admiring the arrayed lilies

Wondering why he worried

Though God was with him

As he lay in the shadow of His wings.

And he watched a bird

Fly in to the sun.