Thursday, November 30, 2017

The memory of trees...

Even the blind will miss the trees
when they cannot drink the water
or breathe the air,
even the hardest hearts will mourn
the forests when children's bones
lie naked on the ground.

Wednesday, November 29, 2017

We are ever...

We are ever enthralled
with the intimate Otherness
bodying forth from every strange
familiar thing we can touch and behold
in this wide and wondrous world.
Frightened to meet so much Mystery
in our deepest downest darkest hearts,
yet we go on longing toward our night,
lusting after the Fire devouring
all our boundaries and containments,
aching for that mighty Wind
sweeping away the cold ashes
of our lonely lonely

Tuesday, November 28, 2017

Travel light...

When needless pricey trinkets crowd my sight
and boughten lies weigh heavy on my ear
and I need to be reminded wrong and right
and what things are really worth my fear
and what won’t hinder and what just might,
I chuck my worrisome and useless gear,
what hangs too loose or clings too tight,
leave that behind and pack what’s dear,
then close the door behind and travel light.

Monday, November 27, 2017


I feel a season on the air,
a ranging, changing, rearranging
time for turning over,
turning color and turning loose
of all ill-considered
promises and every
uninvited expectation;
I feel a journey in my feet
away from greedy faces
and walled-in places;
heading now for spaces
unroofed, unmapped,
untrammeled and unpriced,
where love grows wild,
sinks root in stones
and flowers even
in the snow,
where tame is
the onliest
endangered species.

Sunday, November 26, 2017

Such a little...

Such a little time
to say the love
before we learn
the language
only angels know.
Such a thin space
to touch the face
that smiles
and speaks the name
that answers all
our aching need
before the heart
is still
and spirit flies.

Saturday, November 25, 2017

One more time...

In the morning, I’ll get up
and take a shower and go
to church with my wife;
I don’t much believe in church
anymore, but my wife
believes in some people
there, and I believe
in my wife;
I don’t believe in God
the way I once did,
But every day, in a thousand
half-hidden, irrefutable ways,
God says to me that She
still believes in me
and in all the people
I thought past love;
I’m going to take
Her word for all of this
and just go let it happen
one more time
for all time’s sake.

Friday, November 24, 2017

Scatter the ashes...

Any place there’s water will do,
any small crack in the world
to snare a scrap of sky,
hold heaven’s light down there
against the cold dark ground,
open a window for a soul
just loosed, learning to fly.

Thursday, November 23, 2017

Near enough...

I believe
in the One
Who is All,
Small enough
To be one of us,
Great enough
To hold all of us,
Far and beyond
All understanding,
But near enough
for Love.

Wednesday, November 22, 2017

Kingdom come...

There’s a storm on the wing.
Every false and flimsy thing,
the west wind will bring
em down to ground, fling
the pieces far. Let’s now sing
our Freedom song, let ring
our welcome to the King,
Lord of our becoming.

Tuesday, November 21, 2017

If I'm careful...

If I’m careful today
When I go out,
Tread softly enough
The leaves don’t talk,
Sit still enough
To hear the grass,
Look closely enough
Into eyes that see me,
Let the wind blow through,
The sun scatter my shadow,
Let the strong Earth hold me,
Rock me on her mountain,
Plant me deep enough
Between her musky breasts
To hear her million heartbeats,
Then, if I’m patient and don’t ask,
A story might come
And I might live to tell you,
But if not me, someone,
If you'll listen, will.

Monday, November 20, 2017

Grace is wild...

Oh, Grace is wild enough, I reckon;
She lays no blame and gives no credit;
She sends sunshine on the wicked
and cold rain on the good;
She insists God doesn’t keep score,
loves the unlovely with holy
ardor as much as loving saints.
Grace is plain about that,
neither graceful nor subtle
in her argument that God
doesn’t give a rip
about how right you are,
or what bad some say of you;
God just means you well,
wants to make some good
out of your messy life,
without even asking
to see your insurance card.
That’s what Grace says.
She has a sister, Hope,
who put down all her money
that Grace is right.

Sunday, November 19, 2017

Geese overr water...

While we were out walking
on the poet’s hill today,
Spirit descended with spread wings
like the Wild Goose alighting
on a lake still chilled
from ice banished yesterday.
Soon enough,” She said,
you will be forever present
to your departed moment;
while this lasts, be here now
by this clear light,
carried on the breath
of one bright morning,
fleeting and forever

Saturday, November 18, 2017

...for the duration.

There are other places I could be today, but I'd have to leave this place to get there.

Right here is where I mean to cling for the duration. Maybe I'll die here, but for sure, this is where I'm going to live.

Friday, November 17, 2017

For real...

Love God, the Rabbi said,
Love your neighbor,
Love yourself. He said it
as if it were all the same thing,
as if it were everything.
Anyone who has faith enough
to love has faith enough. Love
is all we can know of God
for sure, all we can be for real.

Thursday, November 16, 2017


Out early this morning,
gone following the ghost
through the foggy foggy dew.
So like a cloud she whispers
and moves on, almost gone
and never quite here,
ever just out of sight, but near
enough to feel her breath
on my questing heart.

Wednesday, November 15, 2017

The real thing...

Reuben is alive and well at Georgiana's Java Joint down the hill at 18 Church Street. The German-style potato salad is the real thing, too. You'd never find any edible so decadently delicious in Bavaria.

The java ain't bad either. Georgiana's double espresso will fuel you through at least three chapters, including a couple of re-writes.

Tuesday, November 14, 2017

Friends and strangers...

If you follow this blog, you may have noticed that lately I've been posting a lot of poetical scraps and remnants I've accumulated over the years. My plan has been to retire and become a poet when I'm 80 years old. That doesn't give me much to finish with fiction. I may have to revisit my timeline.

In any case, the Main Muse has been telling me for a while now that I ought to try to get my poems published. I take her advice seriously. She told me for years that I ought to write novels. I should have listened sooner. But for now, I have a novel manuscript that I'm pushing to get in shape to submit (again). That done, we'll see.

Until then, novels remain what I write for strangers, for pay. Poems, I write for my friends, for love.

Monday, November 13, 2017

Any place...

Any place is home enough
With light and room
to wake up high
and scribble down the day’s
sweet words, then lay me down
in thin air to dreamful sleep.
Up and away on the mountain’s
shoulder, there waits a place.
I can’t see from here,
but her lines are fast bound
to heart; I feel the pull.
toward blessed somewhere,
by no strength that is my own
I rise.

Sunday, November 12, 2017

November nights...

November was upon us before we finally got an overnight freeze. We harvested the last of the garden greens before that happened, and afterward, it was time to dig sweet potatoes. The porch plants are spending the chilly nights with us indoors now.

We'll miss all our summer neighbors, but winter neighbors, yes, we do tend to love them best.


Saturday, November 11, 2017


We seek Spirit
the way a camper
addresses his fire,
close enough to warm,
distant enough
not to burn.
The blinding flames
swirl and rise
to a murmuration
of sparks.
We stare at them
in long wonderment.

Friday, November 10, 2017


So it may just look like bread to you. But I see (and smell) sourdough with dill and rosemary.
Jane Ella cut the rosemary by the back gate while I was kneading the dough. Three loaves came out of the oven, but one didn't make it to the cooling rack. It got sliced along the way

Making bread is essentially a meditative practice. Kneading is an act that engages the body and stills the mind. It is like rowing a boat on a gentle swell. Like being rocked in the womb, if you can remember that far back. Thought would just get in the way. 

Baking may be one of the most subversive spiritual acts we humans are capable of. Every time we bake a loaf, we can eat our prayer.

Thursday, November 9, 2017

Thinking about God...

"Now I've got it,"
The precocious pupil said
to his startled teacher,
"Abraham thought up God."
Abraham didn't think much
about God, though; Abraham
just loved past his understanding;
God doesn't think much about
us, either, God just loves
beyond all our understanding.

Wednesday, November 8, 2017


The season turns
And so must I
Find deeper woods
And broader sky,
Loose all the lines
That bind and tie
The soul that burns,
The wings that fly.

Tuesday, November 7, 2017

When I lie down...

When I lie down to die,
Don't you dare cry,
For when my last breath
Is whispered against the silent earth
I will rise up a jubilation
That my tongue, while earthbound
Could never sing aloud.

Monday, November 6, 2017


Dare I pray for justice in this world,
I'm begging condemnation;
How can I ask for fairness when
My debt is more than I can pay or know?
The very ground I walk on is pure grace;
I'm better off to settle then for love.

Sunday, November 5, 2017


There is a Light no eye can trace,
transcending each illumined place
We stand, struck speechless as we face
The colors of amazing Grace.

Saturday, November 4, 2017


Awash in the impartial Light
Your way comes clear before
That no eyes trace but yours,
No feet but yours can mark
to tread your fruited way
To Glory's shine.

Friday, November 3, 2017

All you can be...

If you love now
The long day is lovely,
If you hate this moment
The whole world is hateful,
Joy is not tomorrow,
Peace is nothing you hope for,
As your breath lifts your sternum,
As your hand reaches
To grasp gentleness or harm,
In this instant, all you can live in
Now, is all you are, all you can be.

Thursday, November 2, 2017


Where did we go wrong?
When did we miss our turning
And turn the mirror to the wall
And start to believe our shadow is our face?
Where did we begin to divide the Land
Into your land and my land
And forget we are the Land’s?
When did our People become
My people or your people?
To what dark Beast did we sell our souls
To earn the coin that buys our death?

Wednesday, November 1, 2017


Last night I heard the wild goose cry,
She called me up from sleep,
I made to her a promise
That I am bound to keep;

She stirred in me a longing
That can't be put to rest
Until I rise and follow her
Away into the west.