Beyond the Noise

Love lists,

Tilts, spills over time,

Covers a multitude.


Love sings,

Lilts, lifts its song,

Invites a dance.


Love gives,

Grips not, releases.

Grants dignity.


Love, grace me

In the God that you are,

For without You,

I am just making noise.


After 1 John 4:8 and 1 Corinthians 13



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.


The walk and the wake of it,

The talk and the take of it,

This life is mine,

And filled with mines,


Yet Yours it is,


In the breathe and the breath of it,

In the deep and the death of it.

The grace and the grease of it,

The trace and the truth of it.


I lie down in it,


To rise and raise in it,

To prize the praise of it.

In the meek and the milk of it,

In the speak and the spilt of it,


On my knees in it,


To pray and plead in it,

To stay and lead in it.

The thank You and the Your of it,

On the dew and the shore of it.


Oh the gift of it.



When summer yawns,

a day break wedges

my thoughts between

the sun’s direct light

and its slanting

toward winter’s solstice.

As time wraps and warps

around my puny

gut feelings, a

prayer wends its

way through the

waning season

toward the bending Light,

an amen rolls

on toward equinox.


My Mole Went Missing

Actually the dermatologist took it.

He defaced my face,

plucked the mole hill,

and put a mountain of gauze and tape

over the three little stitches.


I googled Mt. Rushmore,

and there it was,

the size of a boulder,

that if tied around my ankles

would sink me to the bottom for sure.


If Abraham Lincoln could,

would he want Jack-hammer Jack

to remove the pronounced punctuation

from his righteous cheek?

We all take it for granite.


My mole went missing,

and I shall miss it indeed.

I pray for a scar of remembrance,

a Rembrandt, should I need to face it,

because I will never have that chiseled look.



The clouds aren’t usually this quiet.

They’re trying to sneak by unnoticed.

No definition. Looking a little pale,

they scrape the tree-line like a hangover.

The cool night chained them to the low places

and now they slip away into the light of day.

With their dissipation I am thinned,

the heaviness of dark lifted,

shadows spilling as a remembrance.

Forgiveness as the dew,

mercy as the burning thereof,

and grace its antecedent.



You think?

I simply want to stumble

Across laughter,

Slip on some silly,

And fall down,

Belly rolling in

Hysterical mud.

Life is seriously funny

Don’t you think?

This smile?…

You wipe it off my face.


Line Breaks

I tripped on a poem

Of uneven lines.

No rhymes.

The phrases phased

Me, and looking up,

My steps were


That’s when the gravel

Met my hands

And embedded

My palms.

Line breaks

My fall.


Runaway Psalm

Oh God, how my heart beats me up.

Its own rod and staff comfort me not.

My face runs flat with self-control.

My figuring has no end.

My passions, frail, off balance

Lead me beside myself

Where no water is.


Then a mockingbird flew silently by,

And I heard a hummingbird remember the lyrics.

A cardinal blushed.

A raven was its own shadow.

The fog lifted my countenance

Enough to see the mystery of You.

The Thou of this I.


You suggested I lighten up

As the sun crested a weary scape.

Ah, the light by which I see



Then we laughed.


Shelf Protection

The books are listing on the shelf.

Pock marks left, where authors, dead and alive,

moved over to my coffee table.


Then there are the bookmarks

tucked in many pages like floss

reminding me there’s something,


some thought waiting to get unstuck,

dredged up between ideas

old and new and from old.


“Can one, by thinking, add any height

to his stature?”


It’s time to shelve and disheveled,

Clear the queue.

Reset the open-faced bindings.


Mind the store,

store the minds,

and stand the titles at attention.


Once again, my books and poetry

protect me, slipping silently

back into place.