Tuesday, July 7, 2009

On Deck

All my prayers
are sailor's words,
trying to push the rain.

For three days
soldier grey cumulus
hid the arc of hawks.

Before pillows cool my head
I'm up, counting moons.
Is He walking on waves tonight ?

I'd call out through the storm,
but I know you too,
are waiting to hear your name.

Wednesday, June 3, 2009


Straight as the crow cries
a dawn between storms
lights the rain weighted daisies.
Barrel bellied bees bungie
on long lavender wands.

I've got the straw beds down
between bean and beat rows
in case Jesus comes to lay His head
in the cool shadow of sunflower crowns.

I hope He finds me here
with a gentle pea pickin' heart,
butterflies curious if I'm as sweet
as swaying cosmos.

"I've come for the lost,"
and me mapping my way with lies,
forgeries, forced advantage,
foot in a snare,
hand in the cookie jar...

overnight a young green tendril
seeks anchor at the beanpole
of Calvary.

Thursday, May 21, 2009


I don't care more
than you care,
I doubt my lungs
take more in,
I'm a feather in the middle
that completes a wing,
a blueberry
balancing on butter just so,
if there's a diamond
abandoned in your mother's drawer,
a key to an office
long closed,
then I'm the right age
for coffee on the porch,
I'll remember books
and gospels long overdue,
if you get a phone call
that returns
and returns to a swing in a tree,
I'll push, do a duck under
and run.

Wednesday, May 20, 2009

Four Strides

Peas tall as rain,
winged flowers strung to a pole,
careful to plant boots
between ankle deep beans,
I snap pods for salad.

The whole patch is four strides
by ten, just enough mud
to stain fingernails
and knees. Late lettuce
bolted since the storm I hoped
would drown the mole.

No flaming sword at the gate
but it is a bit of Eden,
for beginners.

Tuesday, May 12, 2009


Feet on the floor,
one day the cold wood
could shock the heart,
the daily miracle of knees

Aspirin, magnesium, exercise, even
scripture, all cautions;
an ant wrestling crumbs
across a mountain of cake,
the arterial paths of stars,
the pulse of the moon.

We make our way, 
grunting turtles in the sand.
If it were just magnets and light,
this thing of mornings from night,
we'd not bother with letters or names,
or footnotes to the intelligent

Friday, April 3, 2009

Mud of a Man

Airborne blossoms
simulate snow,
a blushed blizzard
of parachuting pear petals
touches down on up turned
ground, a new garden.

Seeds captive in a sack
await almanac
for thumb deep immersion
in sanctified soil,
new life in three days rain...
a bud added to the body
of earth to catch sunbeams
and make them fruit.

Unless a saint dies in harvest
saints can't spring up.
The Savior taught that from a tree.
Scorned, thorned, born
for this, to breathe His life
into the mud of a man.

Monday, March 2, 2009

Sparrows and Lilies

There is a gold
butter envies in a sunset
a stand of long leaf pines.
Spring begins extending light,
gilding a dozen tree top sparrows
as purple crocus
thumb up from the ground.

Swaying maple buds
tap their hint at resurrection
against stained glass
as we ash our foreheads in
from the basement, a crashing noise
as the Life of the party
drops burial cloths,
and the faces of lilies
rupture death's dour door.

Tuesday, February 10, 2009


Modest commerce,
trading Mingus recordings
for coffee, Coltrane for 'cados.
We make eggs from music,
a garage sale of loaves and fishes,
worn wicker baskets stacked to capture
the outpouring sun.

It's still too cold to consider lilies,
new birdbath is dry, drained
by an ice storm crack,
sparrows in tumult descend
on scattered seed.
A circus of squirrels tightropes the fence.
What we feed now
we'll shoo when the fruit
comes in.

Oreo full moon melts,
evening tea bags twice squeezed
to stretch the week.
We'll make it to payday
but not by bread alone.

Tuesday, January 27, 2009


The house is without onions,
grey has overdrawn the sky.
Silent cell phone in the other room
begs an echo.
The young girl's cat,
missing the girl,
nests anew 
in every chair.

We pretend to read,
fingers following every line,
but lacking pictures the pages
stay unturned.
It might as well be
the one night Jesus
lay dead.

Even the motor gunning trucks
are dry leaves in a blind alley.
Separation is not a mother's
favorite skill.

Bum ankle creaking stairs,
I cart the coffee trey and cereal,
ancient altar boy in steaming
As the cups are finished,
the calendar fast forwards
toward return.

Monday, January 19, 2009

Window Dressing

The day after sin sits
frozen, off yellow wax
staining the otherwise blue.
If it weren't for the light
of the Empty Tomb,
you'd think it ruined,
but as the window seat glass
reflects the wondering face
above approaching city lamps,
a whisper of angels
numbers a current of prayers,
circling in the air draft,
posting the eternal ETA
of our forgiveness
and future.

Far from home,
going home,
the jammed seats
face forward to a welcome
landing, the trained to be friendly
personnel assure us
the gravity we just defied
bears no grudge,
and the first steps we take
in the new, will much resemble
our last, dignified
by hope.

Thursday, January 1, 2009


My wit's end
is a balloon string
spectacular in release.
I lean into the wind
"blowing where it wishes"
and watch my apprehensive crutch
fall to the yard.

Messianic melodies
drape on a mandolin,
is it a mitzvah ?
Our Deity digs ditties,
a few angels spared
for the heads of tuning pegs.

Not yet old men,
our grown children
groan over our table manners
at the Feast.
Challah bread and jelly
not the only things
common  to our plate.