Another Year in April

Blue through clouds
is the eye of God's promise.
A ray is a way of hope.

All that rumbles
in the bottom of our hearts,
will rise as steam,
after night fall's rain.

Any day you wake up
is a good day.
My Momma taught me that.

The next day she wakes
will be the Last Day,
when we look at clouds
from the other side of blue.

The Tangle

Lilac and chestnut
sweeten the tromp,
wild radish and mustard
high as a streetlamp,
pink plums tangle telephone lines.

The awaited sun,
since January,
since March,
alights,
not just the crazies and homeless
barefoot the beach.

Warm, warm
of heaven
softens the wait for Jesus.
Weather or not,
we believe,
but it is easier
in bloom.

Graffito

Elk stands,
mallard roosts,
a big lagoon
named Big Lagoon,
the drive to Pelican Bay State
Prison.

The boys have tattooed heads
and necks,
insignia knuckles,
state issued pants as low as gravity
and code permits.

Forgive Us Christ King
is carved in the plaster chapel wall,
grammatical rescue, sound
theology.

A sleeping Villa Boy
startles to join the choir,
mercy chasing all the days of his life.

His forgiving heart
slips eternity
past the guards.

The Curve of The Earth

There's an ugly plant

in Africa.

A crusty star aloe,

looks like something a dragon

spit out when Adam was struggling

to pronounce wildebeest.

Its root holds dust dear as a child

and the flower bobs centuries old

under the sweltering Serengeti moon.

When the rain comes in buckets and tubs

in Northern California

I think of the thimble full it would take

to make the desert dance

and how Isaiah promised blooms

would supplant thorns.

My throat gets dry

as I argue.

If God meant for this,

then why is there that,

knowing full well

He asks the same thing of clouds

and neighbors.

I saw the curve of the earth there.

The horizon has that much play,

to bend things,

as if the earth has a choice to smile,

or frown.

Fog Fold

Our ocean slams the sand under fog.
The gulls won't fish this slop,
train inland to peck trash
at Wal-Mart.

The buoys in chorus,
the light on the head rock
give bearing,
on glassy days they're quaint,
like Scripture and hymns.

A poster on the meeting board,
under plastic for the rain
that falls on the just,
and the just so,
sells a lecture on 'The Folly
of Faith' for five dollars.

Ought to draw some disgruntleds,
except for the storm.

My windbreaker wraps
my preposterous soul
against the pull of the moon,
my worn portrait of Abe Lincoln
folded in my jeans.

This side of the grave
ignores the tide,
but every sea
has another shore.

Clever won't cut it,
when the waves break
higher than a man can
stand himself.