Jesus
never taught me
how to interact
with a rock, didn’t address
the souls of things.

There was that one time
when He talked of rocks
but all He said was that
we shouldn’t  be throwing them
at each other, for which (I imagine)
the rocks
were silently grateful
but their feelings
remain unrecorded
in any of the Scriptures.

Later, He called Peter a rock
and said He’d build a church on him.
I don’t imagine real rocks
were amused — a man’s not a rock,
they said to each other, how foolish
to imagine that a church could be built
on men alone?

I do not know
if Jesus listened
to the voice of the earth
when He lay down to sleep
on the hard stone
of the Holy Land. 
Did He even
consider that land holy,
or was it just
a convenient place
to start?

Even when He lay
for those three days
under the ground, protected
by the boulder,
sleeping upon stone,
the story that we’re told
is that He wasn’t truly there:
not present
in the place
of His greatest
possibility.

It’s said that
an angel
rolled away that stone
on the Sunday,

but I have always imagined
that the Stone moved out of Jesus’
way on its own, as if to say:

"It’s your time now,
and we’ll let it happen,
but we will be here
long after you’re gone."

This is how the Robe
was passed
to Him: it was an allowance,
a sufferance,
and not a seizure:

for I still see rocks everywhere,
intact, patient,
waiting to be heard,

while Jesus
lives in a house
of broken stone,
split wood,
melted, clarified sand;

while we know what He said
to us, it is impossible to know
what Gospel the rocks heard
as He stood upon them,
preaching what to their ears
was must have been
an impenetrable message
of the End of Days.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

PS:  I’m sure this will prompt some upset here and there; sorry in advance.  Just talking about my own beliefs…

Tuesday
has yet to click into place.
Birds fall silent after the dawn chorale,
the squirrel’s chattering on his usual rock,
and I can’t decide what to do:
go back to bed for a while,
or start working.

This week hurts more
than I’d planned for.
Money’s tight, I’m alone again,
and while there’s a pretty world
out there to astound me,
it seems I can’t breathe deeply enough
to take it all into me, let it expand me,
open me to something greater than myself.

Perhaps I should be silent too today,
take the birds as mentors —

eh.  I am not good with mentors,
with being advised.  I’ve given up on
therapy, listening, pills, meditation,
exercise, thoughtful contemplation
of what others have said.  All I’ve got left
is a keyboard and a lust
for getting me out there,

instead of letting what’s out there
come in. 

Believe me, you must believe me:
there was a time when I could have told you
the names of all the minerals in the rock
that squirrel is using for his soapbox.
There was a time when I knew
what I stood for, and upon;
a time when I knew how
to be awake.