Poem List: 2018 September thru December
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Godschild Print this poem only
Donning the mantle of godparent
cannot be blamed on an accident
it is both a gift and a choice
in which the child has no voice.
If it is a decision lightly taken
the deciders should awaken
to the burden it imposes
and the thorns of the roses.
An honor to the invited it might seem
but think about what it means
to the parents of that baby
and how vital to them it may be.
For if this is to be your child
it will not be for just a while
but for a lifetime of growth and pains
a multitude of joys and strains.
In a manner quite distinct
you are asked to be linked
to this person in the ups and downs
to hear both tender and awful sounds.
And think of where you may wander
in your journey out yonder
how your beliefs might alter
and your path might falter.
Wherever you go whatever you do
know this person is joined to you
through your good and bad brakes
with all your missteps and mistakes.
And above all remember you are kin.
You don’t lose. You don’t win.
You are never never exiled
from Love, for you are both God’s child.
Written December 31, 2018
Lusty Craving Print this poem only
Have you ever eaten so much
you got queasy or worse
found the porcelain god in your clutch
cursed yourself as dumb and perverse?
It’s really no joking matter to me
as now I picture myself there
pitifully low on bended knee
in need of an earnest prayer:
Lord, may I never again return
nor forget this impulse that brings me low
lead me to a more worthy food and learn
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Written 12-19-18
Noble Moment Print this poem only
Writing poetry is an exercise
in making myself rise
from ordinary preoccupation
to enter the realm of creation.
When I share it I am revealing
thoughts, doings, and feeling,
so I need not hesitate to share
or fear boring those who care.
A poem might not be art
but it is a letter from my heart
more than a quick posting
or social media boasting.
So if you do not receive a sealed letter
from me in the mail, a poem is better.
It is a moment of being bold
of sharing a small slice of my soul.
Getting a poem from a poet or friend
is an honor for me and I will attend
and count it a privilege worth prizing
a noble moment of the creator’s rising.
Written 12-12-18
The World My Way Print this poem only
“It is our function as artists to make the spectator see the world our way not his.” - Mark Rothko
To have the guts like Sinatra’s to declare
through regrets, tears and despair
“I got through it all and did it my way”
Oh, to trust the power in me and stay
always authentic and true
to my point of view
no matter how out of sync
or what proper poets think
The Rothko chapel with its paintings of black
took me completely aback
they seemed non-paintings to me
but I sat in the changing light and could see
the artistry in that quiet urban place
I could feel his gentle grace
he forced me to see his world
in his hues and strokes and curls
A Rothko or Sinatra I am not
but if in my lines are caught
the sweet or dark breath of my muse
if I speak in my voice with its hues
maybe a whiff of spirit there
will cast a piece of my soul and snare
someone’s musing causing them to write
and fling out their world in their light.
Author’s Note: The Rothko Chapel is on the University of St. Thomas campus in Houston, Texas. It is an irregular octagonal brick building with gray or rose stucco walls and a baffled skylight. It serves as a place of meditation as well as a meeting hall and is furnished with eight simple, moveable benches for meditative seating. About 55,000 people visit the chapel each year. Fourteen of Rothko's paintings are displayed in the chapel. Three walls display triptychs, while the other five walls display single paintings. Beginning in 1964, Rothko began painting a series of black paintings, which incorporated other dark hues and texture effects. [Based on article in Wikipedia]
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Written 12-30-18
Seemingly Print this poem only
Born seemingly pathetic
the boy grew up and learned patience
with seemingly pathetic creatures
learned to see the divine in all
and in this vision invited them
and even empowered himself
to rise
to be who they really are
rather than what they seem.
Written 12-26-18
Jasper Print this poem only
Oh you touchstone!
how I need you
when the load of fatigue
catches up with me late afternoon
and my thirst for twilight
reminds me it’ll soon be time
to desist and unwind.
Oh you touchstone!
you glimmering measure
of my deep and true treasure
where are you in the bog of midweek
when I forget your joy
joy all but submerged in the rubble
by week’s end?
I starve for your nourishment
your mystic force
at sudden intervals
to save me
from the numbing and persistent undertow
and by Sunday
I am desperate.
Author’s note: I was thinking of the importance of periodic spiritual uplift – different for all of us – needed as life in itself tends to envelop and overtake what is important. The word, touchstones, came to mind. So I looked it up and the first meaning I saw was the word, jasper. Looking in Google images I saw how mysterious, varied, and beautiful this stone can be. This, then was the starting point for this poem.
Written 12-17-18
A Cold Drink Print this poem only
Bringing a poor family turkey and fixings
an afternoon of repairing the widow's fence
making a shelf unit for Pam's dining room
all these grand efforts
would feel good
and might get me noticed
but what about a smile to a stranger
a call to my cousin
putting away my old neighbor’s garbage can
smoothing my wife’s hair as I pass behind her easy chair
waving at the new guy on the block who doesn’t know me
bringing a cold drink to the yardman?
Going small
is better than nothing at all
when I’ve talked myself out of the big deed
due to time, tired, bruise or bleed.
Written 12-13-18
Drifting Dinghy Print this poem only
The small dinghy drifts
on the surface of the sea
its grayed gunnels, hull
and vacant crossbars
betray its age
but its persistent float
speaks its worth.
Without a bold goal
its life at the mercy of currents and winds
it drifts
but still it floats.
It would be easy to feel pity
for this tiny rudderless vessel
to condemn it to the depths
for its aimless oblivious
drift.
But this modest creation
a dinky dinghy
still floats
rises, falls, bobs,
and wobbles
a survivor of sojourns
she remains
a mocking
clocking
launch
of hope.
Written 12-11-18
A December Gathering
Print this poem only
Twas Saturday the 8th of December
and one by one, two by two
all those who could remember
old poets and friends came into view.
From the street up the sidewalk
they brought great goodies to eat
they came in and soon began to talk
of love, life, victory and even defeat.
This was a gathering of special folk
who could speak of sadness and dark
shed tears of joy or laugh at a good joke
hear the voice of an angel in the song of a lark.
If you listen carefully you can hear it
the threads of the Creator in the lines
from these gentle folk joined in union of spirit
who sculpt words into friendships that rhyme.
It’s true the silken silvery bond
that’s here is rooted in sharing
unwrapping the soul and things beyond
things of the heart, spoken with daring.
Poetry and those who love it
is like comfy slippers or pjs
but it can also be hard to rise above it
when it hits us too close or edgeways.
So here we are sitting and paying
paying the coin of attention to these small reveals.
Ah! this listening is really more like praying
or gathering at table for a family meal.
We have come here like passengers on a train
a further journey for us who hopped aboard
I’m so very glad each of you came
and gathered here in this month of our newborn Lord.
Written 12-5-18
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In from the cold
Print this poem only
Cinnamon Smoke Print this poem only
Walking out to the mailbox
I breathe in the cool scent of fall
and from nowhere in particular
a memory of me running out for a pass
in the vacant lot - our neighborhood stadium -
where teenage boys
felt the thrill of freedom
in their lungs and limbs.
The cinnamon smoke
of a red candle
reminds me of my aunt Madeline
who prayed before the vigil light on her home altar,
and told me of her visions of the Virgin,
taught me the joy of faith and sacred music
and being a special nephew
destined for something higher.
Driving west on I-20 at 6:00pm
the layered gold and coral clouds on the horizon
bring back a trip to Colorado
pulling our little camper trailer
driving toward high altitude adventure.
It is said that poets
rely on brief encounters
with snippets of memories
arriving in a scent, a sidelong glance
or beams of light
hitting a daisy, dandelion or dragonfly
at just the right angle.
And if they are smart
poets allow these little moments
to glide on wings of imagination
and gently or with passion
light on the page.
I thank my muse
for each and all of these snippets
drifting in a momentary breeze
through the crack
in the window or my determined travel
and officiating at this marriage
of memory and writing.
Written 12-4-18
Their clothes tattered
and near exhaustion
they trudged the streets
into the night.
All that mattered
was finding safety and rest
and some sweet soul
who’d make them guests
and bring them
in from the cold.
I can hardly imagine their plight.
Having been out in the cold rain last night
running from home to car and car to church
I entered a room warm and dry
where friends were glad I’d come by
happy to behold
their buddy - in from the cold –
and I was welcomed with comfort.
So it’s hard for me to really know
the degree of this young couple’s woe.
Looking at them I could see
their strange sense of peace -
I can only imagine
the depth and breath of their courage -
knowing if it were me I’d be out for release
from my desperation and fear
with a gin and seven or a mug of beer.
This couple, he a carpenter, she with child
who had traveled treacherous miles -
from whom did their confidence come?
From parents or teachers
elders or preachers
where did it come from?
Somebody must’ve loved them -
one Someone who really cared
or a whole people
whose faith they’d heard declared
morning noon and night -
maybe these things were their bedrock of trust
their source of hope and light.
Whatever it was that sustained these two
I wish I had.
I wish I knew
a trust and its truth
as fulsome as theirs.
But I’m still learning
still growing still yearning
for such a faith
in a God who’s everywhere
whose very being is an ocean of care
who has my back, my heart, and my soul
who in the end
will bring me
in from the cold.
Written 12-7-18
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Learning Season Print this poem only
The winds and bright dying
of the leaves of fall
have brushed away the turning season
into the callous cold of winter
leaving behind a brown texture
of oak and pecan
scattered on the still green lawn
where they rest humbly,
their identity as living species
shriveling into the fog of memory.
I wonder what I can learn
from those leaves and the trees
who gently let go of all the little lives
and lay them on the ground
first to decay and then transform
from drying aching olding
into a mysterious unfolding.
Written 12-3-18
Scardy Brain Print this poem only
Audio of Glenn reading this poem
The last time I was sick
throwing up pints of ick
not once did I think of love
or anything above
that porcelain refuge
the object of my deluge.
Being sick focuses the brain
on the body’s strain
chains freedom to pity
makes one feel so bitty
all you can see is the floor to the pot
hoping you’ll be in time to squat.
Next morning when I hope it’s passed
questions arise in me to ask
what if this pause in my health
is no pause but a demise of the wealth
I’ve so long taken for granted
and I’ll be forever stuck and disenchanted.
Scarcity focuses the brain
like drought makes you ache for rain
or poverty narrows your sight
to the very next meal or bite
what you don’t have in hand
makes you do anything you can
makes you shout and sing
for that longed-for thing
you look hither and yon
for what seems so far gone.
Then you must work on relearning
to let go of sick yearning.
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Written 11-26-18
Found at Lost Lake Print this poem only
I can’t find my left glove
we have to go back to Lost Lake
to search.
Glove found on the ground
where they gathered leaves of red and gold
oh-ing and ah-ing
in awe of a bold autumn.
Where are my keys?
Frantically we look
Sis finds them between the seat and console
dropped when buckling my seatbelt.
Where are my new leather gloves
iPhone flashlight out to see in the deepening shadows.
They are on the floor right behind my feet.
We laugh at our aging ineptitude
happy we are together
finding mutual aid and humor
at Lost Lake.
Written 10-30-18 after a visit to Lost Lake, Whistler B.C. Canada
Crumbles Print this poem only
I don’t know why I allow myself
to be charmed by you,
your bright face and dulcet tones
promising me rich rewards
for my investment
if I give in just one more time
and return to you.
Why do I believe it will be different this time
when I have come back
time after time
submitting myself to your allure
only to see my efforts crumble
into a thousand pieces
like a clump of litter
from the cat box.
Maybe next time I will remember
the odor of those crumbles
and not allow my imagination
to fool me into returning.
But I doubt it.
Written 9-28-18
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Public Darkness Print this poem only
To me, the regrettable thing about social media
is it’s easy availability to even our darkest selves.
I have believed for a while
that often we strive to present a certain image
in these public spaces.
And yet some seem to care not
what faults and wounds they display.
I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not.
At my age I should know better.
But on rare occasions my pre-Buddhist pre-reborn-in-Christ self
rears its ugly head and I make me a public fool.
I wish I could say that I am a fool for Christ
but I’m afraid I lack the courage to make myself
such a glorious fool
so I opt for the inglorious one.
I heard a favorite teacher say
“Every day we need a little humiliation.”
I don’t know if I could take it every day
but on occasion it is a good antidote to ego.
It makes me realize how much I need God
and how easily I slip into darkness
without a regular dose of his nourishment.
Maybe exposing my darkness in public has its benefits.
Public honesty can be dangerous
but also salvific.
Being a public poet is a risky business
but so is being human.
Author’s Note: I’m not sure this is a poem, but it is something I needed to say.
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Written 10-8-18
Who’s going … to church this morning? Print this poem only
The skeptical scientific me
who wonders if it’s a show
people putting their best selves forward
for me and thee?
The faithful me who chooses to believe
in resurrection and life after earth
the me who remembers rebirth
and the joy that rained in my heart?
The me that lets go and falls into love
of the greeters and door-openers
happy to see smiling faces
on a day with parted clouds above?
The me bruised
with bumps with reality and loss
nailed daily by the boundaries I cross
forgetting prayer and missing cues?
I know something of the person I am
but which self in which place
I fall into isn’t in a program.
In my better moments that fickle self
stumbles and falls into grace.
Author’s Note: When I wrote this I seemed to have a cloud hanging over me, sticking my head out on occasion to let the sun shine on me, but it isn’t long before I am pulled back into that shadow self. I yearned for the self that knows joy and the inspiration sourced from the creator leading me to the crucible of creation. I hoped that church that day and this work would be a start.
Written 10-8-18
On the workbench Print this poem only
Audio of Glenn reading this poem
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I hoist the old scarred oaken chair
onto the workbench.
I think about how this nick
and that scratch
and that unglued cross bar
happened
and how many years it has withstood
the heavy weight of the humanity
who have found it and laid their burdens upon it.
And I give thanks that it is still repairable
still of use and available
for the brief respites
of those it serves.
I give thanks that I too
am still on the workbench.
Written 10-5-18
Entre Nous Print this poem only
Audio of Glenn reading this poem
In this twilight
after the day’s rich brew
of joy and error
your cup is always ready
to receive my concoction
no matter how stout.
And I can rely on you
to sip and savor it
treat it with the respect
of a connoisseur
and keep it
entre nous.
Author’s Note: “entre nous” is French for “between us”
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Written 9-28-18
Life in Gulps (haiku) Print this poem only
hummingbird sucks up
nectar swallowing in gulps
life awaits my gulp
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Written 9-11-18
A Poet’s Prayer on Labor Day Print this poem only
I rest in quiet tribute and praise
for the exquisite joy
of this modest labor
Written 9-3-18
Chickadee Print this poem only
The little chickadee
with his fulsome squeak
is feeding on small seeds
left by the jays and dove -
enough for him
and his swift flight.
May I learn
to take just enough.
Written 9-2-18
Practice Print this poem only
Sometimes I get put out
with my incompetence
or ineptitude.
I call myself names I would not utter
about another.
“Why didn’t I know that?” I ask
more an accusation than a question.
More often than not
the answer is simply:
I don’t practice it
I’m not careful or
I don’t get enough practice.
I forget my keenness for being a learner
and I puff up
thinking at least I’m no longer
a beginner.
I forget the thrill in being a beginner
when it’s so new, stimulating and exciting.
I wonder where and when
my beginners mind
faded.
For whatever new identity I aspire
when I lament not being higher
I need to recall
the joy of being a beginner
and then
add and
multiply
practice.
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Written 9-2-18
Cloud of Unknowing Print this poem only
I wish it wasn’t so hard to say “I don’t know”
to enter the cloud of unknowing
to be wrapped in solitude
and float there
free of activity
and self.
Written 9-1-18
Hummingbird Goodbye Print this poem only
By the end of next month
the hummingbirds will be gone
and I’ll have to find other wildness
to bring that tiny measure of joy
to my mornings.
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Author's note: Many factors trigger birds to migrate, but the strongest one is day length. As days grow shorter in late summer, hummingbirds get restless and start to head south, regardless of whether there are feeders around. More information
Written 9-1-18
A Small Piece Print this poem only
The cardinal is pecking
in the bird feeder
making cardinal out of seed.
Here I am
looking for a small piece of the divine.
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Written 9-1-18
Sparkling Drip Print this poem only
In this peaceful dripping
of the rain
I see sparkles
even under a cloudy sky
resting, not quite ready to drip
from the leaves of the Tallow.
May I sparkle
before I take the trip
of the drip.
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Written 9-3-18
Becoming an Earthling Print this poem only
On the horizon I see the clouds above the breaking daysky
and dark arcs of rain pouring down soaking soil.
These great open spaces invite my spirit to be free to fly
and join the source of all thunder
and this gray dawn.
In these times
where time vanishes
I sink into Earth like the rains
where there are no horizons
or division of land from sky.
I am grateful for being an earthling
despite the desperate tiredness
in my leg and calf muscles
and the aching in my joints and back
at day’s end.
The gift of sleep
sneaked into me
in the darkness and peace of night
and there in my dreams
I became a being of imagining
a me in fear and sadness
on the brink of courage
and in my drift
across the slumbering sea
I find beings familiar and different at the same time
men fulfilling possibilities
beyond their imagining,
men becoming.
So here I am drifting
into consciousness
on the melody of an Indian flute
and field lark songs
into another day
where this old me
again becomes
an earthling.
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Written 9-6-18
Leaving Yesterday Print this poem only
On the edge of the cliff above me
dirty rusty barrels loom
full of pollutants
detritus massed
from the darkness
of my errors
poor decisions
momentary failures to recall
and then act on the ideals
I rely on to inspire and move me.
Here I am at dawn
on the brink of a new day
full of possibilities
laughter, tenderness, listening and lingering
here I am at a moment of genesis
IF
I have the sense
and shameless audacity
to simply notice and accept those looming barrels
and their polluted contents
as yesterdays
and leave them there.
Written 9-7-18
The Heart of Poetry Print this poem only
I know poetry is about words
and I do dote on words
I treasure digging up just the right one
to lay out on the carpet and let fly
but I wonder if
it would be well
to just dwell
in the heart space
in silence
to hold the object of my anger or irritation
there
in silence
surrounded by blood
and warmth
there
in the anchor of life
I have come to realize
poetry and its cousin prayer
are just as much
about the heart
as words.
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Written 9-8-18
Sun-rise (Walt is keeping me awake) Print this poem only
“Dazzling and tremendous, how quick the sun-rise
would kill me,
If I could not now and always send
sun-rise out of me.”
- Walt Whitman
Oh how bright he shines
so bright - the light fades me
into the salty sea
until I stop and breathe
and fill my chest with his wide luxurious girth
his oversoul blanketing me;
I lay awake at night thinking of him
and all his leaves
and cannot sleep until I up,
grab his book
and open it to read him, amusing my tired old limbs,
and take the striking photos
into my eyes
like Lantana joyfully seducing butterflies.
Oh how deeply refreshing
these journeys with Walt,
imagining him first toeing the surf
then floating in the sea
where he gloats about how much they have to give each other.
Oh poet of tremendous heart
and mind that caresses earth
like Neruda passing his fingers over the hip
of his lover languid from the fervor of their union.
These two passionate men
my true forefathers
pierce me with their pens
when my mind is laden with routine
and in need of infusion
soaking and fertilizing
to regain my greenness.
My gratitude for their volumes
spills over onto these lines
all the while humbled by their greatness.
Author’s Note: A cherished and magnificent volume was given to us by a friend decades ago: The Illustrated Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman. It is a joy and always an inspiration opening it to any page and finding this great poet overflowing there. Another volume by my beloved Pablo Neruda, Odes to Common Things, has a similar effect.
Written 9-22-18
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Go Long Print this poem only
My buddy the quarterback said to go long
music to my ears the chorus of my song
I could easily outrun all the puny secondary –
the guys from one block over on wealthy Dewberry.
We were all better at football on Lillian Street
beating the crap out of those guys was oh so sweet.
Now mulling my interests, passions and such
I wonder why I love football so much
what with a life of writing, thinking and teaching
my football mania seems a tad overreaching
but still my arm flexes watching that heaver
connect in a perfect arch with his swift receiver.
Being Cajun in Texas where sports are king
probably explains something of why I’m so keen
and my pulse quickens as I remember
the neighbor boys’ shouts and calls in September
to meet them in our favorite autumn spot
down the street in that vacant lot.
Most of my life I’ve gone for short passes
connected with ideas and English classes
no novel for me, I fell for poetry
nor did I brave the rigor of a PhD.
Now finally, with my scores of years its not so wrong
to watch, leave it alone, wait a while, and go long.
Author’s Note: I couldn't go to sleep last night after watching the Bengals beat the Ravens (recording), so here I sit at 4:15 am just finished this poem. It became almost biographical I suppose, but as I tried to sleep I got this image of me racing to catch the long ball as a teenager and that vision would not let go until I wrote the poem. I'm tired now, ready for sleep. I hope it was worth the effort and you enjoy it half as much as I liked writing it.
Written 9-22-18
small cup Print this poem only
a small cup’s inside a vat
drip by drip
I've been working
on filling up
that cup
when it is full
and overflows
then I am done
for then the vat and I
are one.
Written 9-20-18
God in a Bag Print this poem only
Several college students stood around
arguing about the meaning of God.
Nearby sat an old Indian woman.
They asked her what she thought.
With a wan smile
she took a small blue bowl
from a plastic shopping bag
laid the crinkly bag on her lap
and pointing to it she said
“This is the universe.”
Then she pointed inside the bag’s opening
and said,
“This is God.”
Written 9-19-18
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Moored in Darkness Print this poem only
This day is so bright
and all seems so right
I wonder if I can stand it
I had not planned it
the clouds and rain
gnawed so unrestrained.
Early morn’s nightmare
still lingers somewhere
moored to the dark
where it won’t disembark
still clutching me in slimy grip
I’m on its derelict ship.
How can a dream be so strong
and make me feel so wrong
just a wispy demon in the night
by now should have taken flight
but here I sit in light of day
still hoping the malefic will away.
Written 9-17-18
Vision Problems Print this poem only
The old woman couldn’t see her meal
due to her vision problems
and exclaimed
with a smile of delight
how each meal was a surprise.
Oh, that’s corn but it’s not quite salty enough!
She was grateful for the unexpected,
even at age 98.
Isn’t it great even at 98
even with problems of the eye
still to be able to fly
from difficulties and muck
and give thanks for the good luck
and blessings of the moment.
I hope I will never have vision problems
so bad I cannot give thanks
for tasty corn, or a bright sunny morn,
or even for person gone away
for the joy in the park that day
for the bore
who makes me grateful and wanting more
of the people who inspired me
and lifted me to be more than I thought I could be.
I hope I never have vision problems
so bad I can’t feel gratitude
for all the wonders I’ve tasted
for all the hours I’ve wasted
just being with children and lovers
lingering under the covers
cuddling and giggling and feeling the soft touch
of the someone I love so much.
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Written 9-18-18
Leaving Yesterday Print this poem only
On the edge of the cliff above me
dirty rusty barrels loom
full of pollutants
detritus massed
from the darkness
of my errors
poor decisions
momentary failures to recall
and then act on the ideals
I rely on to inspire and move me.
Here I am at dawn
on the brink of a new day
full of possibilities
laughter, tenderness, listening and lingering
here I am at a moment of genesis
IF
I have the sense
and shameless audacity
to simply notice and accept those looming barrels
and their polluted contents
as yesterdays
and leave them there.
Author’s Note: Inspired by a dream.
Written 9-7-18
Prayer at Dawning Print this poem only
It is so good to be with you at this dawning
to be in the presence of you
the ultimate forgiver and reconciler.
In this momentary softness
I fly to your bosom and rest there
knowing you are eager
to see and be part of my genesis.
You are a God of now.
You are a God who forgets
the errors of my yesterdays
and resides in the possibilities
of creation this day,
this moment.
This now.
Written 9-7-18
Oh Canada! Print this poem only
The beauty of your body elates the eyes
mountains, streams, trees, lakes and sea
the radiant day of your first sunrise
snow and air and eagles set free.
Your people lift and delight my soul
with their peace, kindness and joy
native and creative energy unfold
and turn this old man into a boy.
Oh Canada! sadly and soon I must go
I’ll miss your freshness and peace
when I cross the border below
may my affection for you never cease.
​
Author's Note: Written at the end of our trip to British Columbia, Canada.
Written 11-3-18
Alone Together Print this poem only
Being with you is like being with my self
except sometimes I am at odds with me
I'd would rather just be in thee
we converse with such ease
not that what you say is always easy.
Written 11-8-18
God’s Promises Print this poem only
David tells God not to forget his promises
of successors and protection.
I wonder what his promises are to me
if he has made any at all.
But if he has not,
in a million small and large matters
he has protected me
except when I didn’t allow him to
which is probably most of the time.
Dare I expend the energy
to mentally list these matters?
I seem so lazy
when I think of my parents and how they sacrificed
their pleasure and comfort for me,
when I think of the pain I caused Mom
from the first weeks of conception on.
Oh how I have taken that love for granted.
How much more so with my Creator.
But truth is, I cannot separate the love
of Mamma and Daddy
friends who bore my boorishness
kin who’ve overlooked me overlooking them
I cannot separate these
from the fingers of the great sculptor.
(See I Kings 8:25-30)
Written 10-29-18
Maple Glory Print this poem only
The maple makes its glory complete
with such elegance and grace
halo shadow of crimson and gold at its feet
wet fall day a shimmering sacred space.
Written 10-31-18 Whistler B.C. Canada
After the Trek Print this poem only
Now they are memories
like silver threads in a gliding tapestry
how wondrous feeling and smelling the sea breeze
the aromas and excitement of the market
the cool magnificence of the mountains
in late autumn on the brink of winter.
These travels and their newness
still dance in my head
but even now my gut clinches
remembering the intensity
focus and preparations
of each day.
It’s the other dark side of the coin
sadly ashamedly evoking shame
to even mention it
a blotch in the snow
on the marvelous trek north.
But write it I must.
Does it take courage
to be pitiful in public?
But maybe that’s what poets do
undressing in front of everyone
is the stuff of nightmares
but here I am doing just that.
On the other hand…
How sweet the peace
and routines
back home
sitting calmly writing
looking out on the back yard
the tallow trees coloring
preparing to shed a variegated carpet below.
Maybe it took travel
to help me appreciate
the beauty of
these serene moments
at home.
Author’s Note: Written two days after our return from a glorious ten day trip to Vancouver and
Whistler, British Columbia.
Written 11-6-18
​
Early Morning Tears Print this poem only
After reading your story of the way
God came to you in others like a rose
I can see why in the morning you pray
to him with tears, how your love still grows.
I’m not used to being with people like you
whose affair with God seems so keen
his gentleness soaked through and through
to your heart where it has long been.
In a world marred by meanness and strife
such holiness brings sudden dismay
has trouble cracking the hardness of life
that too often in me has its way.
One who’s not been radically saved
whose faith roots don’t run a mile
who natural prayer and depth of faith he craves
will you loan? May I borrow your faith a while?
Author’s Note: Dedicated to my dear Brother and friend, Mike Tirone.
Written 11-8-18
Dirt Print this poem only
Can't remember last time
I knelt down to dig in the dirt
but I do recall all us boys who'd climb
the sandy loam pile in the yard
to make castles, caves and highways
and let our fantasies reign -
oh what glorious days
when fun was simple and plain.
We cared not about smudges
holey pants or muddy feet
had not learned about grudges
nor become expert in deceit
hadn’t yet been betrayed
enough to live in hurt
and conjure all the ways
we could spite and spread dirt.
Maybe every now and again
I'd benefit from kneeling down
and digging deeper grain by grain
in earthy dirt - to find my being’s ground.
​
Written 11-13-18
​
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The Stray Print this poem only
I followed him across sand and streams
stopped and stooped to care for the fallen
listened to his stories when they wanted rules
laughed when his guys goofed again
and he patiently repeated counsel
smiling at their folly and love.
He was different
didn’t fit the mold
didn’t always do as told
because his inner voice was loud
he heard it above the crowd
and the bosses
who threatened crosses
for all the misfits and rebels
for those who ignored the levels
of power and wealth
that would put them higher.
He wasn’t a big man pacifier
stayed with ordinary folk
and listened when they spoke.
I followed this stray
and still do today.
Written 11-17-18
Angels of Morning Print this poem only
​
They visit me often in the twilight sleep
of early morning, keeping me from drifting back
into my blessed slumber under the covers
in the cold and dark of winter.
Words of a poem
a solution to a computer problem
an inspiration to tell a friend
a cloud of fear indistinct but foreboding
an image of a book I know I must read
arousal in the arms of my love
a man chasing me with an ax raised high.
Are these the visitations of angels
fruits of a peaceful yesterday
the lingering shadows of my error
the first stirrings of a latent virus
or just plain indigestion?
Whatever or whoever cause these awakenings
sitting here before this small computer screen
I am grateful.
But now I am tired
and ready to save this,
turn off the heater and computer,
and go back to the warmth of my bed.
Summoning the angels of sleep
I rise and pray
for a better poem
another day.
Author’s Note: Teehee…
​
Written 12-9-18
Glowing in Moonlight Print this poem only
When I hit the wall
like a stubborn rubber ball
I bounced off of it
over and over I didn’t fit
knew I was defective
failed the directive
couldn’t learn the right speed
I was a stranger breed
loved the melodies repeated in my head
but lyrics learned with a shadowy dread
math was a flitting bird
but oh how I loved the word
words my dearest allies
every poem a surprise
loved religion because it flew
made me rise above the pew
for there I could get high
I could sing I could fly
until it made of me a fool
when again I couldn’t get the rule
or follow it or do it all right
it turned dark and I lost the light
in my clear blue eyes
what had been joy turned to cries
I too became a misfit
no longer open and sunlit
I learned to love moonlight
it was there I could write
and become true
my soul could come through
it was the moon and its soft glow
where poetry helped me grow
beyond the normal bounds
and I could hear the sounds
of angels and ordinary folk
who loved the me who was broke
and bent in a different way
not black or white but a shade of gray
I thank the Lord for those who could see
the beauty and goodness in that different me.
​
Written 11-17-18
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An Old Guy Gives Thanks Print this poem only
Getting old when the body breaks down
your mind goes to your muscle aches
it gets harder to look out and around
and see beyond your dumb mistakes.
But I’m going to try anyway
to find things for which I’m glad
to set my sights on a little play
and see some good instead of bad.
I thank God for the whiskers of cats
for tiny wiggly baby toes
for my baldness in cold and some nice warm hats
for socks and other warm clothes.
I’m grateful I can still kneel
and get up from a chair
for the cheer I feel
for Helen’s cute hair.
I thank God for nephews and nieces
who still love me and who care
even as my energy decreases
along with my hair.
For brothers and sisters in law
who open their homes and hearts
their courage in grit gives me awe
helps me keep on with my restarts.
I thank all the women who cook
for us lazy men as we sit on our asses
for all the work and time they took
for cleaning the dishes and glasses.
Thank God for our cats and dogs
for turkeys and bread and ham
and stories of wide mouthed frogs
for cards and just for giving a damn.
For all the work and the checks they paid
and kids who spent all that cash
for jokes and laughs and the games we’ve played
for the Sox and the Cowboys and that wide receiver’s dash.
These are just a few of the things I celebrate
this day with you my beloved kin
being with you today is so great
now, beloveds, let’s dig in!
​
Author's Note: this poem was read before the Thanksgiving meal we celebrated with the Mills family - they being kind enough to invite us there and to let me read the poem and to patiently listen as their stomachs growled.
Written 11-22-18
Being old is getting me down Print this poem only
Being old is getting me down
sometimes I think I’ll drown
in the sea of little things
and frustrations my old body brings.
I don’t want to transplant those little trees
I was supposed to with the advent of winter breeze
I don’t want to pick up around here
all the stuff that seems to appear.
It aches to get out of the car
my feet and leg won’t go as far
or as fast as they used to
moments of joy are too few.
When I lie down on the floor
to exercise it is such a chore
pulling myself up to stand
and then there’s that ache in my hand.
I’m not used to being this old
I curse myself and I scold
me for all those little mistakes
my brain and body makes.
I tell you I’m feeling awfully down
my face is sporting a big old frown
I can’t seem to accept the sad truth
I can’t do the things of my youth.
I’m getting sick and really tired
I can’t eat or drink the things I desire
I have to stop myself from taking that bite
but thank God I can still sit and write.
I can still put words together
even in any kind of weather
words are still my good friends
still paying rich dividends.
This exercise of my mind
doesn’t put my back in a bind
doesn’t make my muscles ache
or my tired legs and body quake.
So thank you my precious Lord
for inspiration when I’m bored
for those who listen to me gripe
for my patient and loving wife.
So when I’m old and getting down
may I find the right verb or noun
to say the pitiful things I feel
the words that will help me heal.
​
Written 12-1-18
Confessions of a Godparent Print this poem only
Her parents picked us to be godparents
for their baby girl
they wished to make us a firmer part of their family
they said, to latch us to their clan
and to their little girl.
We had a vague and tenuous idea of the tradition
that dictated we would be a guiding light
in her faith
be her connection with the community
witness her baptism
aid her lifelong spiritual formation
have an interest in her and her growth.
The main thing we knew however
was that we were honored
and though we could see the hope in their eyes
we did not have an inkling
of its depth.
How naive it was for us to say yes to this invitation
not knowing, not foreseeing nor foretelling
where our own faith walk would take us.
But we knew we belonged to that community
and in a sense we belonged to that family
even though we did not even know what that exactly meant
to us
and to them.
And now decades later
we are discovering what it meant to them
what their hopes and dreams were for us
how they latched their journey to our star
in an act of faith
faith in us
faith in God that he would take us along with him
and his Son on our journeys.
God did not betray their faith
but I did
in my limited vision
in my blindness
to the depth
of their hope and faith.
Now I am beginning to grasp
how deep
was their belief
and their trust.
They ask for forgiveness
for putting us on a pedestal
realizing their mistake
yet still firm in their faith
knowing God had not abandoned them
or betrayed their trust.
It was not God or his Son who left them
on the island of their faith.
They say they do not blame us
but I know it was I who betrayed their trust
who unwittingly, unintentionally left them there
on that precious island
that continues to feed them
and invite them to a closer relationship
with their Creator and the rich depth of his love.
I don’t know if any of us realize the import
of these decisions in our faith walks
at the time we made them.
Maybe it takes 30 years of journeying
of being friends
to come to that realization.
. . . . . .
James, Judy, and Amanda,
now when I recall
and feel the pain
of the many betrayals
of those whom I myself put on a pedestal
I begin to realize the depth of your hurt
and the wounds that might have been festering
for far too long.
And so I kneel before you
to express my remorse
to say how sorry I am
for my part in the hurt and betrayal you have felt.
Unintentional it was, but no less harmful
in spite of my ignorance and blindness.
A wound is no less a wound
due to the thoughtlessness behind the cut.
I ask for your forgiveness
even though I do not feel worthy of it.
​
Written 12-31-18
