I read the words written in
2010 by a young man who takes
Jesus at his word and I thought
of 2016 and rich, wannabe leaders
appealing to the worst in human
nature by shouting “The wall
will be built” to a vulnerable,
frightened crowd:

…our culture that teaches us to insulate ourselves from suffering, to build up gates and walls and border fences that separate us from those who are suffering right outside of our comfort. But we come to find out that not only are we locking the suffering out, but we’re locking ourselves in–to a life that’s incredibly lonely. Those patterns rob us of life and community.*

Promises, promises which
result in anti-community,
isolation and perpetual
loneliness and ever more
fear and hate. When will
we ever learn, when will
we ever learn that when
we open ourselves to the
suffering of others, par-
ticipate in that suffering,
we are touched by their
hearts and their hearts
grow into the love and
gratitude of our hearts?

*Shane Claiborne, When Action Meets Contemplation, 2010

When he was a young adult
he would hear, maybe not
even listen, it was so repetitive,

to the words of general aches
and pains of his seniors.
He thought glibly to himself,

Get a life, folks, and then
later he realized it was what
they got when he himself, in

a reflexive pronoun, got
there, too, — for starters
he prides himself in his specificity

and not the ubiquitous general-
izations of the previous generation —
while his prostate apparently is

fine and he is old enough for
the digital exam to dedigitize,
his right testicle has to go,

the pinky finger size umbilical
hernia needs to be nipped in
the bud, the tendon in his

left hand should be cut because
it is pulling his hand into a fist,
giving his whole demeanor something

demeaning, a few varicosities
need to be sclerosed and most of
his joints make him feel like

the tin man in The Wizard of
Oz especially after a few too
many glasses of booze.

Without the tools nor the interest,
he asked his next door neighbor,
who had all the tools and more
than enough interest having been

in the home construction business
for years, if the neighbor would
consider replacing some rotting
strips of wood framing the garage

door before some college kids
came to paint the house, another
job for which he had neither
appropriate tools nor inclination.

The neighbor said yes and the
day came for the work to begin.
This put the man in a quandary.
He could go out and make small

talk with the neighbor as the
neighbor pulled at rotting wood
strips, something the neighbor
probably wouldn’t appreciate

given that it would take time
and concentration away from the
task at hand or he could stay in
the house and feel somewhat

awkward that someone else was
doing a man’s task outdoors on
his house while he apparently
wasn’t around or was crouching

inside. So he decided to do
the next most manly thing he
could think to do. He would
sit at his desk and nimbly

exercise his fingers showing
off to himself his significant
typing dexterity as he com-
posed a poem. When finished

he wouldn’t read the poem
to the neighbor but would
offer him a beer, another sort
of manly thing men do.

Surfing the internet for
poetry, he came upon erotic
poetry by females in which
they describe in detail
various parts of the anatomy
and things going on with those
parts. Being a guy, visual,
given to clichés and liking
to keep things simple, he
wondered if a picture or
better yet a video might
not be worth more than all
the poets’ words to which
the poets might reply in utter
disgust, “Guys!” — to which
he might reply, “Just
wondering,” and then he
went back to surfing.

The week ended blustery, cold,
damp, gray and the next began

with snow a ways up the pen-
insula. It is Sunday, sun-day,

without sun but fire in as much
as it is Pentecost, euphemistic-

ally known as the birthday of the
church for those who still think

or care about that kind of thing.
He thinks about the weather and

about his mood and about some
things going wrong between him

and some longstanding friends,
perhaps only in his mind, but ass-

uredly there — in the mind and
weighing on his heart. And then

he thinks about Pentecost wor-
ship in the past and overzealous

preachers invoking the flock to
stand and sing Happy Birthday to

themselves to the accompaniment
of a super-smiley organist and

parishioners frantically conjuring
the imagined excitement in that

upper room millennia ago while
shaking hands, giving hugs, kiss-

ing and sharing a multitude of
germs passing the peace of Christ

while it is still flu season and
while he could use some flames

dancing on his head or a little
fire in the belly or under his

fanny or feet, he thinks he will
just sit and wait for the sun.

“Birches are such fragile trees;
my, my, just look at these,”
the master gardener said while
standing on the balcony
looking as if looking for falcons to see.
“We get some red tail hawks not falcons you see,”
I said, “and everyone just gawks and gawks
but back to the birch trees,
if you please.
Is there anything that can be done
about these four?
Can we save even one?”
“You can save three
for now, it seems to me,
but time and global warming
will kill the others,” he said as a warning.
“Global warming is killing the birch trees?”
“Ah, yes, and after that — you and me.”
“Seriously!”
“Oh, and there will be far fewer red
tails in the hawk family,
so gawk and gawk
with your friends and family
while you still can and now
here is my consultation fee;
I have to make hay while hay
is to be made before the end
comes for you and me, ”
he said as he rode away
on a pale horse.

You say he’s not a true conservative
and that may be right, but that’s not
the real reason. He’s not a nice guy,
period, and now he is the standard
bearer for your clan and you’re no fan.
It’s like marrying someone and then
finding out he’s a lout. There were
warning signs, always warning signs,
but you didn’t heed them in time.
Now what? Capitulation, brave face
forward? At least he doesn’t hit you
in the face and you can always wear
long underwear to hide where the
bruises appear. Or…you know what?
Get a divorce; take out a restraining
order, but you won’t and now you’re
stuck; well, good luck.

Every poem I write,
I think is better
than the last one
I did write
and then a few days
later I wonder
if I was
right.
And then
a few more days
later,
I wonder,
“Is this something
I did write?”
and then my
conscience says,
“It’s all right;
it’s time for
another poem
for you to
write
and I’m sure
you’ll get
this one
right,”
and I simply
say in
response,
“Right,”
and I write.

Nine-fifteen in the evening, sitting on the porch
he sees a little red fox silently trotting up the

street; a car comes along and the fox ducks
into a yard and trots on his way to his den

in a dune along the shores of the Big Lake.
Earlier, he watched and listened to one pundit

after another try to make sense of the primary,
and he listened to reports of senseless, arbitrary

violence half a world away scaring everyone
every which way. He chuckles thinking of those

rapidly moving little legs and gives thanks
for the trot of the fox making him think of

Fred Astaire dancing the night away.

When he was five, he flew over the
handlebars, tore his chin on the
bell and scraped his chin in the
cinders in the alley and lay there
for a minute or two.

When he was eight, he swung so high
on the swing that when he wanted to
jump and fly forward he fell backward
onto his head and lay there for a
minute or two.

When he was nine, he stood too close
to the next door neighbor kid as he
swung the bat and got clobbered
upside the head and he just stood
there for a minute or two.

When he was eleven, he ran so fast
at the indoor track at the Y that he
slammed into the wall, tumbled
backward and sat on his can for a
minute or two.

When he was thirteen, he and a
friend played cowboys and Indians
in his basement with BB guns and
his friend kept shooting him in the
face narrowly missing his eyes and
when the shooting stopped he stood
there for a minute or two.

Many, many years went by and when
he was fifty-three, he tried a stunt
on his off-road bike, fell face first
into the dirt narrowly missing crushing
his spine but breaking thirteen bones
and he lay there in the dirt for a
minute or two

before his son and wife took him to
the emergency ward where he spent
three days in intensive care and four
in a regular hospital room before
going home where he slept in the
recliner for two months.

When he was fifty-four, he continued
to downhill ski and off-road bike.

When he was fifty-five, he gave up
off-road biking.

When he was sixty-six, he gave up
downhill skiing.

Now that he is seventy-one, he
puts on his running shoes and
waits a minute or two before
starting a very slow, very safe
trail jog.

After the jog, he stands there
in the middle of nature just
taking it all in for a minute
or two.