Category Archives: Poetry

My poetry. Mostly Collects

A Room

During dinner I said, "My feet
are too large for my room."

She said, "Any room means riotous
wealth upon which you can walk."

I said, "But cramped living leads to small
bitternesses and resentments."

She added, "And also for cozy living
arrangements that call for lots of snuggling."

I smiled. "I welcome those small delights
which can be found when space is at a premium."

She said, "All of creation is one large room."

Time for Some More Questions

Why is there always enough space after dinner
and before bedtime to ask one more question?

What makes a two hour sail in the burning sun
too long for any questions to be asked?

How does my gaze fall upon the one book I have wanted 
for a so long stacked in the midst of questions?

And, as the Psalmist asks, "What profit is there 
in my blood, when I go down to the pit?"

“I must turn aside and look at this great sight, and see why the bush is not burned up.” – Exodus 3:3

God Who Burns and Does Not Destroy,
who whirls in the wind by day
and dances in fire before us by night,
beguile us with visions in the corners of our eyes,
beautiful enough if beauty will do,
interesting enough if we are bored,
satisfying enough if we hunger,
but just enough and no more,
for we are already sated on enough of us
and more will make our feet too heavy
to turn and be amazed that the bush burns
and is not burned up.
Amen.

Mask-making

Whose are these,
these fingers,
that tamp gently 
upon my face?

Layer after layer
of plaster strips
softened, gently pressed 
then smoothed
upon the ridges and folds
of my cheeks, nose and chin.

I hear the quiet comments
of one daughter to another
saying, Here, and, There,
and I relax into another year
of camp where the years 
themselves layer, 
each upon the other,
creating one memory from 
many memories that I will
take to the gates on my death
and say, These days, these moments,
were the finest of my life.

what stretches to be found

redemption through creation
bending without breaking

a clay figure enlivens
to be examined
as reins slowly drape
upon body and soul
played by those who
believe beauty lies
in the beholden

the push of desire
mirrors the pull of the same

sacrifices of being lifted
along the safest journey 
to the temple where curtains
of many colors hang covering
the path in rich likelihood
and voices divide the fires
making all searches sense
what stretches to be found

Behind Us

Today, the hummingbird whirs, meandering 
from one branch of the river birch to another.

The Psalmist writes, "The soul shall dwell at ease,"
and I almost feel it, biblical in my repose.

Though, nobody knows why such stillness fades
from a moment at ease to the scraping of knees
dragging today's load of our belongings behind us.

Maintenance Required

I cannot imagine a soul apart from the body.
And, I understand the dynamics
of soul-attachment are not meant for me to know.

But if I, my soul, am to float away up into the heavens
upon whatever breeze that blows when I die,
I would like to enjoy the ride with the body 
that I leave behind.

There are those, perhaps many, who look forward
to that day of detachment from disease, paralysis
and fear that inhabits the corporeal.

Yet, what is this the Psalmist writes, God keeps
alive and restores souls?  Does this not change 
the yearning for moving along after death 
if maintenance is still required?

Next Door

I said, "In my childhood room I cried myself 
to sleep every night believing God was absent,
not realizing that God was the room."

She said, "And look at how many rooms
you have in your house today."

I added, "Though I tire myself out with 
the preponderance of dark thoughts 
and what seems to me to be their endless 
repetition."

She said, "You do such a great job
of taking the mystic's advice, greeting
them at the door, laughing."

I said, "Even the taste of laughter
in my mouth turns bitter with the
sorrow on the face of my neighbor."

She said, "Kiss me, so I can taste it
and then we can make brownies together
and take them next door to share."

“But when you grow old, you will stretch out your hands, and someone else will fasten a belt around you and take you where you do not wish to go.” – John 21:18

God who draws us out of the waters
and leads us across the land,
the shape of our lives blurs
as meanings grow dim
and the birds no longer sing
in the light of the mornings.
We cry, This is not of our own doing,
and we pray, Lead us not into temptation,
but we hold out our hands anyway
to be bound by that which is greater
than us...but not you.
Free us once again.
Amen.