Tag: creation

Cosmic Cake

January 12th, 2026

Walk into my house with

Your muddy shoes and you will find

My muddy feet.

I came upon a cake

From out my wooded walk

A Cosmic Cake in a muted green field

My path now lightened

No longer heavy under foot.

Like any cake it drew me

My feet now easy to lift

Danced a meadow dance

As sheep in the pasture ran away

Ran away with the clouds.

Time is short and the days are long

And the nights are even longer.

And a trio of dainty birds —

Songs flying from their mouths

In exquisite sound welcomed me

Led me to the cake.

One bird came close enough to kiss me

Sang sweet the sweetest song.

What I could never see

Became so very clear to me.

Circling round the cake

The feathery spirits left me dizzily

Staring at the cake —

Presented on a pedestal

Layered brown and white

Chocolate and fine vanilla

Appointed simply with berries.

Lean forward walking up the stairs

Lean back when walking down.

Keep your mind below your feet

Keep seeing what you’ve found.

Where is the baker?

There must be a baker

Evidenced by all he makes

Earth wheat crushed into Cosmic Cake

Floured with our tomorrows.

We wish for There

When Here must end.

We eat our cake

And begin again.

Just a taste is all we get

Fleeting glace from the Baker’s eyes

Promised place beyond the skies

Where freedom duly finds its fate

For those who do not hesitate.

I wet my fingers — dry and aged —

And cannot seem to turn the page.
Shadow Me

January 9th, 2026

My shadow is not me

But it might as well be.

My very first childhood friend

Never left me alone.

When I looked down

I saw we had the same feet.

I would kick and he kicked

Dance and he danced.

At night he got under the covers with me

And died in the dark.

My shadow is me, ever me, always me.

Even when he became detached from me

Running away as I ran away

I treated him as an outsider

He stayed outside.

I turned the light on in the morning

And only saw my feet.

My shadow is me and not me.

Part known — part never to be known.

Behind the bars

On the other side the street.

Beyond my bones

Strangers we two will meet

Never again to be alone

When sun stops and light is all —

Then I will know . . . I will know.
Living with a Dead Man

January 1st, 2026

We fell and knew

            we wanted to.

Flowers left by the alter,

Dried and clenched,

Dusty brown, spotted black,

            Rustle and whisper,

Shamefully carried out.

Sounds of dirt clods,

Tears drying,

Footsteps hurrying to cars.

            The living separate,

Promise to return.

He was living a lie

            And so was I.

The heel of the undertaker

Makes no sound

Walking in soft shoes.

            When he leaves,

He never walks away loved.

I was a has-been holding on

            To a never-been.

Born in winter,

We braved the cold.

Taken home

            In tight, thick blankets,

Ours is the light most sought.

When it rises — we will rise —

Dying for tomorrow’s kiss.
Song of Zebedee

June 23rd, 2025

“I’ve Got a Business to Run Here!”

Pounding on the teacher’s door

Zebedee thundered and cried

Stomping his foot on the courtyard floor

Hopping mad and fit to be tied.

“Jesus! Jesus! Come out of there!

I’m losing my mind; I’m pulling my hair!

Don’t you know, I’ve a business to run!

How will I survive without my two sons!

They’re not coming back, I know, I’ve been told;

I’m not getting younger, I’m grey and I’m old!”

Jesus answered Zebedee — “Do not fear. 

Peace be with you. The Kingdom is near.

James and John are needed by me.

You have other men to fish in the sea.

No longer fishermen, your sons follow me,

Spreading my message throughout Galilee.

From Sons of Thunder to eternal fame,

Known forever because of my name.”

There was so much love in the master’s eyes,

Anger drained from Zebedee’s face —

There was nothing more he could do or say,

They could never, ever be . . . replaced.

Jesus then prayed as he walked away

This prayer for Zebedee:

“Father, I have a request tonight

For this man who fishes the sea.

You now have something in common with him;

He gave his sons — you have given up me.

Bless him in his grief I pray;

Let him know his loss as gain.

As his sons go out as disciples of mine

Grant him comfort in his fatherly pain.”

The Father answered his obedient son

“I will do as you say; it will be done — but

When you see him again, please tell him for me:

‘Zebedee, I too . . . have a business to run’.”
We Live In A Poem

June 23rd, 2025

A cardinal outside my kitchen window

Cracks seeds and drops the hulls.

A yard squirrel twirls an acorn in deft hands

Far enough away from me to be

Unafraid —

A cat laps water, then cleans its whiskers

With a moist paw wet by a pink tongue.

A dog slops water outside its bowl,

Takes water down his throat not caring who

Sees —

A once grand tree lays broken on the hard ground,

Given to the laws of gravity and decay.

Its dead boughs spread in outstretched arms

As the proud wood returns to

Earth —

A blanket of heat lifts slowly sunward,

Meets a steady downfall of cool air,

Makes a new wind darting here and there.

We know how but never know

Why —

An unborn child kept by its mother’s blood,

Owns nothing save its soul.

Silently it waits for breath to come,

Like all of us living not knowing our

End —
Meaning in the Made

June 23rd, 2025

There is nothing more insular

Than a walk in Nature

Oblivious to Creation.

Simple walk . . . field and trees,

            Sweat on skin,

Pleasing breeze,

            Sun a fiery mass,

Randomly hung,

            Bee in need of flower,

            Flower needfully in wait.

Only one creature knows

A need beyond,

Past all Nature holds or shows,

            Given by giving Will —

Our emptiness fronts us,

            Longing for Fill —

Vast, magnetic grand Creation

Invites a hopeful, glad surrender.

We become the bee obedient,

Joyful need only flowers know,

Nature turns, when we turn —

            Made in awe of Maker.
We Poets

September 9th, 2024

Somethings begins and something ends

When two poets become friends.

When neither exists

Completely without the other . . .

When each time they meet

They cast only one shadow . . .

When two poets become friends

Something begins and something ends.
First and Foremost

July 12th, 2024

(Saint Ignatius’ Principal and Foundation of the Spiritual Exercises — a contemporary translation)

FIRST and MOST

All that matters in this life

Is that you know

You are a creature

Created by the Creator —

And all of creation is here

To help you know

How much God loves you

And wants you to know it —

For certain.

Then when you begin to know

What it is like to love others

Like God loves you —

That is all and everything

There is to know.

And so —

What does it matter if you

Are poor or rich,

Sick or well,

Downtrodden or lifted above,

Humiliated or praised,

Honored or rejected?

It doesn’t.

Not anymore.

God is the More

You’ve been looking for.

Saved by love . . . for love . . .

Our purpose secure.
Out of the Garden

March 20th, 2024

How long

Could Adam and Eve

Live in someone else’s garden?

            After all —

They did not plant it;

It did not need them.

It was perpetually

            Obedient to its Creator —

With nothing to claim,

Not even clothes,

No power for personal gain —

            It seems they just

Could not bear

All that Beauty

And loving Bliss —

            It seems they just

Could not resist

The serpent’s lure

To Power over Peace;

            The human need

To call one thing a Flower

And one thing a Weed.
Into the Meadow

March 18th, 2024

In a meadow there are no weeds;

All is just as it should be —

With curious variations of

             stature and hue.

Look it all over,

See it all at once . . .

             It is Beauty.

Step into it,

Walk through it.

Certain flowers catch . . .

hold you . . . slow you . . .

             To stroll through

Gold, or red, or blue petals,

Waving stamens —

The pistil in the middle,

A glimpse of

             the miracle.

Every flower is

A good father and mother

when a bee does its

Dusty reproductive

             shuffle.

And even

The prickly influence

Or defensive scents

Serve the whole

             By seasoning the mix.

And looking back you

Know the grand comingle

Needs no call to weed —

            At all.
The Law of the Lawn

March 17th, 2024

I see you —

A spot of putrid yellow in

my glorious sea

            Of green!

You have crossed my border

Rebellious lawless

Dandelion,

I’ll call you what you are —

            WEED!

You are the outcome of bad intent,

Flying in uninvited

On the wind

Over my fence

            Through my defense —

Emboldened by

Your natural desire

To live wherever you will —

Consider yourself warned!

I am feeling pesticidal!

            Your kind

Is most unwelcome

And unceremoniously extinguished

In this part of town.

You see —

You are not just a plant

Out of place,

            You are a stain,

A color pock

On the immaculate face

Of our block, our city

Our nation, our world!

Remember this —

            My lawn is

My reflective pool,

And I will not allow what I am

To be disgraced

By the likes of you.

            The call is mine!
Fallen Beauty

October 31st, 2023

Photo by Jose Urguiaga

All is falling all around

Everyone sees everywhere

Paint strokes on the ground

Placed so perfectly, it seems.

Who did it?

Who could do it?

Brushed on a canvass floor

By wind in swirling fit

No one on earth

Creates like this.

The genius behind, beyond

Causes us to wonder briefly

Then too soon is gone

Left for us to walk on

And we walk on . . .
Someday Wings

October 3rd, 2023

Little yellow caterpillar

Following a silent drumming

Something sure is coming

Moving you securely by instinct

No worries ever to think

No purpose now to work

No duty given to shirk

I do envy you very oddly

At the same time godly

Glad not only doomed to die

Like you a set of wings to fly

Blessed and graced and finally

Blinded for a time until we see.

Little yellow caterpillar

From here to there

We inch, worming, groping

You not knowing, me hoping

Creation will win over our nature

Our unbound butterfly future

Yours promised, mine won.
Feelers

September 29th, 2023

“Hey, up there. Hello?

Can I have your attention?

I’m coming from the other side:

The side of life you are a part of

Yet so far apart from.

I sense reality as it is —

Without those messy questions

Your intellect poses,

Those limiting “supposes”

Always purporting

as if you knew.

Guess what?

You don’t know.

I was created and never question it.

You question whether

You were created

Or just happen to be

A scientific spasm

Randomly spurted out

Like a mushroom from

A rotted log . . . or

If you happen to be graced,

The creator touches you

With a soulful search.

Then “why” and wonder

Becomes your nature,

Restless wandering your fate.

Silly humans or

Sacred beings,

Never quite believing bodies,

Or finally saved souls.

I’ll take my feelers over yours

Every time.

My peace never incomplete . . .

Yours forever dependent,

Mysteriously flailing and fragile,

Questioning to the end.

That’s it. Isn’t it?

Goodbye.”
No Cares

September 5th, 2023

It must me nice eating here

Top step, my front porch

Not back yard

Where you belong.

Cracking my acorns

Eating your fill leisurely

As if you reserved a table.

Who knows?

I never see you dining

Maybe you alone

Maybe in a party

I wish I knew.

I was annoyed

Brooming away the leftovers

Finding it considered a service

With no tip.

Oh well,

You don’t care about me

One bit and why should you?

The dark season is coming.

All summer is just a waiting

For fall to drop the acorns

Hunger a season away

Never mind.

Today is a good warm day

Getting shorter

Enjoyably long enough

A table with a view

Plenty of present nuts

And me to sweep

Cares of tomorrow

Into yesterday.
Touched

September 1st, 2023

In a coffee shop where people go between their homes and puppet shows, I found myself one typical day in a faraway land as a castaway. At an island table in a cramped human sea, surrounded by strangers so strange to me. Between a sense of shore and expanse, I erased the horizon and welcomed the trance.

Sailing away in a newfound lane, passing over the pious profane, across a cold dessert, past crippled trees, running from something in search of release.

Then something besides the something I feared, caught me up and a feeling appeared. There above my vain contradictions, it lifted me out of my dark inner fiction.

Like a child born to a painless birth, like a gentle whisper wrapped round the earth, warm blood flowed and flooded my veins, rays of light breathed through closed windowpanes. I could not step forward, I could not sit down, I was planted in place ecstatically bound.

An invisible clock drew me into its gears, time was a waterfall and minutes were tears. It shifted my ground to a realm beyond space, where no pain or suffering could ever take place. Then my outdated body recaptured its youth, and I wondered if this was a lie or the truth.

In that passing moment and once it had passed, I was freed from a need to know at long last. My eyes were my own, I was no longer blind, my vison now cleared by an untroubled mind.

Is there a heaven, some paradise then? A God who is willing to so condescend?

If all that I get is this taste, that’s enough, for what I have left while I’m left here on earth.
There There

April 21st, 2023

The concrete clouds of doubt give way.

I don’t know

About you

But I think I do . . .

You do not like

The clouds so much

As when the sun shines through.

Still the sun

Some days demurs

As clouds surely come

Cover it in passing

Blunt its hopeful sum.

When deftly do

The shadows fall

Impede and dark the light

Pull shade on hopeful heart,

Strain out no matter might.

We stare

For we suspect

The sun is surely there

Behind the roiling storm

We live within its care.

Yet we fail

As come the clouds

To see beyond the feign

Impenetrable doubt prevails

No hope, no light, no rain.

We look down

We stumble

Forget how sure the sun

Drawn to clods of earth

More certain than the one . . .

Who

Made the sun

The way way beyond

Serenity in uncertainty

Our way already won.
Cotton Fields and Cars

March 29th, 2023

When he stopped speaking

No one spoke

Silence surrounded us

Like cotton seeds in cotton bolls

            Here in a sunny white field.

The birded lies of misery

Swooped hungrily

With sharp black beaks

Tried to pluck the delicious

            Hard seeds of truth.

Then the sound

Of an unseen car

Swept by from the street

Left to right

            Through the open window.

I sat and leaned back

In a church with 10 men

In a 12 Step Meeting,

Feeling the silence

            Healing the whole room . . .

As the speeding car took

Every lonely soul along for a ride

To a place where the powerful

            Go to die

                        And the powerless

                        Go home in peace.
Joy in the Forest

March 25th, 2023

Just off the forest path

A hardwood tree

Cut and felled

By someone like me.

Turned into a stump

Softens and rots —

What once was

Now is not.

Cracked open by a seed

Determined to dig its way

Into what is left

A seedling breaks out

From the old stump top

Climbing up the light shaft

Blinking in the sun patch

Freed by the fallen.

We see what it is like

All too true it seems

Feeding off the forest floor

Our parents’ dying dreams.

Crying as we pass by

“Look at my life, my show!”

Too busy living ever to know

The joy we owe.
First Thoughts

March 12th, 2023

“Hmmm . . . I just realized I have a choice. What if I make the wrong one? Hey, what was that sound? Did I just burp? I think I did. I’m ‘aware’! Where did that come from? Am I evolving? Maybe I am. I am. I am! Yes! I exist and I know I do! Now what? Ahh, that ‘choice’ thing. Decisions, decisions. What do I do? Am I human? I must be. This is what it must have been like for Adam. Maybe I am Adam. Ha! Maybe I’m the explanation of what happened when instinct jumped into consciousness. Whoa . . . That’s a big thought. Maybe it’s true. Maybe? I’ve never experienced ‘maybe’ before. ‘Maybe’ and ‘mystery’. Are they one in the same? I used to be so sure. Now everything seems like a mystery. Maybe that’s it. Instinct is certainty. Consciousness is uncertainty. Enough! Enough! I can’t take much more of this. That muscle in my skull is starting to hurt. Let’s get practical here. Do I have to wear clothes? Wait another minute. I’m naked! That’s all part of it. Now I do feel like Adam. Shame is not a monkey thing. It’s unnatural! So anyway, what to wear? I’m picturing jeans and a white T-shirt. Maybe roll the cuffs on the pants, white socks, black penny loafers — kind of a James Dean look? Yeah, classic. I wonder, will I need a car? No, I want a motorcycle. I’m the type, don’t you think? And I can’t imagine I’ll be living in a tree much longer. Can you? It’s not dignified. A place with a pool sounds good. Yeah, on a safe little cull-de sac where I could settle down and start a family. Backyard. Barbecue grill. Fire pit. Fire? That’s a big responsibility. What about a lawn mower? Tools? A tool shed, Maybe a club house where the guys can come over and drink beer and watch the game. Do you think the wife will let me? The wife . . . mmm . . . Opportunity or problem? Love or obligation? I’m not sure about this marriage thing. It may be an infringement on my freedom. Unless fidelity becomes a virtue with real worth. Should I be thinking about moral values? Who cares! Now that’s real freedom. Who cares and so what! Freedom from marriage is freedom indeed. No marriage, no adultery. Jean-Jacques Rousseau would be proud of me. Where did that come from? Me? Only me? This popping in of thoughts is worth looking at. Do I exist because I think, or do I think because I exist? Hey, I don’t have time for Descartes, I need clothes. Alright, I’ll admit it. I need a way to judge my thoughts, manage them, place some value on them as they come and go. Philosophy? Psychology? Theology? Which one? Maybe I should just start with the Bible. Figure out who created all this. Then I’ll have something to reject when I get to to college. College! I don’t even have a good pair of underpants! And I’m hungry. I never gave it a thought before, I just ate. Now what? Bananas? Nuts? I don’t feel like picking lice and eating them. Somehow that’s beneath me now. A hot dog! Yeah! With everything, everything but relish. How about a wiener roast? Yes! That sounds like fun. I’ve wanted to make a fire forever. I don’t know how, but I’ll figure it out. I’ll figure everything out! But first things first. I need to set priorities. Food without fire, something attainable. But how to get it? These trees look pretty empty around here. Over there, way over there I see some monkey kids picking things and eating them. I wonder if they would share? There’s a concept for you. And what if they don’t want to. I’m bigger, I’ll take what I want. Is that right? Right and Wrong. Oh boy, I’m not sure I’m ready for morality. Gorillas rule in my world. Might over Right. The “will to power” is jungle law. Nietzsche took credit for that, but he stole it from us. Which brings up a nice idea. I could just figure out some way to steal the monkey kid’s food. Maybe pick up a club and hit ‘em on the head. That’s an idea I can steal! Oh no, suddenly I don’t feel right about that. I guess I do have a conscience after all. I wonder if Nietzsche had one? Speculation. That’s all part of this consciousness thing too. Which philosopher got it right? Which religion? Which political party? What is Truth? Pilate asked that and it was standing right there in front of him and he killed it. Truth. The truth that sets you free. Whew! What do I believe about that? Free will. Free thought. I don’t feel very free right now. Shhh. Quiet. Here comes those kids with some bananas. I gotta find a club.
W H O ?

March 1st, 2023

what comes upon me frightens me so much I run away

and thrills me while it chases me; leaves when I beg it stay.

who wrote that?

I remember doing it
but now it seems at odds,
a face without a name
staring at me staring at it.

if I say it only came from me then
I am alone denying the is of other.

then nothing else matters — only me and mine.

if I say it came from me and not me, I am not alone admitting the is of other.

then something else matters — not just me and mine.

who? from where? from what? by self? by chance?
I ask; it will not say for sure; it grabs my hand to dance —

it goes to all I am

a body prone to pleasure mid suffering and pain,
a thinker where my thoughts alone will never fully reign,
a feeler where feelings need not say all I need to know,
an actor where each action does not say the me I show,
a creature where what I am is absolutely there for all to see
ever and always becoming exactly how my other sets me free.

who wrote that?

a force I can not fully tame,
a face without familiar name,
strangely always wants to be

now and never only me.
I Found my Pronoun!

February 20th, 2023

Pronouns were once given

Originally at birth,

Then with ultrasounds,

Noted by colors:

            Pink or blue.

“It’s a boy!” It’s a girl!

Excitement created by

Obvious identification

Is now, I discovered,

            Deemed presumptuous.

Fact is replaced by feeling.

Children once told

            Now get to tell.

Gender reveal parties

Are selfish.

Parents irrelevant.

            Pronoun police rule.

Students are expected,

Sometimes required to ask:

            “What pronoun would you

            Like me to use?”

He/she/they/them?

Variations are multiplying —

            More every minute.

Inside where identity is formed.

Subjectivity is personified —

            “Don’t tell me, I’ll tell you!”

DNA, science, visual evidence,

Egg or sperm producer —

All nonsense.

Doesn’t mean a thing.

Only what a person feels like,

            Or identifies with —

“I’m a boy!” I’m a girl!

“I’m neither!” “I’m both!”

“I’m fluid!” “I’m layers!”

“I’m anything! I’m nothing!”

What fun, don’t you think?

As for me,

No one asked me

But that’s okay,

So be it, I’m all for it,

            I’ll play along.

In fact, I can’t wait —

The truth is for me . . .

            (Drum roll)

Refer to me, please,

            As It!

Yes, I found my pronoun —

My proud pronoun.

            It transcends sex

            It is beyond gender,

Appearance, or apparatus.

            It is all

Minerals, molecules, and such,

Neurons and synapses —

Mixed with blood and guts.

Trans-humanity!

Upside-down reality!

            In the end

So final and finally me

Pursuing life so happily,

Settled so materialistically.

Thank you, pronoun police!

Without you I would never know

How It could be —

            Gleefully,

                        Living all for me.

                                    I’M IT!
What Gives

February 13th, 2023

What do we have that we have not been given?

All the Giver does is give.

All we do is take to make

All creation for our sake

As our errant Will reshapes us

Into fake clouds of pride

We hide

Safely locking Hearts in

Stone cavities,

Grave memories,

False certainties,

Lost in a role —

Counterfeit until we know

Self must die and so our sins —

When we give up

Grace wins.
The More I Want

February 11th, 2023

When I was a child

I always wanted More.

Naturally.

Give me a sweet, I asked for two.

Inevitably.

Always one more . . . or

As much as I could get.

Like politicians taking bribes,

Gamblers with a win,

A lover being kissed,

Sinners willing sin,

Like me still too many times

Just a stretched arm and a hand.

And then there are times like this,

When what keeps the sun lit,

Clouds rain-ready,

Each breath breathing,

Stops my reach and reaches me,

Teaches me

The More I so desperately want

Is the Love behind it all —

Can you believe it?
Creatures in the Moment

February 5th, 2023

Something?

what thing?

crawling, trespassing —

            insect on my arm

disturbing

insignificantly

yet distracting still

from my golden time,

            my sun

me in my

black folding chair

chasing after a feeling —

serenity — as if God

            owed me some.

It crawled, stopped

inky black eyes

caught my eyes

as I examined it

            it examined me.

This strange bug was not a thug,

small, somewhat sporty,

black stripes, tan body,

delicate wings translucent,

            our eyes stayed locked,

it began to walk,

I nudged him ever so gently,

he stood his ground.

I didn’t like that, decided

            to blow him away.

My soft ‘whooooosh’…

blew his wings up

fluttering without lift

he stuck, stayed . . .

            stubborn.

My next wind more severe —

he weathered it

like a bent palm, or

            a strong craft at sea.

Suddenly, I felt godly

against his insolence —

who was he to wreck

my sought serenity?

Impatiently I pushed him

            rudely from my arm

turned back to

my day, my book, my sun —

saw him suspended

face in my face

blurred wings

            like hummingbird’s

his black speck eyes

looked large, right into mine

not angry

certainly defiant

            challenging.

Slightly shaken . . .taken . . .

wanting to capture him

turned for my camera

and he was gone.

And I thought I heard him laughing

and I smiled and nearly cried —

as I realized I was alone again

            the moment slowly died
g r o w t h

February 2nd, 2023

seeded in darkness

shoots erupt

color and motion

reaching out ever up
h o r i z o n

February 2nd, 2023

earth and sky

wishes and dreams

between how it is

and how it seems
Virus Versus Us

February 1st, 2023

Invisibly you came

in people and the air,

         came out of nowhere,

first there, then here, then everywhere.

Separated by six feet,

disconnecting older from younger,

         teachers from students,

loved ones kept from loving

         only by afar—

virus, how you frustrate us.

Who can be trusted?

when you sicken

         inside or outside a mask,

when distancing and testing

         does not stop, only slows —

your life among us.

We may share the same risky air,

our life competing with yours,

         but as you feed and grow,

know that we know,

         you will never have a vaccine —

against us . . .

         virus, we are your virus!
F O R E V E R

January 29th, 2023

Silent lake

spoke surprisingly

as the quick breeze

rose sharply

a lap lap lap . . .

measured against

the absolute still

like unconstrained will

letting me know I will ever only be

a guest —

for no one owns the wind or water,

sound or time

. . . and yet

this moment

now written

is owned.
Fall Trees on Touhy Avenue

January 18th, 2023



            On my way

Not to any of the big box stores, or

To the many fast-food stops . . .

            To my grandson’s soccer game,

            When across the street from

The closed and for rent

American Fur Mart,

Twenty, or so, swaying Ginkgo trees

Reached out and held

            Inside of me, suddenly

            A clenched yearning.

The dance line of Ginkgoes,

Ballerinas staged beautifully,

Lifted to the sky thousands and

            Thousands more, millions

            Of tiny sunlit yellow flags,

Bowing to an unseen wind of will,

Dancing in the air along the avenue,

Just for me, so it seemed,

Enfolding me,

            Taking away

            All power of singularity.

I so wanted to stop,

To get out, cross over and stay,

To hold on for as long as I might,

            Keeping time as mine,

            A tree among the trees.

Then it left and I was left with

Knowing I was meant to be

Back driving on Touhy in traffic

A joy behind and one ahead —

            Two games I never want

            To miss.
Do You Hear the Singing?

January 16th, 2023

Do you hear the singing?

It is a prayerful song.

It sings to give you happiness,

A knowing you belong.

And under it a cursing voice

(It sings a different song.)

It comes to bring you grave distress;

It whispers, “All is wrong.”

A stubborn, grasping voice this other,

A sad, persistent, harsh disrupter.

It makes believe no happiness

Will ever be your own.

It mocks you when your sweet content

is gone and you’re alone.

It is not you, this voice that cries;

It is your foe, a song that lies.

It takes you down, it severs you,

With fear it blinds your eyes.

“Love is gone, gone for good!”

It sings—and something dies . . .

It must be faced, turn not away.

Turn to! Take heart, do not delay.

To stand again you must defy—

Sing out against the ploy.

Make your song not one of doubt—

Take back your prayer of joy.
Come to the Lakeshore

January 14th, 2023

Welcome

to a perfect day

in a perfect little park

here by the lakeshore . . .

Where Clouds

move and mesmerize

ever changing

riding the sky . . .

Glowing Fires

lift the cooking smoke

into the sunlight

through grand old trees . . .

Cheering waves

translate human voices

into whispered nothingness

and gratefully so . . .

Sailboats bob

as a lone gull rises and falls

gentle waves paw

and pet the beach . . .

Lost to All the World

the children play the waves

as the waves lovingly

play back . . .

And All Who Come

come to believe

in the warm-blanket trance

of the lakeshore . . .
Saving the Lost Lettuce

January 13th, 2023

After so carefully washing each leaf

one day,

it surprised, saddened us

the next day,

to unfold the paper towels,

to see the wilted leaves,

life drained away.

There was no hope for the salad

we planned

to toss and take to friends

that night.

Then we were enlightened!

We saw the leaves were not dead,

not lost forever.

All they needed we found —

tall dinner glasses and water.

To put them in stalks down

gave them a chance

to slowly drink in and live out

their purpose.
T U R N

January 11th, 2023

TURN

from

down

away

around

in

over

back

out

up

to
What is Light?

January 9th, 2023

Ask any quantum physicist —

Light looks like waves

. . . Or particles.

But which or both?

            Particles in waves,

            Waves of particles,

Standing waves,

Particles waving?

What is said is just words at a loss,

Limited by our limits.

From somewhere outside,

From the cause of all this,

Light whispers:

“It matters not what I am,

What matter most is that I am.

            From the very beginning . . .

Not like anything else —

A mystery

Spoken into existence,

Called into being . . .

Like you. “
Even If

December 27th, 2022

Self

Wants power even if it is only imagined.

Soul

Wants to be saved even if it is ignored.

Conscience

Wants to be heard even if it is lied to.

Heart

Wants to beat even if it is dying.

Body

Wants pleasure even if it is worshiping.

Mind

Wants to rule even if it is wrong.

Person

Wants love even if it has never been loved.

Man

Wants to be a father even if he never grows up.

Woman

Wants a baby even if she wants to be a man.

Baby

Wants to be born even if no one wants it at all.
Flamingos

December 24th, 2022

Like

question marks

with bobbing

            heads . . .

raise

their flat feet

and let them

            sink.

Press

the algae

and answers

            down

until

they are safely

buried and

            hid.

Beaks

find algae,

fly away

            fed . . .

the

answers stay

hidden in

            hope.
Just a Moment Here

December 23rd, 2022

Six geese flew by in a clear azure sky, one gave a honk like a passing “Goodbye” . . .

As I sat back in my black folding chair, it spoke to my soul, to my heart’s inner ear:

“You saw me this once with five of my friends, up and away, where it starts and it ends.

Like much of your life we are mere observation, just lost in your memory with no revelation.”

What should I take from theses signs of creation? Only a smile and a wink, just my imagination?

Most of the time that is all that they are, locked into nature behind earthly bars,

Perhaps this flash of wild feathers and sound was meant to remind me to live above ground

To soar on occasion, to follow in flight — lifted to heaven by God’s holy sight.
Corn Crib

December 9th, 2022

Harvested at peak and put away,

Cribbed safe and stored until

The price rises in the need of winter.

Hopefully up, but held too long

The crop will miss the high price —

For no one wants moldy old corn.

Even the cattle spit it out.

The good farmer harvests in the sunshine,

The poor farmer gets distracted,

Goes fishing on sunny days, and then

Late on a cold rainy day in late November

Pulls his tractor into the muddy field.

Cornstalks bent by the October rain,

Ears down too close to the ground

For the corn picker to glean.

The lazy farmer now hurries, trying

To make up squandered time,

Spinning his wheels, spinning to a stop,

He blames the weather, when it was he

Who wasted the warm spring rain,

Free summer sun, life wanting to live.

All looks lost, is lost

When his neighbor comes.

The good farmer risks his tractor —

Hitches — cranks — pulls

The helpless farmer out of his mess.

They finish the work together taking

What corn they can. The muddy farmer

Sells it all wet and heavy for a down price —

He needs the money now.

The corn crib spends the winter empty

Holding nothing but drifting snow,

Waiting for God alone,

To do all the neglected work next year,

Knowing his farmer may not change,

Hoping he might see the worth

Of filling his soul with golden corn.

It seems like eternity, the wait every season,

And it is.