I Love Peanut Butter

Like spiraling a spatula

round the bottom of a

peanut butter jar,

 

so am I each morning

in a futile attempt of

scraping in hopes of a

 

slather of meaning on a Monday.

Why is the wholeness

divided into seven daze?

 

Does a heart beat me, ever?

Are there breaths beneath me?

When do steps become strides?

 

I lick the spatula with gratitude,

wave it like a wand,

and pray for grace and mercy.

 

For every day is Monday, really.

Twelve Minutes on Color

It is the contrast in color which illuminates autumn. Looking at one tree’s vibrant blushing brightens my imagination and appreciation of God’s artwork in the midst of the work of transformation. When I pan back and take in a bigger frame of color against color a greater wonder fills me.

We live on hill, and from the back deck a valley of autumn’s attitude can be taken in. We moved here five years ago this month, and we are grateful for the view.

It makes me think of the possibility of unity in diversity. God must believe it too, with this big fat metaphor of fall. This one line of poetry, the tree line, gets me thankful, thankful for my eyes.

Outta time.

Sun Day

Birth again the sun,

may it crown the edge of the earth,

and spill glory and cast shadows

behind all it paints.

 

May we remember from where

this light bursts and fills

the land in golden revelation.

May we squint in gratefulness.

“God makes a huge dome

For the sun—a superdome!

The morning sun’s a new husband

Leaping from his honeymoon bed,

The daybreaking sun an athlete

Racing to the tape.

 

That’s how God’s Word vaults across the skies

From sunrise to sunset,

Melting ice, scorching deserts,

Warming hearts to faith.”

Psalm 19:4-6 The Message

 

 

Breathtaking

Just above the tree line

wind scrapes and sifts.

I pray for its falling

through to the forest floor

where air crawls low

like a dog’s nose

picking up the scents

of loam.

 

Those pains we shed

which enrich the soil,

and peat our soul.

Thank you for the

ground our feet of clay

impress, that level

Grace we tread

with each breath.

Where’s Prufrock? Monday Monday

Settle down Monday,
don’t push or crowd
or cut in line.

Be patient
while I brush up
before your sun cups

me round and round.
I’ll tie my shoes later
after coffee spoons

have measured me.
Monday, a click track
of existence, set

a pace down
between these lungs.
I will breathe a grace,

give thanks,
and skip
a beat or three.

Peach in the sink

 

 

 

 

I dare you…

Read a poem today. It doesn’t have to be T.S. Elliot’s Love Song Of J. Alfred Prufrock, but it’s not a bad place to land on a Monday.

Open

It choked me.

 

My mother told me close my mouth.

Dennis’ father used to sit in the corner,

legs crossed, reading the Gazette

with his lower lip dangling and pudgy.

Old people gape at nothing.

Maybe nothing is gape worthy

when white flurries crown them.

 

The snowflake melted down into me.

 

Don’t Count Me Out

The pill I found

awakened me like

Robert Deniro.

 

The dancing unfurled

with you in hand

and spectrums rose.

 

Nerves had no end

and struck like lightning

and I was blind for a spell.

 

A forty year reverse

to when hiding and seeking

was just a game.

 

Jesus was counting

against the tree

looking for me.

 

 

“O Lord, you have searched me and you know me.” Psalm 139:1