Home is at the heart of all visions
worth carrying around for another day.
The manual for homemaking resides
somewhere on some dusty bookshelf.
It contains narratives of imaginings
promising a return from the long exile.
Broken hearts and inconsolable loss
are the purview of an uninterested god,
untouched by the pain that inhabits
any sort of previously made covenant.
Yes, the wicked surround the righteous
once again. And those who cry, "Violence!"
look for trouble and hope justice does not prevail.
Stubborn faithfulness when almost everything
has gone wrong is to offer praise with eyes wide open.
The kings with no souls will never listen
to the priests of sound and silence who beckon
from the crosses set at the top of torn hills.
We must all speak when we are called
with speech that approaches song insisting
in the longing to serve, crying, "Here I am."
Monthly Archives: April 2025
Imagination Remains
The kings and queens of willful destruction
carry burning scythes in their hands,
reaping where they did not sow.
Each blesses the other as the other
squashes fruits grown by others.
Expectations lower for the in-crowd.
Those thrown out of the concocted garden
know only the misery of the absence of love.
While the culture of artifice and pretense and posturing
demands acquiescence with thundering crescendos,
another voice, even though all looks grim,
sings a simple melody, heard only when the waters calm.
There may not be grapes on the vine today
but the landscape of imagination remains.
April Fool’s
How many poems written for this day
begin with the title "April Fool's"?
And how many fools will be made fools of,
reddening at the other end of a pointing finger
while being snickered at and condemned
for falling for the gag or the trick or the joke?
Read on, dear reader. Do not worry about
being made foolish at the end of this poem.
I assure you. Nothing lies in wait on the last line
waiting for your innocent acquiescence.
See, here is the last line.
A Thread You Follow 