Hide and seek

 Sometimes the fish

are all on the other

side of the boat.

One side yields

nothing while

the other holds

a net-straining bounty.

Like summer rain,

in the desert valley,

like gold nuggets

in the mountain river.

Seek and you shall find.

I used to catch

a lot of trout. I could

sense where they

hovered. Or so

it seemed. Maybe

I was just lucky.

But I never hit the jackpot

at the casino or picked

the winning numbers 

n the lotto. I bought

a single ticket every week;

never won a single dollar.

Perhaps I didn’t ask

the right question,

knock on the right door.

I caught a golden trout

in a lake two miles high

in the Sierra Nevada.

It was too beautiful

to kill and keep so I

released it and didn’t

cast another line for

nearly thirty years.

Now I’ve found

which side of the boat

the fish are on and

have asked the right

questions, knocked

on the right door and

what I’ve sought to find

remains a mystery.

As it should be, deep

in the waters of the lake

where the golden

trout swim,

beautifully.

The Road to Emmaus

This road is old,

the surface cracked,

the grass that sprouts

there briefly green

before it withers

to gold. A caravan

of ants harvests

the seeds that have

fallen into the cracks.

They don’t see the

guided bomb that falls

upon the power plant.

Dust and ash tints

their backs from black

to sooty gray.

The thud of the

explosion knocks

the grains of wild rye

and barley from their jaws

and collapses the tunnels

and corridors of their

carefully constructed

sand palace underneath

the cobbles of the road.

They just resume

their tasks of moving

grains of sand and seeds.

By sundown, the passages

and storerooms have been

repaired, their cargo stowed.

Two people walk along

the road discussing what

has happened, what

they have seen and heard,

fearful of the noise and heat

and the promised peace

that hasn’t closed the breach

between prophesy and what the

powerful call “facts on the ground.”

A stranger joins them and

points out the ants, the facts

that persist underground.

The lowly ones don’t ask,

they shake off the dust,

continue their tasks. 

It might have been Easter

 I had not trod

this road before.

It was still fresh

from the moist

months that were

just ending.

As I crested the ridge

and gazed at

the sloping swale,

there was a large

oak, the spring time

leaves emerging

bright and somehow

fluttering without

a breeze.

And they were singing!

Because they weren't

actual leaves; it was

a thousand fold wonder

a multitude of gold finches.

A chorus of angels

celebrating a world reborn.

I can summon that sight

and that glorious song

whenever I need it,

and I have countless times

over the many springs

and winters since then.

Sometimes they even

sing within my dreams

and take wing above

that road I had never

trod before.

 

Tell them to meet me in Galilee

Oh Sea of Galilee

sparse and spare,

are your waters cold,

are you salty?

I only knew you

from the thick Bible

that lived on the shelf

of our family room

rarely opened except

to look at the pictures.

I did not expect to see

the banana plantations

on your shores. Or the

marina with ski boats.

The restaurants that

feature fried or grilled

Saint Peter’s Fish.

We drove along the shore

through Capernaum without

visiting that holy place,

the Mount of Beatitudes.

I would have preferred

to walk around the site

of the Sermon on the Mount

than the heights on the other

side of the desert sea where

rusted heavy machine guns

still hover over the ruins

of the Syrian battlements

high above your waters.

Cactus thrives and looms

on the rocky slopes below.

Mary Magdalene and

the other Mary waited

outside the tomb that was

sealed with a large stone

in front of the door and guarded

by hired Roman soldiers

to prevent the disciples

from stealing His body.

They waited patiently

for his promise to be fulfilled,

that he would return to life

on the third day.

I waited a few days

after this trip to the Sea

to make different excursion,

alone on a bus ride

that bypassed the road

to Armageddon and led

to the city of Nazareth.

I’m not waiting for Him to return,

there is no way to know when

that will be and perhaps

I will never return to that land

where he lived and died

and was resurrected.

But I have seen where he walked

and where he lived and he died.

his words live in my heart and

whenever I remember them,

He lives again.

Amen.