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David Walters: “Why doesn’t God like us?”

David Walters: “Why doesn’t God like us?”

The last of the poems I will publish in memory of David Walters’ life and in tribute to the power of his poetic voice, a most timely word for us in a time when we wait “for a promised dawn …”

Why doesn’t God like us?

Have you ever noticed how God deserts you
When you most need Him?
He hangs around for awhile until he’s through,
Then his bright light grows awfully dim.

God reminds me, sadly, of the sun,
Here now, made known, then gone!
Shines his spotlight, it seems, for fun,
Then makes us wait for a promised dawn.

But a patient scientist pointed out to me my error:
The sun, he said, is almost in the same place today
That it was happily playing in yesterday.
It was only the earth and we who moved! So there!

But I, from living, and the logic of each day’s sharp realities,
Remembered when living wells of faith dried up,
And sincere efforts to live and love or to be kind weren’t enough,
Haunting me with their weak and uncompleted activities.

Still, like a desperate soldier, we choose the forlorn hope,
To rush high stone walls that were laid to injure and damn!
It seemed only right then that we become the sacrificial goat.
Only, I decided instead to stand with the one who had already
          died for us as our Passover lamb.

A dear friend helped me see what we too often miss:
God, he reminded me, is always present – right now!!
          – everywhere and in each moment with all of life.
Even when ignorance blinds us so that we will not heed,
          or we are afraid even to risk!
This is the time of constancy as He walks beside us in our dark
          and loneliness, and simply, loves us.

david walters
February 2015

David Walters: “Charlottesville”

David Walters: “Charlottesville”

A poem written by David after the white supremacist demonstrations in Charlottesville. His language is raw and vivid and impassioned, but hopeful, too, always hopeful. And there is even room for pity for the demonstrators themselves: “Were they ever shown loving kindness?”

Charlottesville

Animated ideas rise as gray ghosts in the summer night,
Feral cats prowling littered alleys looking for a fight,
Drawn hungrily to rotting smells of offal’s slippery bed,
Cold bodies dragged up that many had thought dead.

Barefaced lies unearthed approved by Nazi hate,
An archaic power wakens to separate the righteous race
From Jews, blacks, gays, and brown faces,
Eliminate race pollution, keep order, divide to make safe.

Our enraged brothers and sisters wildly brawl pell mell,
Burning lava bursting into bigotry, racism and hot hell!
What terrible wounds torment such desperate souls!
Were they ever shown loving kindness instead of woes?

Will death hunt us all down till there’s no more light?
Or will we bestir ourselves to face white supremacy’s alt right?
Moments come when the living stand up against the cruel,
An ancient remnant remembers that it’s time to speak true.

Declare with untethered strength who God created us to be,
Love’s children strong and creative, tall trees growing free,
It’s not too late! though hounds of Hades loudly bay,
In each age and place we have to begin, today.

david walters
August 2017

David Walters: “watching sparrows”

David Walters: “watching sparrows”

A wonderful poem about humility, about neither overstating or understating our own place among all God’s creatures …

watching sparrows

I don’t think that I like house sparrows.
Brassy, aggressive and flying in feathered gangs,
Scaring smaller chickadees, nuthatches and juncos
who are eating and singing their carols.
Sparrows can use their thick beaks like sharp fangs.

They crush and eat our cracked corn or sunflower seeds,
Pushing and shoving away even their own kindred.
They don’t wear prayer shawls, read a bible or use rosary beads,
Each one is too busy fighting for victory and to get ahead.

Then one day I watched a sparrow stop, and ponder,
Or so it seemed, as he reminded me of me.
Did he pause to see how hard he strove and did he wonder
Why he scrabbled all out to fill his belly in each deed?

Because I have often judged sparrows they may not like me.
But I see now they are only being who God created them to be.
And since in truth, “God’s eye is on the sparrow!”
He seems happy with them just as they are,
so maybe there is hope for you and me.

david walters
February 2015

David Walters: man of faith, husband, father, grandfather, poet, friend

David Walters: man of faith, husband, father, grandfather, poet, friend

My heart is broken. I am devastated to learn today of the sudden death of my friend, David Walters. He and his wife, Debbie, were members of our church in Waterloo, Iowa, faithful and engaged members, careful and honest practitioners of their faith, both of them highly intelligent and introspective, unparalleled in their commitment not merely to mouth the values of the gospel, but to live them.

David WaltersDavid was a poet, sharing his poems with me during my tenure at the church and still as we have both lived in retirement half a country apart. His poems are sometimes hard to read, because they expose the world as it is in all its cruelty and hypocrisy and injustice, but never, never despairing, always holding up the bright light of hope, hope rooted in a compassionate and faithful God, for all to see.

I grieve for a world without David’s voice, his voice that will not let us look away from the hurt and need around us, his voice that prods our consciences and pricks our apathy, his voice that invites us to rest, to believe and to rest and to live, within the loving embrace of the Lord.

As a tribute to David, and as avenue to permit his voice to be heard still, I intend to publish here in my online journal in these days before Christmas some of the poems David has shared with me. I begin with a poem especially dear to me because it was written during a sojourn shared by David and Debbie and me and other dear friends from the First Congregational United Church of Christ to Scotland and the Isle of Iona. Here is his poem …

finding Iona

Soon, the moment will pass and Iona will be a memory.
But the pictures we colored in our minds each day,
Of Scotland’s undomesticated beauty and perfect symmetry,
Will long remain etched beyond what words can say.
Yet I believe that the heart of Iona is not in what we see.
It lies at the center of where we feel
The love of One who lived and died without asking a fee.
And now dances laughing with anyone who would be free.
The vision of Iona reminds us of what we forgot,
Of two people who walk side by side willing to accept the cost.
They are you and me, broken and lost,
Until by faith we joined hands and became one with Him
whom we sought.

david walters
May 2015,
Isle of Iona, Scotland

Dimpled Eye

Dimpled Eye

dimpled eye

I look into your dimpled eye
        and it draws me
out of myself and into a place
        inscrutable and haunting and full of yearning
but for what?

You’re not like your “brother”
        who Tigger-like is everywhere at once
out there, in your face, ring around the rosie
        here’s my duck! here’s my ball!
wanna play?

You are alpha, first, but not last, in our hearts
        Stonington Bear
named for a most favorite place
        cold water and hard stone
                grey granite ledges clung by spruce and cedar and rugosa
        granite boulders, huge beyond imagining
                tossed and tussled on Little McGlathery’s outer shore
        solitary erratic just there, as if it were always there
                as if it will always be there, heedless of tide or my stare
        Lynne captured a harbor porpoise mid-leap
                frozen in her frame, but glistening, pulsating, wild
        once we paddled in mist, water’s surface quiet and uncanny, like glass
                troubled only by the dip of our blades or the rising of a porpoise
it draws me, draws me out, draws me away … and brings me home

I look into your dimpled eye
        and it draws me
is it wistfulness, resignation, distress, just old-body weariness?
        or do you just want to be loved, without seeming too eager
to draw me, draw me away, draw me in … to you?

A Place to Call Home

A Place to Call Home

From one of my favorite poets and good friend, David Walters, a poem written while ministering some years ago to a small New England congregation …

A Place to Call Home
In New Hampshire’s Baker River Valley a small country church
Brims with friendly people who savor common sense,
Neighbors ready to laugh or share a garden’s bounty with another,
Surrounded by big churches preaching hell-fire and damnation.
At Sunday services with the gathering of its faithful people,
He arrives early and waits, rain, shine or bitter snow storm,
Finds his favorite spot as he rests in the center aisle,
Like the church he’s brown and a friendlier dog can’t be found!
Greets those arriving as he wags his busy tail,
Dreams peacefully through sermon and liturgy,
Doesn’t mind if you scratch his ears, demands nothing,
Helps visitors or those hurting know they’re invited!
Furry, breathing parable who lives at the bottom of the hill,
Brings us gentle calm, soothing weary bodies and spirits,
He knows he’s loved and loves right back,
We leave assured of a home in heaven’s mansions.

david walters

David shared this poem with the national office of the United Church of Christ in response to a request for stories about local church life and they made a video of his poem! You may view the video here:

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March for Our Lives

March for Our Lives

A poem I received today from my friend, David Walters …

March for Our Lives

Students lost their childhood! walk with parents and us old codgers,
Won’t wait for official declarations or that lonely bugle’s call,
Side by side they rise up strong celebrating the right to live,
United in country heartlands and busy cities, onward we march!

We remember proud native Americans cut down like tall grass,
Living alongside noisy buffalo roaming free on endless prairie,
Made nearly extinct by long guns and, greed the ammunition,
Oh, how we white newcomers tried killing their hope in a future.

No, it’s not too late! the time is right now!
Refuse to die one by one, school after school,
America, awaken! death’s hands knock at our door,
Ban those damn rifles built for war aimed at our babies.

Gather persons who love children more than their guns,
Leave fear behind, free your heart’s courage, rise up!
Let our brave, precious youth whom we love be the guide,
Will you join the kids as they march for their lives?

david walters ©2018

here!

here!

This poem by David Wagoner, entitled “Lost” was posted on April 18th at the inward/outward website …

Stand still. The trees ahead and bushes beside you
Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here,
And you must treat it as a powerful stranger,
Must ask permission to know it and be known.
The forest breathes. Listen. It answers,
I have made this place around you.
If you leave it, you may come back again, saying Here.
No two trees are the same to Raven.
No two branches are the same to Wren.
If what a tree or a bush does is lost on you,
You are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knows
Where you are. You must let it find you.

Every place is a Here … and every place may be a home.