home run

jogging through the park on this day
(aka-ed as devil’s night)
toward a tree the color of hot coals

i pass through the baseball field
and kick up some dust
for old times sake

i remember little league
me; the little guy
five-foot-one at age sixteen
but even smaller then

yet speedy on my tip toes
accurate from the mound
doubles: my forte
second base: my ground

but on that day
the bases were loaded
dad in the stands

the pitcher throws
the batter swings
the bat dings

i scurry the bases
like speedy gonzalez
inside the park

grand slam

i arrive safely at home plate
my giant of a coach scoops me up
the crowd goes wild

and the feeling is electric

redeemed (song lyrics)

part one: tunnel park

october on the beach
with my favorite things
God and guitar
Word and Spirit
books drenched in ink

within seconds the wind
erases evidence of my existence
footprints in sand; gone

the waves sing a chorus
first stirred in the deep
while the city sleeps
waiting for winter

but i come here to breathe

to sing
to lament
to dream

about upcoming continents
with confidence
that He is in control

like my brother once asked:
“how do you make sense”
of all this?

birth
and
fall
and
death

then birth again
into a new creation
where wheat and weed
from the same seed

begin

yet in different places

end

part two: adventure

men on skateboards with no wheels
riding the lake with a kite
seeking michigan’s adventure
and finding it

a jet soars in front of my eyes
dancing the line of land and sea
seeking michigan’s adventure
and finding it

like a castaway with everything i need
i rest among the dunes
seeking michigan’s adventure
and finding it

part three: beauty

beauty is found here
in all forms
seeping into callused fingers
calcifying in restless bones

stretching our imagination
blowing up our boxes
we create to put life in order
to keep God

where we want Him
how we want Him
when we want Him

but the where and how and when
are exposed like plastic men
when we remember

He transcends place and form and time
an omnipresent, omnipotent Creator
who loves and loves and loves

but control in the hands of fallen men
is like a child behind the wheel
with no way to reach the pedals

part four: california (a song)

Heard a lot about California
But I’ve never really been there
Except the time in my mother’s belly
On the beach in the winter air

Wonder if things would be much different
If we moved to the West Coast
But I didn’t really want to leave then
Miss the things that I loved the most

Guess I probably would’ve found a wife
Bought a house, moved in and made some kids
But I guess life’s not the way it was
I guess life’s the way it is

And I learned it’s not where you’re at
But who you’re with
The people you love
And the time you give

To rejoice and to mourn
Through blessing and scorn
Through the seasons that we all live

Cause life’s not about how much you get
Life’s about how much you give

part five: dreams

dreams, like footprints
can be swept away; forgotten

remember
look ahead
eyes closed
listen
to the One
who made this lake so great

bradley hathaway

Last night Dan and I went downtown and saw Bradley Hathaway (www.myspace.com/bradleyhathaway), a poet/musician who tours the world doing spoken word poetry following hard core rock shows.

We felt like elderly giants in a sea of teens, a completely different experience.

We talked to Bradley—he had only been writing for a year before going on tour (he’s now in his fourth year), and picked up a guitar a year ago. He’s just going for it.

His band assembled 12 days ago—a drummer, bassist/guitarist, cellist/stand up base/accordion player and Bradley on acoustic. Dan said he was born for the stage—he’s captured a vision combining different elements to create something special.

After three rounds of screaming hardcore bands, he had teens swaying back and forth to blue-grass music with spoken word poetry. To see him reel in the crowd in was amazing.

His lyrics are often light, but he hits kids’ hearts with truth they need to hear.

the gift of food

My father and I share the gift of oven preparation alertness.

What I mean by this is that something woven deep in our intuitive mind-body clocks alerts us when the oven is ready. For some reason, it doesn’t work as well when the food is done, only the pre-heat. This fuels my distaste for burnt frozen pizzas. Weird.

My father punches in times like 3:37 to cook popcorn in the microwave. He’s like a microwave scientist.

Today I celebrated successfully opening the croissant roll container. Last time was a violent disaster that harmed the ascetic value of the rolls. Thankfully, I had two containers this time, so when I ripped the directions off container #1, I went back and read them on #2. They were delicious.

Now I know the secret of the rolls. Dad would be proud.

I called last year, “the year of Hamburger Helper without the hamburger,” and perhaps this year will be, “victory over croissant rolls.”

verse.chorus.verse.

gimme a song i don’t wanna sing softly
gimme a song i can scream

‘cause i’m tired of feeling like i need more coffee
gimme some light on this dream

and someday i’ll sing you
(softly to sleep)

and someday you’ll wake me
(to live this dream)

and together we’ll sing of
(this great mystery)

‘cause it’s here in my lonesome i long for another
heard being alone was no good

and i know what it’s like to be chasing the stars
but i long for your heart like i should

the gr press

The Grand Rapids Press reviewed The Yesterdog Documentary in Friday's paper.

Check it out on mlive...

the sound of violence

2:07 a.m.

My eyes fight the brightness of a computer screen at this hour.

An angry man stirred up our neighborhood twenty minutes ago with a sea of obscenities. In this part of the city, it’s not unusual for late-night revelers to make their post-bar presence known, but this was altogether different.

This wasn’t innocent fun.

This went beyond anger.

This was rage.

This was the sound of violence.

“F__ you! F__ you! Get in the f__ing car!” a man screams. A woman responds, the argument volleys back and forth like a tennis match. She says she doesn’t want anyone to get hurt. “Is that what you want to see?” the man yells.

Car doors slam like bullets. My heart beats, chest frozen in time.

Propping open the shade through the corner of my second story window, I struggle to see the root of the confrontation. I make out silhouettes and human movement under the street lights, maybe a white shirt.

Trees obscure my vision; leaves rustle in the fall wind. Earlier, the speaker at our community gathering spoke about reconciliation. Amy mentioned it was a perfect fall night.

I listen, almost like I’m waiting for gunfire. A car pulls up and stops. “Get the f__ off me!” Sounds of a scuffle. More yelling. The girl yells something. The man fires off more obscenities. The car moves; headlights fade down the street into the night.

I’m praying for peace. Should I call the police?

911 remains only three numbers away, but this man is too filled with rage to be met by police, I reason, imagining cops showing up and endless rounds expelled until someone on this street winds up dead.

The prayers continue. God, give this situation peace. Give this madman clarity.

An SUV creeps down the one way. Open car door. Closed car door. Then silence.

The prayers for peace and reconciliation continue.

2:33 a.m.