One day we go to the bathroom and fifty years later we tell horror stories of how the tank malfunctioned and flooded the entire house. Today, "God restoreth my soul," while on countless earlier days children of the steppes and plains were run over by marauders. Our stampeding and pillaging is more subtle now: a morning paper and the news that capture tales of destruction and woe. We pour the blood of our neighbor out like water, drinking other's pain to satisfy our need for delight in the present moment. I grimace when someone calls for humans to evolve into being more human. Do they not know we would no longer be human?
Category Archives: Poetry
My poetry. Mostly Collects
A Bathroom Break
When my Uncle was nine years old he visited a friend's house. While there he excused himself to go to the bathroom. He noticed a type of tank he had never encountered before: the tank was above the toilet and had a chain hanging down. My uncle pulled the chain, gently at first. Nothing happened. A second pull, slightly stronger. Nothing happened. Finally, a third great yank...and...WHOOSH! My uncle ran out the bathroom yelling, "I didn't do it!" After he told this story, and with my daughters still giggling at the dinner table, I asked my uncle if he went to the bathroom afterwards. He replied, "What do you mean? I went in my pants."
Known in Dreams
Sanctuary began this morning when the first drop of dew formed under the temple eaves, offering a sense of beginning without entering the holy of holies. Throughout the world little men prepare for the day by placing stones on the ground, perfect for unthought people who seek to throw first without reaching. The entrance to the silver mine at the edge of town has been closed, as nothing of value has been found in those depths for persons to enrich their looks or their lives. A sense of beginning establishes itself in the interior space behind the purple curtain where the high priest goes to ask for divine intervention on behalf of the people. And the people awaken once again with sleep in their eyes and a lightness to their steps stirring beyond the rooms of intimating walls where once they had only known themselves in dreams.
The Light I Forget
There is a light I forget to turn off each time I leave the basement. It is as if another lived down there; a person to which I extend a common courtesy. Perhaps in my mind I see them reading a book in my favorite chair in the corner, sitting how my grandfather always sat, right leg crossed over left and the newspaper open on his lap. Perhaps I fail to extinguish the glow from above somehow aware that to do so might shorten the memory lingering in the air.
How My Life Passes
I bow my head to breathe, only for a moment, raise it and the light has changed. This is how my life passes; moments of inspiration in the midst of the movement of seasons. The cardinal forages at dawn at the base of the maple tree before singing in the branches above. A daughter in search of a dream adventures off to Africa, never to return home again. One poet writes about moving "in the along" whereas I seek for a place in the in-between.
Many Waters
I said, "I awoke this morning believing waves are caused by dolphins." She said, "If those waves don't drown us, we can all play together at the water fountain park." I asked, "Which do you like more: slides, pools or jets of water intermittently hurling out of nowhere?" She answered, "I like it most when my expectations are disastrously too low." I remembered, "King David once wrote of how God draws us out of many waters." She thought aloud, "I wonder what the many waters may be."
Then he opened their minds to understand the scriptures. – Luke 24:45
God, who writes on stone with a fiery finger, compose on our hearts your will to be done on earth as it is in heaven; for other wills seek to close our minds. Amen.
Finish to Begin
My knowledge extends only to what I know. I know upon finishing this poem I will get up from my desk, turn off the lamp and see the growing light of the greater light spreading across the porch making the things of this world distinct. Later, I will step out into that light satisfied that the structures of the world are in place to make it go around one more day, or at least for the time it takes me to drive to work, place the lunch I made the previous night on the break room counter and sit down at my desk. But first I know I will finish this poem.
Pressing Questions
Why does the Psalmist's cry, "No more oppression!" sound oppressive? Isn't wine created from pressing the grapes?
The Ocean
I want to arrive at the edge of the ocean again, as if for the first time, always, and hear my youngest say, "Boats are on it." And, "The sand is everywhere." And, "The water moves."
A Thread You Follow 