Ellipses Eclipse

Three dots aligned

and gave us pause.

A midday Selah

strung our wonder

along a celestial seam.

Intelligent design

bill-boarded,

nearly blinded us,

our naked eyes

clothed.

Once again

the heavens

declared the Glory

of God.

 

Psalm 19

Advertisements

Day to Day Utters Speach

Into the stillness I spoke,

pushing words through the deck rails

and out into the field

to comb the tall grass.

Psalms twined with poems

were cast like seed

for the wrens and swallows.

 

I wonder what God thought

when His words were sent

like a dove to the formless void.

How did the Voice travel

this far, through the deck rails

to me?

 

Psalm 19

Pondering Walden. For my son Nathan. A Poem

We live close to the 42nd parallel.
Hitch-hiking isn’t necessary.
My son and I could walk
to the answer of the universe.

This orb wrapped and warped
in time zones in which
we are set in the illusion
of stop motion frames.

Nothing ever stops.
The rain pelts and the planets
carousel the egotistical sun.
We are under it half as much.

Is Greenland’s melted ice
coming down and overflowing
our pond’s aperture?
Such a small lens it is.

Hummingbird

He perched and his baton beak
led the orchestral nature of things.
Back and forth it swung.

A minute ago his wings hummed
at 80fps (80 flaps per second)
to keep a pudgy belly afloat and filled.

Then I heard chirp chattering
between two of them.
Over the hum a bickering banter.

I prayed for a translation.
“Translation is for the birds.
Foreign language sings just fine,

don’t you think?”
I hummed, nodded,
and listened to the duet.

Golondrinas: Spanish For Barn Swallows.

They pluck flies on the fly
their wings curved like a parenthesis.
One, maybe two barn swallows
comb the field’s rising breath.

A flight pattern established
for an evening out.
Dining on the freshest food,
swallowing mosquitoes

that could sip on me like a cocktail.
Sometimes the swallows swoop
and other times they swagger.
They know what they are after.

Yesterday the barn sat with its mouth open
and swallowed one which swallowed a fly.
I don’t know why.
The barn choked and coughed it up.

Notes were taken:
We possess a barn.
The swallows possess a name.
They existed for each other for a moment.

Seeds in the cracks
and the finches make a point, their point
is to poke and pick with sudden thrusts.

The sun leapt over the eastern rim
and the chatter of birds is abbreviating
like the shadows along the row of blue spruce.

Light lifts its head and warms the dew.
Diamonds on the grass cut into me
and melt between my toes.

Like a bird, I bend close and hop
on the morning sea of green
and pick at the cracks.

I pray for seeds
and then for wings.

Brow Of Eternity

Raised eye brows
white on pale blue
without a wink.

We, underneath
pray silent
and under stands

of trees welcome
shade as well
as the light.

Hold the swallow
wings in the curve
of today

and sing praise
of the endless sky
to the Thou of I.

“Hallelujah! Praise God in his holy house of worship, praise him under the open skies…” Psalm 150 The Message

Behold The Mystery

When my mother took us to the lake
my eight year old cheek pressed the half down window.
Hair flew up like the cresting of a wave,
and I looked out, and then down.

And gravel lies next to the road.

The trees promenade the father out I gazed.
A slow illusion it was that I couldn’t comprehend.

Even now I will take mystery over comprehension.
I still marvel when the moon follows me home.

And gravel lies next to the road.

Over the edge of the window the asphalt
zipped by and appeared fluid like shallow river water.
The Buick was moving so fast
except when I looked out on the horizon.

And gravel lies next to the road.

Time rides like a Buick, rocking gently.
The slow turning in the distance
almost wrapping around itself.
Then I look down at the black gray blur.

And gravel lies next to the road.

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.