Hip Hope

I asked the inkster

if Chinese rock stars

get the ABC's

tattooed on their neck. 

Scripture scrawled

on my bicep

set up

preaching to  pierced

hearts and sugar plum dragons.

We had to abbreviate Matthew 10:38

to accomodate my skinny arm.

Should've went for Luke 14:27,

but I don't like to read ahead.

Doe Eyed Decimal System

Flirting in libraries
we thought whispers
handsome.

Just a page, turning slowly,
was enough to unbind
reticence.

A note, folded
close as a boat,
sails the table.

The guardian angel eyes
of comings, and goings,
deep as the marked aisles.

Our love of books
at the ready, in case
romance is only a category.

Sound Reason

The surf trolling,
a foghorn, slight off season
bee.

Children yip across a stone wall
as an engine whipples downhill.

My wife's crisp
pages in the sun. Even a crow.

If that pink cloud,
just before dinner,
is real,
the one next to it, is not.

Stir Sir

In kitchen butterfly,

unusual any season,

but January, the twenty first?

We moved lettuce

and lemon tree inside

to frustrate frost,

the night poet.

I stirred onions from a chair,

book opened to steamed glasses,

yellow tinged wings

opened over the salt bowl.

Happy birthday father,

dead, just short of one hundred years.

Every wish comes true,

when it flits by

unbroken.

Song Bark

Wintered leaves rattle
at apple branch end,
the lone music makers
in the life of the tree.

Delayed rendevous
gives me glimpse
of a natural chorus
ignored.

Jesus said, "The very stones
will cry out..."

Bus stop arbor
doing its best.

Beast of Eden

Quails startle

and fan to the roof,

even without the dog

I'm a terror to the locals.

Defending broccoli

it's me versus the cabbage beetle,

St. George and the dragon.

Any fight I manage is habit 

against prescribed preference,

the stuff of New Year's.

Circumstance and luck,

false Fahrenheits,

the progress of surrender

is light lengthening days.

What God wants,

God gives.

What I take,

is time

to face returning.

Rock Bed

Full marble moon

rolls snow shadows

across high Christmas chaparral.

A million moth fat flakes

fly in the face of a driven man,

wise tomorrow.

Short visit.

Long road ahead,

behind,

and beside the unblinking

lane change.

Family tree, measured

in miles. Our pace,

our place on the King's highway,

eternal.

Apron Strings

The sweet part of an onion

stings. When you won't

call home, I cut slices

under water.

Setting plates around the table

one breaded breast enough for two,

but not enough for Christmas.

Heaven invites us to save

a chair, the number of chairs

to make a party, astronomical.

Old wounds don't need salt.

Grace, a feast for the eyes.

Silver Lining

The closest hawk 

cuts a silhouette against  milk clouds.

The horizon, half sea and half water reflected,

swallows the swell of the ocean at bay.

A kayak arrows to the sun's roll in the waves,

paddle length dripping back

to glide.

Worship is a tidal ventricle

pumping the planet's peace.

Jealous turtles surrender the shore to

muck boots in chorus, a choir of pink whispers

before the set.

Nature trumps the natural way of thinking,

it's the breath taking secret 

of the breath giver.

Vocation

I save nine seconds of light

bulb life leaving the work room

for the kitchen. That much dark

I can handle,

the doorway never moves.

It's a home office,

the dryer dings between cold calls,

work shirts drape the ironing board.

The value I bring, on days I don't

sell well, is this separating peppers from seeds

slicing avocados into smiles.

Thirty years I've nuanced accents over the phone.

Eight to five I remember father

was a salesman, but

it was mother taught me, before

paychecks mattered, 'Think

of eating, before you're hungry.'

Pilgrim

What we learned

can be forgot,

what we know

dismissed.

Who we are

is debatable,

why we're here

the cosmic question.

Whom we love,

and who loves us, is

the suring thing,

the truth we bring to

table.

Election Sure

While you vote,
I trim the driveway rose,
nine foot and then some thorn spindles.

The dew drowns my sleeve
by the quart,
every corner of the day star blinks.

What a plant proposes
blocks another's garden.
Bring light, bring light, bring light.

Task aside, the next door tide
of the polling booth repeats;
bring light, bring light, bring light.

Crisscross

There's one bloom left
on the front yard rose,
being November that's not bad news.

The foreclosure should settle soon
and another round of birthdays
will end the calendar.

The bluff busy bees 
clambor a long lonely lavender,
winter already whispering.

To be useful
I open a book sent in the mail,
something about Jesus in a grocery store
sharing short cake in the storm.

Window Seat

The honeymoon lifts
to a cruising altitude
of eye to eye,
the rings catch light
chipped from tandem stars.

Tide Fool

What I read,

hand shading the gold glint

of the ocean,

is my little pocket book

of lies

and aberration.

My wife trusts God

to know me

better than I know myself.

The small cold rock of

a song I sang Sunday

turns in my hand.

If my brother whispered

something similar I'd throw it

a mile deep, past dolphins, dinghies,

and the wrong side of dawn.

The bench I watch the west from

is a pew to the wide sky and white caps.

What I negotiate here, what I navigate,

what I need is a way to walk on land,

as well as He traversed the waves.

Early Harvest

Hollyhock high as a house,

yapping dog smaller than parson's shoes.

Gray wall of fog mutes

the pink tiles and garden whistler.

To grow things is to know things.

But I've assumed too much

having met my first atheist corn rower.

Not for me to prove seeds swelling to fruit

are for courage as much as cobbler.

Talking to dirt a comfort 

to being born of dust.

Scarecrow's got some sense.

Looking up for rain. It comes

with or without praying,

can't argue that.

Takes a certain talent to ignore

miracles. Imagine the poems

I could write

if this whole world

were up to me.

Pigeon English

A man seeds pigeons,

doesn't have to be a man,

eight bucks a month for coos

and guano,

crows come too

cawing for attention.

Not pretty, 

nobody watching

the scatter get pecked,

some fall by the wayside

and sprout.

The strange maize escapes the birds

and waves a foot higher

than the broken sidewalk.

My neighbor, never seen,

spreads the gospel of grace

to critters bobbing heads

and pedestrians carrying bread.

BS Poem

Be still

and know I am God

Be silly

and know I am God

Be serene

and know I am God

Be strident

and know I am God

Be special, be singular,

be surprised

and know I am God.

Be sincere and know I am God.

Be salt, be Saint So-and-So,

be sober, be salubrious

and know I am God.

Note to self,

Be self being selfless

and know I am God.

Polaris

Peeling sunned shoulders
means summer, berry stains worth
the scrapes,
sleep barely in the sheets
window fan
comfort
milk thistle
milk shake
braving the lake
skimming the river
picking out stars
He knows by name.

St. William's Day

Boil water twice over
coffee grounds
to stretch a cup into
the next need for it.

Birthday coming,
I'm short a grill,
clover too high to
dance.

My Closer Walk With Thee
gets me through the kitchen.
Blank page staring
like a bus window leaving town.

Folk's talk about
having your cake,
meaning humble is the best
slice of pie.

Mother Told Me

Six wheeled trucks through
the residential,
low pine branch broken,
dangling accusation
on the march of cement.

Below the bluff house
of the forgotten Hurok
tsunami jetsam confounds
the beach.

A carbonated footprint
on the sands of time,
celebrating trees
with plastic magnets.

My mother told me
to forget poetry
and write bumper stickers.

The margin for prophets
wide as streets paved in gold.

Cha-cha-cha

The sweet spot

found the blink of an eye,

infant boy on my shoulder

a full minute longer.

My grampa cha-cha

making sleepy smiles

and training my calves for the

marathon of the next twenty years.

Its grace,

not bloodline, giving

me goosebumps

and burp duty.

I married into functionality,

fill in the blanks,

take the steps

step-fathers take.

Quick, rock back,

quick-quick-quick.

I saw my parents dance

once, in fifty years.

What they gave up for us

I want to play over and

over again, before its time

to change my diapers.

Drizzle

Satisfaction

guaranteed to miss

appointments.

The first strawberry picked

a day early,

the chorus entered twelve bars

late. Stare at the sun

you can't see behind the moon screen

of the kitchen window.

A son returns,

a grandson turns 

from a camera flash,

and the anniversary of demise

lands on the calendar again.

Only eternity

outlasts confusion.

The certain heart fills

a certain part of

the puzzle, the outlook

and the in, look like rain

before drizzle.

I put off penning,

the blank page no calmer

than this stage of our lives.

This too is perfect,

no matter the grammar.

Leopold

Life
and life making
a boy or a girl.

That moon
pulling oceans
with a head of hair.

The clock can't count
a catcher's mitt
pacing the hall.

Manger, mansion,
Momma, breast,
blanket.

The name game
riddled
and solved.

This day, pink sky
blue plums,
your place in the sun.

Grand schemes,
grand pianos,
grand baby
born.

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.

Equinoxial

What the rose knows
about saving daylight
is dismissed by the poppy.

The first to shed
a winter hull
is the only expert
in the running.

Plant politics.
Put down roots,
face the sun,
even through clouds.

Mud is so less useful to me
than them with stems,
stain my hands and shovel,
make or break the stalk life.

Bloom where you beat the other guise
to light and water,
we assigned such grace
to cutthroat chlorophyllians,

but soil or soul,
it's a battle for the seed
to spring forward.

Night Willows

Worry winds whip

the roof tiles,

pounding the dog's heart rate

a yelp above normal pulse.

Willows bend

outside my window,

storms come

and leaves blow, with an occasional branch,

down the bluff.

I won't walk out on the choppy bay

but go to the sink

for a drink to calm down.

Dehydration a very spiritual metaphor.

Midnight prayers

with morning in mind,

selling the stark dark short.

There is a root

I belong to,

fruit connected to faith,

not shadows on a wall.

Lightning

silhouettes

a trunk.

Man like arms

and hair

up raised.

Jesus slept through

worse than this, so

it must be the dog

keeping me awake.

Buoy Bell

An anchored bell

sounds noon

above a bluff of

fishermen, California seals,

and children that won't wear

wetsuits for years.

He brought me here,

this Lord of the winds, to know

the twenty steps from East Street

to West in a harbor town.

I count the boats

easier than waves;

crab traps, buoys,

mechanical foghorn

in a Mecca like song

to be stilled, and know,

the call to be a fisher

of men, comes with boots.

Road Trip

Keeping it buried

in a book

has come to mean clean,

nose to the grindstone should I slip

and forget gathering gas

to bring him home from jail.

Four hour ride to tell

we're vegetarian now,

Mama might grow her hair grey.

I'll say ,"Yes, I'm still preaching Sundays.

No one's embarrassed.

We sold the furniture,

hoping to be gone

before long."

I don't mind lifting my pen,

it's my sights that get blinded

by the windshield sun.

Cloud of Praise

God is the only One

who's heard it all before,

every whisper tone tenor

in every Georgia juke joint

joining the jumble of julip glasses

and pay day smiles,

every under the breath grunt

of the pineboard piano player

counting his honeys and black worn keys,

the vocalisms of a fronting throat singer

that may have been golden or silver in youth

but has bronzed and brassed

with the crowds applause

or indifference.

"Why's the devil got all the good music?"

is the revivalist organist's accelerando.

"Well, he don't actually," is what God says

from the back corner booth

everything that has breath hanging on His 

every word. Rackety crickets pop

outside the window, crispy flying things

fry in zapper blowing under the porch awning.

Willow leaves whistle in their own night, 

nightingales prove the point in their black eyes

is a star from the far side of a cymbal ride

that has even the lamest feet tapping.

You want glory realized?

Trace the walking bass

to the blindless place in your heart

and the all seeing skirts of the dancers

that raise up the dust we came from

in a cloud of praise.

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.

Anchor

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.

Push

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.

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.

Footnotes

Feet on the floor,

one day the cold wood

could shock the heart,

the daily miracle of knees

interrupted.

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

design.

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.

Sparrows and Lilies

There is a gold

butter envies in a sunset

backlighting

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

procession,

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.

Loaves

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.

Echo

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

processional.

As the cups are finished,

the calendar fast forwards

toward return.

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.

Common

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.

Lip

What God joined together,

a curt hurt

separated. The promise 

to have and to hold

tossed, crumpled,

by the road.

Though far out in a huff,

the proven meatball recipe called for a call,

cell phone tether

eased me back to a warm kitchen

and you, apronned, stirring

that famous red sauce,

tomato pasting our marriage.

An accosting lip is

better bit, tears

blinking to realize my stubborn steps

nearly led the eye to eye

to a storm.

 

Rib

On the day I was wrong

about everything,

far from Jesus feet

perfumed by the penitent,

I loosened my shoe

rubbing the dust of the world

from my soul.

What should've been love,

tore like a blanket,

stained coffee dark,

heart bitter.

This husband,

reduced to a mad pissing boy,

woodshedding tears,

wringing the too late truth

from a dish towel

after spoiling supper.

You don't make up for this,

the rib is missing,

apple bit.

Sit sunken in a cornered couch,

watching His wash basin

circle the upper room.

Aqua Caliente

Hot water with kale and wide noodles

is soup.

Steep comfrey leaf with raspberry

for tea.

A basin with soap bar

makes a bath.

Only by itself is hot water

considered trouble.

Walk/Don't Walk

There's new blue paint

splattered in the crosswalk.

I don't know if its representation

of where Eula Long was hit,

or if its random pigmentation.

Fifty feet of pedestrian yo-yo,

the body whistles by,

an elder loon voice

broken by inattentive steel.

I heard the story

just a week before she died.

A lithographer, Eula went

to poetry seed when blind hands

refused paper and pen.

More barbed than the bark

of Saint Burbank's roses, her crone croon 

recorded "Cats and Doggerel",

just eight years short

of a very personal

century.

Roof Drums

Painted parrots border the ceiling,

expensive rubber roof

drums under rain,

sweet smoke of pecan wood

rises and reflected flickerings

play shadow puppet on the Persian-

Iranian carpet.

Home has moved indoors

for a season,

at brightest noon maybe

a cup of tea at the covered pool,

Saturday we'll gain back that hour

that would've helped me

at the bank.

Elections, play-offs,

birthdays, pumpkins,

short calendar, long

blankets, hour by hour

the breath draws closer

to frost. We don't rub our hands

together just to pray,

but we do pray.

Porch Light

Late summer, early evening bat

picks off no-see-ums

under circling swallows,

once again humidity reminds me

what i have in common with Banderas

is sticky t-shirts and jeans.

I down a bucket of iced hibiscus

and plot pennant races,

eager beaver stars

pop between whispering clouds,

ain't nothing here to hold

til it turns blue,

everythings numbered,

even the days til the stitches

come out of my dog's eye.

The command is to be still

and know which side the Bread of Life

is buttered on. Easier to face

in the face of a breeze, cricket chorus and solo

frog adding harmony to 

folded hands and bending knee.

Porch light plays out the night,

waiting for the prodigal,

robe folded in my lap,

the weight of a ring

turning cool in my palm.

Civics

The dog days are not

a month to me, unless

it rains, I stash plastic baggies

in my civic duty pockets 

and allow two morning leashes

to pull my shoulder sockets

to the curb.

The still orange sun bedazzles

dew wet tips of fresh mowed green

as a squadron of dragonflies

hums yellow and blue beside us,

the pup following a nose

with time leaps of its own,

the matron content to trot a long,

as long as I follow protocol.

I married into this privilege

of seemly suburban postcardism,

convicted by an Irish movie script,

"if ya cain't love a dog, ya cain't love anything."

For all my choir singing and grace before meals,

it's somehow very tidy

that the depth of my heart is known

by morning romps and brushings

and fresh water in a bowl.

Hand Span

It's not good for a man

to be alone,

except at the piano.

If your right hand offend thee

add a bass note.

Strolling blues,

the envy of angels,

hand span halleluiahs

crimp demons, double octaves

chase the devil from chorus

to coda.

Exchange the time clock

for a metronome

and you're home on seven

continents.

Bars and spaces

frame the soul,

long dead Europeans

and ghetto saints

lay out the truth

on black and white

keys to the kingdom. 

If Mama made you play

thank her today,

if she didn't,

she will.

Nickels and Dimes

Certain strengths from bone

to age depart.

The grip is tenuous,

shifting the cup

from His Hands,

"Take and drink..."

Swallow pride to commune,

no pinkie promise,

this is cross your heart

and guard the changed contents,

water to wine,

beauty for ashes,

house boy to husband,

tattooed roses for thorns.

Our betraying kiss is

wiped Maybelline clean,

the rooster stilled at dawn.

Grace is the refill,

a warmer, fresh brewed,

the breakfast croissant

broken for you

and for many,

baskets of biscuits and crumbs

gathered here together, worth more

than many sparrows

and sums.

Abandoned headlines and folded news

obscure an anonymous  

spread of coins 

on coffee stained formica.

Just enough change

to call home,

collect.

Roma

Time to measure months

in pestos,

first of the season,

multi birthday batch,

lunch back home from red eye flight.

I'm bent in the garden

gleaning each leaf of the basil

we brought up from seed.

What ever might be a monk in me

comes to bear as I groom

the straw thin branches and rub

pinched flowerlets

in my palm.

Even St Francis, the cemented guardian,

smiles as Jays and Chickadees

squawk for roosting rights

to his head.

In the cool of this

is when God walked with Adam,

salt shaker in His pocket,

ripe tomatoes 

on the vine.

Sundown on the Child

Suburban patriarch

puffs up florescent inflatables

and vacuums the pool.

Kids coming,

grandkids too,

reunion for most of us,

introduction for the intendeds 

and the baby.

Graduation is the cover,

envelopes and cameras,

the youngest is now a legit

know-it-all, her siblings hover

to praise and tease and eat.

The light of our world is freed

from roll call and on parade.

We watch her wave to the grandstand

and pray she adjusts her mirrors,

top down on the Volkswagen,

sundown on the child

raised up in the Way.

Dust to Must

Undone monks grapple

torn asphalt.

Cat shriek walls fall

in cement birthday layers

of caked infants,

mothers missing in mirrors,

a teacher's hand

flower pressed to a chalk

board of promise.

Emergency coffees riffle,

winged fingers make eye bridges.

The graves got greedy,

water drowned the bare mountains,

bamboo curtains slapped against

a window to the world.

We have long lost these uncles

of surging rice cups and water.

Shelter is a bag and sticks.

Family is any pulse in a storm.

Our living room is any part of a paycheck

in  relief.

The face of a nation

is held in the heart of a neighbor,

there's no denying two denarii won't do

what's due, but duty

isn't beauty, until it's you.

From dust, to must we

lift from the mud again, orphaned

resurrection from the suction

of martyred mire. 

The swinging Hand in the bucket

brigade is pierced,

its more than necessary now, to know

we're not alone.

Municipal Portion

I sprint to adjust the lawn watering

dervish device, illegal these many drought months

and then the day before a downpour,

I catch the outermost drops

on my satisfied boots.

There's a mortgage on

each blade of grass,

a second on the fence vines.

Our shade oak of righteousness

drinks in its municipal portion,

careful to stretch toward God

in a wireless sky.

The younger maple is spitting

a worrisome leaf curl,

the years old hurricane break

nearly exposed. Easy to see

not yet competing canopies

will make a front yard marriage

of trees, proud Papa, ever ready

at the rake.

Comes with Thorns

The vase is a pulpit

of the backyard rose,

snipped in prime

for appreciative sniffing

of the decorative predator.

Is it any wonder

it comes with thorns ?

The Lincoln, Stewart, American

Beauty burst to fragrance

of fresh torn black cherry

Jello pack.

We name ours after favorite

Red Sox Outfielder Coco Crisp

and bear the pollen stuffed nose

and sneeze as dues

of cultivation.

The storeboughts cause cancer

in Ecuador, pesticide runoff

suffocating fish.

The ugly cost of beauty

marring Mother's Day profits.

Long stems in the arms

of champions and queens,

we made this bed of

short sighted petals,

parading a legacy

of skin spotted

leaves.

Up Against the Call

"Our Father who..."

That's okay for you,

do you know who you're

talking to ?

Let's not quibble

about a man in the middle,

I am the me in

familia 

stiff neck hammer head

up against the Call.

Confess the mess. 

If it ain't broke

I'm not using it right,

talking 'bout my heart

it's supposed to be contrite.

Everything He's done for me

I'm taking it in stride,

little lower than the angels

but swelling up with pride.

Would I give a drink of water

to the least of these,

someone's son or daughter

could I heal their disease ?

O MY GOD

do you care about that ?

O MY GOD

don't scare me like that !

What's designed to connect us

been so blind it dissects us,

we all pretend we'd stand up to a tank

it's only on our knees

we have Someone to thank,

-the original Apostles took it to the bank

-but before the Holy Ghost 

-they're kissing up for rank.

He's the Big Brother man,

the care for each other Lamb,

look to the Lion and

join the race He won and ran.

Unchain the attitude,

show your wife some gratitude,

spare your kids the platitude.

A family's more than photos

ribboned in a box,

there's a key in the Blood we share

pouring through the locks.

Walk this mile in the sandals

we're unworthy to unlatch.

Remember He's the Fisherman

we're the daily catch.

"His Name art in Heaven"

hallowed,

is the game.

Due West

The geese don't know

they're Canadian,

tracking due west over

new growth red tip,

pollen spitting long leaf

and the waterway

of Echo Farm Golf Course.

I've got coffee brewed

for my eldest, who seeks

a wife today.

His Chevy half ton trekking

due west to Atlanta,

tracking a computer connection

from a Kenyan lady.

His alarm is

double past snooze,

the spaniel knows somethings up

even if he isn't yet.

It's first light now,

if this is a promise prepared,

we pray for sure election.

On the road to start a family,

Abraham, Joseph,

there's been some travellin' done.

I hear a zipper

close the duffel bag,

this time it's my

son.

San Quentin

Thieves come against locks

on windows, locks on doors.

Your heart can't be stolen

when you give it away.

If your hand be extended,

an inmate befriended,

the crime of isolation

caves in.

At the bars or behind 'em,

lonely is where you find 'em,

the trouble on their faces

is a sin.

We pretend we can't be busted,

convince ourselves we're trusted, but

it's only by His Grace

they let us in.

His Light is not to blind them,

your smile never random,

start by trading places

from within.

Catechism Coins II

The view of the Garden,

from God's windowsill,

has rows of hearts

unhardened,

blossoms of His Will.

Catechism Coins I

Our worship is imperfect

yet He translates it to song.

The treasure trembling in our voices

has been His Kingdom

all along.

Sling Song

The fall of a giant

is just a stone's throw away.

It's not the skill of the wind up

when you let go and let God,

the purpose of heaven,

rides on your arm

to the degree you ride

your knees.

A prayer is both weapon

and shield,

rising like incense

with a megaton yield.

Even a mocker

in his midnight of days,

will cross his heart

and hope to die

forgiven.

It's that simple

and more than the simple

apply.

Clear your throat

and your conscience,

sing the song of a boy with a sling.

Hurl your heart,

hard and high,

'til it lands

in His Hands.

Jamaica Jif

Dawn breaks a robin shell sky,

Achai fruit too high for stones,

twitters, warbles, flute loose

bag of feathered marble notes,

hard shelled insects

stitching the air, 

'til heat

stills all but mango leaves.

Bougainvillea climbs clouds above

hibiscus hide a bus stop,

azuring sea, 

turquoise tin shack,

rolled lavender currency,

hot plate cappuccino, 

sweet Betty cream

dissolves a sugar block.

Perfumed patio, Patois patter

moving forward on the left,

bare feet, bear the weight on the Rock.

Swaying cane sign say,

"Walk good, keep fatalities low."

Hummingbirds and orchids twine

in salute of tangerine nectar.

Missionary Sweets

Dust red eyes

huddle in charcoal smoke

under a Jacaranda tree.

Our matatu taxi

has already passed this glow,

and now another,

blackened corn and bananas

grilled with plastic ash.

We bump and slow, 

candy tossed like doves in the air

above good toothless soil.

The street boys clamor,

soap and tea to follow,

the heart built bridge

of international impact,

is brightly wrapped

and sugared.

"Suffer the little children",

we didn't know then

what we need to know now.

Bright as a lion, a single smile

fills our open window,

no longer Fatherless,

the future gains a Name.

 

Suitcase Suite

As you spread a sun song

across the island,

my arm curls your pillow.

I recite my evening prayers

and photographs of our future,

fall one at a time

from the corners of the sky.

Angels, on the ready,

list to the side of the window box, 

pacing myself, I lay out clothes

for a run to the airport.

Clock set,

the day that brings us together,

has already spent

its midnight.

With dawn, your ocean,

still warm in memory,

will wade to me forever,

and, softened to you,

I'll cast off the shell

that kept me

from the beach.

Beretta

I turn to see you rising

with the sun,

the number of days these hands

didn't touch you, are a rail of dust

between drawn blinds.

Slowly, caffeine and the Holy Ghost

bring my bones back

to the dance.

I remember a drum means

move this arm, the swinging hip,

once a signature,

begs for mercy.

There's yet a kiss here

and a doo-wop fit to turn tables.

Are you barefoot my Beretta ?

Maestro, 

rejoin our jukebox marriage.

Drop the moon like a quarter

and push my G7.

It's only hours 'til Friday night

and I've got nothing on you,

that breath

won't take away.

Promenade

In the alley, we raised

arms to flight,

matching the kiss we threw

through windows of skirts

and police search lights.

Outside the theatre,

the music, late from switching cars,

put strings on a drum

and hung horns from the balcony,

where I proposed.

You asked what my hands knew

when you bit me;

why my heart stood guard,

where are the ribbons

that held our hips 'til morning,

how is a rainbow going to press

between pages of chocolate ?

We've rehearsed this promenade,

and now to the moon.

No fanfare,  just the bride

a down beat

and groom.

When a man, meaning me,

loves a woman, meaning you,

he leaves her his skin

and walks raw in the world,

gathering bits of halo

to make a home.

What returns to him,

brighter than frosted breath,

is the purpose of sun on roses,

an altar of stars

in bloom.

Worthy Gloves

The brown boots of the man

who lives here

fill the garden gate

with promise.

I'll stand firm as a fern

and flower, make hay

in the blaze of morning glory,

temper the loam

in raised beds.

What becomes a man the most

is the woman he becomes a man for,

every shovel turned and tapped.

Snake coil hose

asleep in nasturtium,

scamper cat, chickadee twitter,

half canvas half leather,

worthy gloves slide along

the long wood handle, as chores

bend toward the Lord's sunset.

The hands inside the gloves,

the feet inside the boots

await our evening's pairing.

Left to left, right

to righteous,

drizzling sweat begins to dazzle

as the dance of jeans and cotton shoulders

becomes a wish

at the end of a candle.

Hummingbird Stop

Our red gladiolas

grow so close to the letterbox

they flag the mail carrier

to a hummingbird stop.

A stamp on the day,

postcard smile of a nephew

reading the box scores,

maybe mama needs news

of wrens loose in the kitchen.

Its all normal, Norman,

we pour five cent lemonade in 

forever cups and watch

the neighbors cinch lawn clippings

in neat nylon.

Not a shot fired,

not a screen door slammed,

sometimes, thank Jesus, the boogie man

just dances to the bass.

Pocket Full of Worms

In Carolina we cut berries

thick as nickels,

makes more noise than

an apple plopping in a bowl.

I can't say breakfast

will last 'til lunch,

but a cup of coffee seems 

to roll like Scripture

from a preacher's tongue.

I'm settling in to some Southren ways,

I can whistle up a mockingbird

and I know if you oil boil

a pampano fish,

it'll swell up like a poison dog.

The heart warms quicker than bones,

root beer floating beneath the flag

in a white rocker just because it's sunny,

and that bit about the morning

ain't no lie.

In fact a dawn bloom magnolia

make you feel as home as a robin

with a pocket full of worms,

and then one Saturday,

you're up hand mowing the lawn,

as if you always cared.

Janitor

A servant's heart

doesn't beat his chest,

hand towel and soapy water

bringing light to the eyes

of the weary,

bended knee pouring grace

over the feet of the wounded

and war torn.

Mopping up the sweat of the world,

every janitor on the planet

knows something of that.

Nobody looking when you change

the water to water

and keep wiping tears.

Picking up after the children of God.

It's child's play. Tag.

You're it. No

tag's back.

Taking a Turn

EMS vehicles screaming by my

window,

somebody's sunny day

taking a turn.

Angels with oxygen 

run up steps

check for vital signs...

ear to wisdom,

diligent hands,

a lamp onto thy feet...

My kitchen prayer shifts from chili

and crackers to the fate of a neighbor.

Background sirens just background

'til its our street,

'til its blood and breath,

life or death.

We trust the sterile gloves

to handle us, busy drivers

to pull aside, hospital doors,

shiny floors,

the technical, the medical...

Wheel the gurney into the new wing,

Intensive Prayer Unit,

the heart monitor reads two

or more gathered together,

mercy is a pulsing green line.

Flint

We've seen a little pain,

yellow McDonald's wrappers

more numerous than fish,

a missing row of crosses

aside the camouflaged road.

His Face set as flint

toward a new Jerusalem,

unarmoured innocents

slaughtered behind polling booth curtains.

The crusade's a broken record

written in a half language

shy of troublesome vowels.

A cup of water to the least of these

a silent, hidden page,

awaiting ink.

I tried tattooing scriptures

on my arms, but its the registered

heart that tells.

A pen is only mightier

than the sword

if you can read.

Short a Bloom

The March cardinal

keeps watch atop a budding pear.

Trill sergeant red above

the echoing trash men's

morning rounds.

Springer spaniel needs brushing,

loose matts of liver brown curl

scattered in the trees

for sparrow nests.

The tulip momento

of my Pastor's daughter's funeral

pushes through mud,

the yellow ones

we bought at market may blossom

sooner, but they won't match

the smile of her memorial

photograph.

A man of the cloth

cut no different from the rest.

This spring will gain a flower

but be short a bloom.

Lap of the Lord

I lay my head

in the lap of the Lord.

The wrinkled clay of my brow

smoothed by His thumb.

In my hair His breeze

is a blue blanket to my soul,

His sunlight warm silk 

to my face.

The weight of my worries

gives way to prayer.

The problems of my bones

absolve in song. The bricks

around my heart become berries

to spread on toast.

All the sins of my tongue,

every boast, insult, and lie

melt into broth and butter.

As I lay my head in the lap of the Lord,

my eyes trace the Hand that moves the stars,

my ears echo with a brook voice

breaking over stones, even my toes

are glad in clover.

Let me vow to walk every corner I've cut

again, heel to toe,

straight and narrow.

Raise in me, dear God,

the artistry to repaint

every wall I've beat my head

against.

I'm hungry now for the soup

I cried in. Let me blow

on the spoon of grace You give us,

bow my head

and dip my bread.

Amen.

Marbles

You can mumble

into marbles,

grumble over peas,

stumble from your tiptoes

while you fumble for your keys,

tumble like a gymnast or

bumble like the bees,

as long as you are humble

you're heard.

Even if your tummy rumbles

He answers prayer.

When Color Goes Missing

The light of longest day

occurs in June,

when color goes missing

we call it night.

Dip our brush

in depths scooped out of us.

There's more room for wind.

Bible says we're clay,

we'll hold water 'til we break.

Drop the phone.

Let it echo in the canyon

eroding through us.

When my mom died

I started smoking Camels

on her grave.

When I heard about yours,

I quit.

Color to Cloth

Recycled wool splits the eye

of the hooking needle

to be plied into dragon rugs,

yellow scales rescued

from forgotten mittens.

The Spirit of the Lamb

spins the wheel

that brought these fibers

to my mother's hands.

Long coats of depression and

pants legs of sub-zero temperatures

find themselves in rose bush

or sea gull wing.

Bankers hang her carousel carpets

between sweeping surveillance cameras,

Turkish blue talismans soar

above Hopi sand snakes.

Taking the task of color to cloth

she'd soak and steam

a single sock to strain

strands of charcoal shade.

Investigating the promise of flight

these woven shreds afford,

I sit on my rug from Ma,

consecrating the umbilical skein

of heirlooms.