Category Archives: Poetry

My poetry. Mostly Collects

“…and though there were so many, the net was not torn.” – John 21:11

Breaker and Mender,
Tearer and Weaver,
Rupturer and Binder,
who sets us on a way;
we fill our days
with consuming visions of so much
and end up feeling rent and shattered;
collect us as we tear ourselves
and each other to pieces,
holding it all
so nothing is lost and falls.
Amen.

A Bite

I said, "The last bite tasted the same 
as the first bite."

She said, "Sometimes the call
to be different from those around us
remains hidden in folded spaces."

I asked, "How, then, might loving
our neighbor fit into knowing 
differentness?"

She answered, "Shrines on the same
side of the street often share
peculiar and various words of comfort."

I said, "I recognize where the need 
for performing in the eyes of my ancestors
comes from."

She said, "We place a baby in our aunt's arms
and witness the generations coming to us."

Colors Across Time

What seems like an answer to a question
may appear behind the leaves whose color
is finally revealed across a long season of waiting.

Conversation with the whirling, complex colors
of the kaleidoscope can dance from one meaning
to another across the lengthening of shadows.

When I was young I scribbled across the lines
because I wanted so very badly for colors
to move beyond the boundaries set by time.

The colors we color now don't have to feel
like questions hurrying us across the roads
that we have made loving what we have lost.

“Are grapes gathered from thorns, or figs from thistles?” – Matthew 7:16

God of fruits that feed and nourish,
God of dangers that puncture and cut,
light the porches of well-being;
for while you hand out treats
in places we find so hard to discover,
we seek the tricks of promises
for an easy eternity,
looking in the fields of fortune
for the harvests of fame.
Amen.

Fall Days

To return to the books of prophetic doom
seems extreme on lazy fall days such as these.

Don't worry about proper lunch companions.
The messiah will return when we are ready.

Too many ransom themselves to the futile
ways inherited from their fathers and mothers.

Honesty comes in many forms of complexity.
Be the fire that raises beauty from the ashes.

Confessing Prophecy

I said, "I have a confession to make.
I failed to do what Simon said."

She said, "Perhaps it takes one
act of disobedience before we 
can claim our inheritance."

I asked, "What practicality does a belief
have if it doesn't make a difference
in our lives?"

She answered, "Is it a belief or is it
something that should be trashed?"

I said, "I have yet to consult with
the oracle of doom and gloom as to 
what if any action is needed."

She said, "Leave prophecy for the pages
of the books taken seriously by scholars."

“The kingdom of God is not coming with things that can be observed.” – Luke 17:20

Hidden God,
beyond the horizon,
underneath the nearest stone,
behind the turn of the earth, 
within the veins of dropped leaves;
we turn and turn again
and you spin around us with yourself;
come into our lives with things
that do not need to be observed
for our attention wanders 
and the shiny has replaced the simple.
Amen.

The Faithful Remnant

I said, "I dreamed last night 
that the troublers of conscience 
came streaming out of the woodwork."

She said, "Sometimes even the ravens 
demand attention while performing."

I asked, "How does a voice make sound
in the midst of people who are convinced
that only they know the real ways?"

She answered, "Silence is fertile ground
for mutterings to emerge."

I said, "In walking from place to place,
so many feel mysteriously unconnected
to anything that might be called human."

She sighed, "The faithful remnant may 
come and go unexpectedly but they
will be seen and heard."