Etchings

In over the dark,

Light settled on the

Bone limbs of branches.

A covering sigh

Of winter’s last whisper.

An overcast came down

To surround our small

House in the wood.

Afternoon winds on the way

To dust off the etchings

Of grace, of the silence.

Yet, for now, I can

Rest my eyes on the

Cold insulation of a

Forest waiting for full

Spring, white to green.

Look Up Psalm 19

How often I forget.

Eyes, razor-like, look on,

Gaze along the horizon,

While stars spindle down

Into my soul like a midnight

Dream, scraping the chill

Off my bones, off my bones.

*

A local poet named the dark-

Wide-skyscape beautiful; love.

I’m still looking around at

The fading shadows of

Deep evening and shallow morning.

The moon glow lifts my eyes

Off the ground, off the ground.

*

My cricked neck wearies,

So I settle in the low,

Lay in the dimple of the

Long grasses; their back and

Forth in the breeze frame

The heavens declarations

Off the heights, off the heights.

Like A Child

When was the last time we skipped?

Not a meal.

Neither church.

A kiss goodnight?

*

I’m talking about skipping, literally.

Down a sidewalk.

In a park.

Along a hallway.

*

When was the last time our hearts

Skipped a beat;

Lept a leap?

Bounced in hope?

*

Come, take my hand.

See the floor,

The path ahead?

Let’s skip instead.

Summer Vacation Two children having an awesome time running along the beach shore. skipping stock pictures, royalty-free photos & images

 “Let not your hearts be troubled. Believe in God; believe also in me.” Jesus

John 14:1

Foot Fall

I’m growing into old.

Settle into chairs with a plop.

Rise out of them two-handed,

thankful for forethought of

choosing one with armrests.

*

There are creaks in the

coming and going now.

Sometimes it’s the cracks

in the wood—loose bolts.

Mostly it’s me, groaning.

*

In the effort of defying gravity,

I am grateful for movement,

even the slow kind.

More deliberate liberation

is humbly declared.

*

There is a beauty in deceleration.

Less distraction, more traction.

Reminders to stay low, pay attention

to where the next step will fall,

and in the falling I can,

by grace, take one more.  

Laying Down Markers

We’ve all done it,

we’ve lain down markers.

We can’t remember everything,

so we recall some things

over and over until

a cairn is placed on our

memory like a now moment

saturated with eternity.

*

She had been gone a while.

I was a punk kid with

a short sleeved sweatshirt.

I saw my Ellen

asleep on the couch;

jean jacket, bell bottom

denims; her lower lip

adrift from the upper.

*

I dropped any hesitance

to interrupt her dreams.

I leapt like a flying squirrel,

draping my body over hers.

No shame. Flawless delight,

and tears bursting over her

like watering an arid absence.

We were we.

*

Markers, like paperweights,

holding down vignettes

that could blow away

with a gust of dementia.

Cairns set like stepping

stones to cross our

stream of semi-consciousness.

The gravity of grace.

*

Honoring the hippy of the long gray hair; my sister Ellen who passed away last weekend from complications of dementia

Taking Thoughts

The bookmarks sprung up

in odd arrangements on the shelf,

like so many weeds in a garden.

I pulled them a couple of months ago,

All of them.

In part to put out of mind

the sight of unfinished business.

But also to put to rights

the little irritations some books

might endure of a distracted thinker.

Sure, I purposely lost my place,

but is place a deterrent of getting

lost in thought?

Is turning the last page a

guarantee of closing the book

forever?

Apparently not, for the volumes

in the case are still there,

like a well-tended garden,

waiting for thoughts to be taken.

Look closely at the image…how easily the weeds pop up like my own bookcase!

 

A Sunday Psalm

Take me to the river,

the currents that carry away.

Be the banks of faith

as my feet feel the passing by.

For now, the ocean isn’t needed

with waves that overwhelm.

No, it’s the redemption of here.

The forgiveness of now

channeled and contained,

yet flowing on and down.

The present and eternity

as indistinguishable as the I Am.

 

Take me to the river,

the conversations which float by.

Be the impeded stream

and sing a long ago song.

For now, a waterfall isn’t needed

with its deafening overtones.

No, it’s a smaller voice I lean into.

The whispers of hope

riding on the vein of a meadow.

The past and its echoes

fading into grace and mercy.

You Are.

 

Take me to the river,

the baptismal space.

Be the undercurrent where

the world is muffled.

For now, a heavy rain isn’t needed.

Should I scream or cry,

the undertones are received

and washed away.

The covering of love,

before, behind, above, beneath,

wrap You around me.

Take me to Your River.

Storm Front

Clouds roiled by,

doubling their chins.

clearing their throats

over and again,

sending echoes down the line.

Veins popped on their foreheads,

razor lights split the tension–

flash points of interruption.

Then the weeping,

sobbing, lubrication of

pent up anger mixed

with distraught.

A million-billion tears

distilled in sheets,

form rivulets

on the overlooked

guttural indentations

of the world’s skin.

Up There

Maneuvered by metaphor,

sashayed with clichés,

I looked up and it was still there,

that sun pasted between

a cobalt wall

with translucent clouds

brushing in the fore.

A golden pill hung

before I ever was

and hanging still

when my blip bleeps its last.

I relish every age spot

given by its graces,

and return its due

respect after

tender shoulders

absorb aloe vera.

A light by which

I see.

A warmth by which

I feel.

A presence by which

I love.

Pandemic Pondering

Has mitigation led to manipulation or the revelation thereof?

Do masks make manifest our propensity to hide?

Will contact tracing underline or outline a community?

Does distancing lead to dysfunction or uncover it?

Will we think twice about ‘going viral’?

 

Has mitigation led to meditation?

Do masks reveal our trues selves?

Will contact tracing underscore our need for others?

Does distancing lead to a helpful perspective?

Will we think twice about going virtuous?