Squirrel!

Squirrels express frustration by twitching their tails ...

I don’t brake for squirrels.

I don’t swerve either.

I pray for them.

I plead with them.

I yell at them.

 

They seem suicidal,

Daring even.

They’re just doing

As told.

“Go play in the street.”

“Cross the road, or halfway.”

 

I stay centered

In the lane,

White knuckled,

Eyes forward.

They, one eye

At a time,

This and that.

 

“Make up your mind!”

“Move!”

“Squirrel, squirrel,

Squirrel!”

“Oh, for crying…”

“Please, no!”

 

No thump.

Nothing in the rearview.

No yellow pasted

Like the centerlines

They dance around.

I sigh and mumble.

Advertisements

April Snow

They float down,

Those Individual wisps.

Periods which end

No sentence.

Quotations,

Bereft of content.

I press my ear

Do the dormant grass

To hear the sound

Of their touchdown.

“Shhhh,” they said.

Back Seat Love: Come on, it’s not what you think.

Heart issues are sometimes tricky. I’ve been thinking about how to keep my heart alive lately. Making eye contact with Christ is a way. Not “I” contact necessarily, but seeing Him more clearly. It must have intention behind it, no?

Gerald the Writer

I know,

is the back seat really a place for love?

In one respect, I think not…

But hold on a minute,

I’m talking about love.

I dreamt I was a taxi driver,

in and out of traffic and jams.

My light was on, waiting for a whistle or a hand.

She got in and sat in the middle back.

The rear view cropped her face.

Her brown eyes caught mine in the mirror.

“Just drive a bit,” she said calmly.

I nodded and pulled back out into it.

She smiled her eyes and

I think I smiled mine back.

“So, any destination in mind?”

“Life.”

“Ah, sure, is that near West 42nd Street?”

“You never know.”

“Well, I will never know if you don’t tell me.”

She winked and fully opened her eyes,

briefly exposing the whites like teeth.

Somewhere, I heard the eyes are the window to…

View original post 295 more words

Heart Breaking

Behold the beauty

Of the quiet places,

Stilled and distilled

Down to the pauses

Between heartbeats.

 

Take courage

When silence

Nearly breaks you,

And tempts you

To break it.

 

Fold your hands,

Bend your soul,

And free your

Spirit into His

Trust.

 

Listen how the

Winds strokes

And threads

The evergreens.

I heard the whispers

Of God.

 

Such a beautiful broken silence.

 

This I pray: That we would hear the still small voice as we quiet our hearts in Jesus Name, Amen

 

 

Comb-Over. Father’s Day 2016

Our church had a prayer meeting last Sunday night. The morning service included writing brief prayer concerns on rocks and placing them in baskets. That night, as people came to pray, at some point we were encouraged to pick of a stone and pray for the persons concern on the stone. I picked up one that simply said “Dad”. It moved me to tears. I’ve been thinking about the “Father” concept ever since then. My heavenly Father, my earthly father, and myself as a father. Then I thought of the first line of this blog entry.

Gerald the Writer

My dad was like a father to me.

He took me with him to fix my Godmother Ginny’s air conditioner at the Ceramic Shop. He showed me his humble quarters at the Burdick Hotel. I followed him around while he repaired fridges and jammed locks. I recall watching Dad play horse shoes by the tracks at the fire station. He wore blue pants most of the time.

I remember the sound of the tires on a gravel road as we delivered his Free Press route before sun up. That’s when I asked him what his biggest regret was. “I wish I hadn’t got so angry at your mother.” Me too Dad.

When the benign tumor stole one eye, half of his smile, fifty percent of his hearing, and added an unsteady swagger when he walked I was nine. I had no clue how scared he was when he went to…

View original post 323 more words

Fireside…swiped

I restarted the wood-stove in our basement early. I thought I jammed it full enough to last ‘til morning, but alas, it fizzled out. I rifled through our waste cans. I crumpled up obituaries, Superbowl ramblings, and Michigan State fallout stories to lay a new bed on which skinny logs could lie. With the flue and the metal doors wide open, a struck match touched the edges of news print in hopes of warmth and less furnace action.

The Muse draped her arm around my shoulder as the edges of wood started crackling.

“So, how you been?” she said.

“Wha?”

“You’ve been waiting for me, and here I am.”

“What took you….”

“It hasn’t been that long Jerbear.”

“Hey! Only my sisters can call me that!”

“How long have we known each other? I should be one of your sisters by now, for crying out loud.”

“Oh, now you’re invoking Mom phrases. Great.”

“Listen, I’m here now, in front of this fire with you because this is where your hearth is.”

“Ah, playing with words eh?”

“What’s the matter? Don’t you want to play?”

“No. I mean yes. Oh, I don’t know. It seems I get the keys under my fingers, and…. Nothing.”

“Well, look at you go now.”

Dear Mrs. Muse, (or is it Miss, or Ms.?)

This letter is a curtsy, I mean, a courtesy to inform you that sneaking up on me in a quiet moment of reflection is an unacceptable duty of your employ. Please do not show up unless I am at my desk with Microsoft Word open to an empty page, Times New Roman, 12 point, doubled-spaced.

May I remind you that your duties are to total memory recall with appropriate inspiration when I am at the aforementioned location. You must evoke my full frontal lobe capabilities, especially early, when distractions are limited to the hum of appliances, computer fans, and distant snoring.

This warning letter will be kept on file.

 

Sincerely,

Geraldthewriter

 

“Well now, I see what you’ve done here GTW. I’d say I’ve accomplished what I set out to do. I certainly hope a second letter is unnecessary.”

The Muse then snatched the letter from the queue and laid it on the glowing embers. The smoke rose up the flue like a winter moonrise.

Psalm or Face Palm

Only the fridge and a computer fan

Whisper their condolences

To the solitude sought.

 

My mind, plenty loud like

Headphones clapped on

My ears, cymbals

 

On symbols of reception,

The white noise of

My own pseudo conclusions.

 

Psalm 51 like area 51

Draw my curiosity

To the mystery of grace

 

Folded into mercy

As the pairing of woofer

And tweeter balance

 

Morning upon mourning

Of music, while the songs

In the night fade.