Monday, April 30, 2012

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.

Tuesday, April 24, 2012

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,
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.

Monday, April 16, 2012


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

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

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.

Monday, April 9, 2012

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.

Tuesday, April 3, 2012

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.