Thursday, December 14, 2006

Pumpkin Party

27 October 2006
Wrote this a while ago, but never got around to posting it.

There were so many significances-
scents of cinnamon and cognac
in spiced wine, the second slice
of homemade pumpkin pie,

to say nothing of the pumpkins-

oh, the pumpkins!
The fight they gave and lost,
the battles won with store-bought
pumpkin carving tools, for this is serious
business we've engaged.

And the being with, wherein lies the magic
of any autumn evening, and certainly
a gathering of such magnitude.

The being with is what brings me to life,
what I cannot do without


14 December 2006, 1:32 PM

The hem of the garment gathers nigh,
and I, evinced as prophetess,
wonder how much of fulfillment
is due to my own seeking;
to Providence; to meddlesome
friends who intend the best
and know me well enough to comprehend
who and what I need, and when.

Monday, December 11, 2006

Bright Sadness

11 December 2006, 1:35 PM

Worn out, emotionally
and physically. So much change
in such a short period of time-
it doesn't make much difference
that the change is positive and life-giving.
Change is change, and I'm tired.
I've yearned so long for an ounce of stability.

It never seems to come.

No sooner has one tidal wave hit
than another begins to build. Brace
for one grief while recovering from another-
and my reader will understand that even
impending joy can bring deep sorrow.

We call it Bright Sadness.

There's a place inside which cannot bear
a moment more of this blinding pain;
who needs to weep her eyes dry; have it
done, but the tears don't seem to come.

I'm so tired.

Monday, November 27, 2006

Armageddon Meets Cloud Nine

27 November 2006, 9:56 AM

Cerulean and silvered white
against a faithful azure sky
lean down to trace my lips
with sunset’s pastel orange hue.

The deeper shades of fiery red,
Cerise and coral in my head
encroach upon a perfect autumn breeze,
a sky as deep as it is wide,
and eyes without a hint of guile.

Armageddon draws nigh-
the muted shades of early evening
deepen to impending doom,

and I wait for it.

The warring sky engulfs Cloud Nine,
meets deepening color as this evening
permeates my own,

and I find I am still alive; at home
as these too long whitened clouds
turn all the colors of the sky

of me

and my heart ambles along its beat,
the only certain part of me,
even as the Truth unfolds
and I am not alone.

Sunday, November 26, 2006


12 March 2006, 4:57 PM

Another older poem, though not very.

There is one who cannot touch
except to pound the fist
who cannot speak unless to scream aloud
who cannot drink but to inebriate
who cannot eat apart from gorging
beyond his sate

Such a one will never understand
the lengths to which she goes
to beckon forth the parts of her
requiring a whisper
a feather touch
the brush of a lash upon the cheek
the tenderness of breath against bare skin
or gentle summer breezes
wafting silk against an azure sky
scarcely moving a lock of hair out of place
to fall across my face
and hide the parts which cannot bear
the grating of the wind


26 November 2006, 1:15 AM

There's a purpose in limitations.

Without them, how does one ascertain
integrity and concern for other
which runs deeper than the moment?

And to whom am I speaking?
Someone without,
or within?

Saturday, November 25, 2006

A Grander Moldau

July 7, 2005

Still looking back at old favorites. I love Smetana's "Moldau." And I love the Reservoir.

The bank clock proclaimed ninety-two degrees.
The air was so stifling as I left my apartment,
I did not doubt its integrity for a moment.

I’m here now at the reservoir;
the breeze upon my skin is cool,
so cool that I begin to question my perception.

Behind gray and glowing clouds,
I hear Your power thunder;
source is veiled, but not sound.

I wonder at reverberations
transforming earth into a timpani;
rain falls like a piccolo,
a recital of Smetana’s Moldau, only grander;
this music he could only imitate,
which no one yet has, nor ever shall
manage to duplicate.

I wonder what strange language
rain speaks to leaves in my beloved Sycamore?

I wish I could sing like that.
If only I could speak pure truth
the way these thousands of droplets
slap against the pavilion’s roof, the grass,
the thirsty ground, the once-still waters,
alive and rippling, reflecting naught except grace
sent to slake creation’s thirst.

I thirst, yet not for rain,
though something in this torrential
stillness of the mind,
where I find myself content to listen to the
praise of the sky and single-minded wisdom of rain,
brings me to deeper stillness yet.

Even as I wrap this shawl around my shoulders,
the wind bites through, reminds me of mortality,
and also of eternity.

Mystery becomes You…

And somehow,
this finitude reveals, conceals,
instructs and astounds;
leaves me speechless in divinity.

Friday, November 24, 2006


June 23, 2005
for Ada

Have been reading through old stuff, remembering where I've been, how I've healed, how I am still so very broken. I am particularly fond of this poem. It describes a moment in time of learning to trust someone outside of self- a prerequisite, it seems, for learning to trust self.

I cut and pass my deck of daisies
across the table to the dealer.

One up, one down.
The Queen of Spades is showing.

"Hit me."

You stare at me,
as if I just said the sky is purple.

"HIT me."

English must not be your forte,
or perhaps Blackjack is not your game.

"Goddamnit, HIT ME!"

I have the urge to jump across the table
and wrench your hands from your pockets;
force you to deal the cards I've handed you,
like everyone else has done.

If you're going to sit at the Blackjack table,
don't twiddle your thumbs...

Hit me or leave.

You do not vacate your chair.
You simply eye the card in front of me,
the one neither you nor I have seen,
and it occurs to me
that I have gambled my life
with half the knowledge it takes
to win.

You place a single finger atop the deck
and slide the long awaited card toward me,
then you slowly turn it over to reveal
the King of Hearts...

And my heart cracks,
cries, screams, kicks and pleads,
begs me to retract my words.

But too late.

A tear escapes my eye
as reluctantly it finds
the card which I've neglected.

My trembling hand extends,
touches lightly on the lovely white daisy
gracing the back of the card.

I close my eyes, grasp the card,
slowly turn it over;

breathe relief-
indeed, the first breath of a lifetime...

An ace.

Tuesday, November 21, 2006


21 November 2006, 9:05 PM

I have a knack for making life
ever so much more complicated than it need be,
fretting, moaning and frightening about this
and that, never considering there might be
an easier way- just let it unfold
with discernment intact and eyes wide open.

Fear is irrelevant, though I may feel it.
If what I fear is coming, it will come
regardless of what I do or do not do
to avoid or rework or disregard entirely.

If it comes not, I cannot make it- though I can
create other knots to fill my time in the future,
other dilemmas to keep life interesting,
other potholes to fill later on
with the mortar of disinherited memory.

Monday, November 20, 2006


20 November 2006, 8:34 PM
On the eve of the Feast of the Entrance.

I'd had my fill of butterflies-
honestly, I didn't see how they'd fit
another kindred into so small a space-
they were crammed wing to wing already,
beating furiously against my abdomen.

I hadn't realized the power of simple,
unassuming touch to calm the chaos-
she's such a mother, such a gift to me
for my sanity, to know just what I needed,
and just when; how silence coupled
with a ken which entails my world's
complexities could bring the butterflies
to rest for just a moment
in the solace of our Father's house.


20 November 2006, 12:23 AM

The words I seek cannot be spoken,
nor could I recount if I tried
all things broken, left unmended
for a time, and hope which comes
when once the opportunities arise,
always keeping wisdom and discernment
within sight, to redeem
what never was what it should have been,
to find what should never have been lost;
has seemed irretrievable for most
of a lifetime. I know nothing
beyond the dragons flying 'round about
the corners of my mind; the Sycamore
so long at rest, or searching-
yes, searching in the shadows
of a night which could not have lasted
forever- if I'm honest, I always knew
it wouldn't last beyond its measure.

Perhaps it hasn't yet reached its measure,
and I think I can live with darkness
a while longer, if need be.

Light of Moon and stars
has seldom led astray my feet,
even when the path they walked upon
has made me weep.

Sunday, November 19, 2006

Finding North Wind

It occured to me tonight to take a look back at where I was in my writing a year ago. I'm glad I did.

I was originally introduced to the writings of George MacDonald, and specifically to _At the Back of the North Wind_, by an online poetry buddy by the handle of Mahlonovich. Many thanks and much affection still go to him for bringing me face to face with my dear North Wind.

Many thanks also to George MacDonald for the gift of North Wind. She has come to mean something other to me than MacDonald may have originally intended. But that's the beauty of great literature, and an illustration of George MacDonald's singular ability to create a character whose impact is so striking, one cannot help but love her and own her meaning long after finishing the book.

17 November 2005, 8:59 PM
Edited 19 November 2006, 6:51 PM

I sat beside North Wind,
and she told me of the lands of magic
beyond the periphery of her sight.

She is full of paradox,
my dear North Wind,
for my vision is made clearer
by all she cannot see.

She comes to me as I sit
within this seeming-stagnant pool,
Yet in her presence all becomes
a living, breathing being;
bankless river ever flowing,
tripping over mossy rock and down
the sharp incline of mountain
toward emerald grass of valleys below.

I've never heard her chuckle
nor stifle a giggle,
for her laugh is thunder,
toppling the mountain whence she came.

Nor have I ever seen her
just a little cross: Beneath her rage
the very earth is set trembling.
She sets ablaze the firmament
with naught but her indignant gaze.

I've never seen a single tear
drop from her eye,
for when she weeps
the rushing river which is she
becomes a mighty torrent
overwhelming me.

I've never heard her whistle
but she ended in a song
which was as deep as it was long,
nor any smaller nor less strong
for having found its birth
within the breast of one
so small at once,
and yet again so very large!
To quantify such majesty
is far too great a task,
beyond my reach.

And quite pointless besides.

For once I had her pegged,
she simply would be off again,
tripping over hill and stone,
alone or in the company of princes.

It matters not to her.

She simply is,
and will not long abide
my notions of what is needful.

North Wind and some imagery taken from and inspired by George MacDonald's "At the Back of the North Wind."


I HATE being wide awake and exhausted at the same time. Most 'specially and 'sclusively (if you haven't read Kipling, you really must) at 0430 AM in the morning. Yes, I am aware that "0430 AM in the morning" is doubly redundant. In Hebrew (or is it Greek? Or do I care anymore?), repetition communicates emPHAsis.

And it just occurred to me that I'm hungry, which adds insult to injury. Nevertheless, I shall attempt to find Sleep again. Do pray, Best Beloved, that Sleep finds me.

19 November 2006, 4:36 AM

There comes a moment in waking
when you realize there’s no going back.
You’re stuck with wakefulness, perhaps
until morning, though you may be desperate
for any sort of rest. None will be found,
for you spent the day filling your head
with thought after thought after thought,
and not a one of them will let you sleep.
They've got you by the tail, Best Beloved,
and not a one of them will let you sleep.

So you go about your business at 4:30 AM,
trying to pretend it’s normal to be
so very alert and feeling so drained
it’s difficult to sit up.

Yet it’s torturous to lay down.
There’s nothing on that couch
nor in that bed that will coax your mind
into letting go its vigilance.

No, Best Beloved, there’s nothing at all
on that couch nor in that bed
to lead you on to rest.

“Best Beloved” borrowed from Rudyard Kipling’s _Just So Stories_.

Friday, November 17, 2006


9 November 2006, 9:54 PM

Please don't think me false if I can't appear
at home in my own skin- it's difficult,
may even seem contrived when I attempt
the simplest expression of what may be
so fundamental from the outside
looking in: Few things here are granted.
Every speck of reality is up for debate
and rigorous testing. Assume nothing
when you've finally attained the Inner Sanctum-
even I don't know what I might say,
where I might go, who I might be
when once an Unknown steps inside of me.

Wednesday, November 15, 2006

A Bottle

27 June 2006, 1:27 PM

A younger wine, fruity and sweet,
has obvious virtues to the untrained palate;
is easy to enjoy with no investment nor interest
in the fine art of fermentation.

The more discerning tongue cannot delight
in a brew intended for the masses.

Unwittingly (or perhaps quite intentionally),
I have learned to prefer more sophisticated
flavors, less obviously sweet, patiently
alluring, gently drawing me toward spices;
composition and complexity;
a longer finish; pleasure which lasts
beyond a bottle.

Monday, October 23, 2006

Mistress of Meals

23 October 2006, 7:47 PM
for Bernice

I’d forgotten
the smell of Bisquick and 2%
at 5:30 in the morning.

I always thought the crack of dawn
darkness was compulsory,
as grandmother moved about
a kitchen she knew like her own
floury hand (she didn’t need much light)
pressing dough on a pale yellow,
floury formica countertop.

I was always the early riser
in my family- the one up at sunrise
when I could’ve slept ‘til noon. I woke
with the first sign of movement
in that homely room which stood
adjacent to the den. Bob Barker
was hours away, but granddad’s
sausage-grease eggs were well on their way
as I perched atop a bar stool,
eagerly awaiting my portion
of the dough. I made child-sized biscuits
and handed them over
to the mistress of early morning meals.

For all I knew back then, she was
the mistress of every meal.
I couldn’t wait for breakfast, lunch,
dinner at her house- each seemed grand
to a blonde-haired, green eyed,
sleepy little five-year-old girl
whose grandparents were her world
during those short visits
to their south Texas home.

Little did I know the woman
made everything with Bisquick.
The moist and savory smell of such
will always bring her back to mind,
more so even than the mention
of that dewberry cobbler I loved so much.
I could never manage to obtain her recipe:
“A little flour, a little milk, a little leaven…”

Mystery solved. Bisquick,
though I never did ascertain
before the bush in her backyard died,
exactly what constitutes a dewberry.

I had not pegged her as coy.
It appears I have a great deal
to learn about my grandmother.

Much to learn, and precious little
time in which to learn it. Scarce
the opportunities to sit upon that stool
these days. I am so very far away
from who and where I was back then.

I remembered her tonight, preparing
dinner. Mixing Bisquick and 2%,
that unmistakable scent aroused
longing for moments long since passed.
I called my little boy from his room,
floured the kitchen table,
and he perched atop the dining chair,
eagerly awaiting his portion
of the dough.. He made child-sized biscuits
and handed them over
to the mistress of early evening meals.

Saturday, October 21, 2006


21 October 2006, 11:42 PM
Anniversary of Maria Vesper's death

I walked the course with Leslie
and talked about a lot of things today,
never wondering beyond my vision’s reach,
soaking up the rays and the faithful
friendship that only time can teach;
never once concerned with what I’d do
when I got home. I was content
to be with her and then to be alone.

Tuesday, October 17, 2006

Northerly Wind

16 October 2006, 10:59 PM

There’s an awful lot of dialogue, waiting
for my hair to grow, waiting
for falling snow in September.

It’s October now- the snow is closer
than it was. But I’ve been waiting
for a month or longer- since the Spring,
if I’m honest. I’ve been waiting
since the flurries ceased to fall last year-
waiting with many a sigh and silver tear.

There’s not much happiness
in waiting. I find sadness, solitude,
sometimes silliness, though not much
joy. I’m just tired, and eager for the wind
to change. So strange that I should
long again for home the way it was-
the way it killed me from the inside out,
unrelentingly and without apology.

The nights are harder than the days
sometimes. I think I’ll never see the end
of my own wants, my own thoughts beaten
bloody by the too long Northerly Wind.

I had come to see in her a friend.
I’d say she’ll find vindication in the end,
revealed for what she is: mighty
river bellowing against tender reeds,
teaching them to stand up strong and tall
against her gracious, brutal current.

I wonder, should she ever cease to flow,
if the rushes then will know how to stand
with nothing left to brace themselves against.

Saturday, October 14, 2006

That's My Kid

14 October 2006, 10:50 AM

If you'd told me ten years ago I'd be
a soccer mom today, complete with minivan,
extra coats and snacks-in-tow-

I suppose far-fetched is an overstatement.
I'd have believed you.

What I didn't count on was the sense of pride
and joy at watching the little ones-

GOAL!!! Way to go Isaiah!

That's my kid- my kid made a goal!
It's a shame his father wasn't here to see
another first. Ah well, there'll always be
the second, perhaps even before next season-


My GOD, THAT was my kid too! Did you SEE that?
That was my KID- MERCY, but he's good at this!
Why am I surprised? The little ones don't know
they can't- they only know they'll try.

GOAL!!! Good job, Kelly!

Their delight outstrips my own by far, perhaps
because their joy is by doubt unadulterated-
they do not know ambition nor self-conscious
anxiety as big folks more often do than not.

GOAL!!! Way to put it in, Quin!

Neither do they know the rules of the game,
but sakes alive, they surely know to play!


My back was turned- I didn't see the shot,
but the aftermath is unmistakable- someone scored.
High-fives all around, and victory goes to the Storm.

My little one, from allstar transformed
to weepy puddle of hunger and exhaustion,
and I apologize to coach for his off-the-field
attitude toward the game. Coach smiles,
assures me that he earned his keep.
He plays hard, and one can hardly fault
the kid who scored three goals for the team.
Three? Three goals, coach? Are you sure?

That last one I missed- my kid made that shot.
Did you see it? That was my kid.

Wednesday, October 04, 2006

KY 169

4 October 2006, 7:15 AM

Kentucky is beautiful to me,
especially when I find myself
her only witness, or one among few,
as the foaling barns and mowing sheds
are lit with a warmth that only comes
from an up-before-dawn vigilance
to the privilege of caring for the earth
and her children.

Misty not-quite-morning rests
lazily, enshrouding rusty remains
of tractors long since left to pasture,
silhouetted against a morning slow to rise-
he hovers lightly, loathe to leave
his originate earth, this blue-green cradle,
soon to be his resting place again.

Tuesday, October 03, 2006


3 October 2006, 8:12 PM

Earrings, skirts, blouses,
and scarves- don't forget the scarves.
Outward, visible signs of an inward, spiritual
confusion of what ought to go without saying.

Ontology is anything but granted.
We are so satisfied with the brand of reality
we assume. So many things
are not the way they are but for the blood,
sweat and tears of someone who toiled
or didn't
in order that another might walk any given path,

and I know this.

So many have not found an existential groove
save earrings, skirts and blouses. These
I do not take for granted, choosing
each so particularly every chance I get,
satisfied in the knowledge
that if one wants to see,
(and most do not)
all he has to do is look.

Saturday, September 09, 2006

Joy of the Evening

8 September 2006, 11:48 PM

I'm sitting at the south end
of a north bound statue pondering
an evening spent laughing and laboring,
inspiring and idling with heaven's finest,
loving all there is to love

and wishing in some part of me
that there were ways to see them
so much more clearly than I did
tonight. The cricket crawling at my feet
does not cause recoil as it might
if I were not intent upon appreciating
the finer moments of the night,
enjoying the company of so many angels
and the milder stages of intoxication,
avoiding the line beyond which
I've gone to far.

Can I love more than I've loved;
want more than You've given tonight?
There's a forlorn moment that comes
in the solitude; silence descending
in the aftermath speaks sadness to me
as the crickets chirp;
cicadas chirrup their lullaby
and I say goodnight, knowing
there are others for whom
the joy of the evening has only

Tuesday, August 29, 2006


Just read a post [from 2003] on the subject on a site I visit fairly regularly. It was more than a relief to read the words of a man denouncing pornography without reservation. If you'd like to read it, click here.

Around this time last year, I was told about a certain brand of feminism which holds that pornography is empowering of women. Below is my response to that conversation.

17 September 2005, 6:24 PM

Empowerment as subjugation,
one sex to another-
a familiar story with an eerie twist,
placing man beneath femininity;
making him less than
you; making you less than
you were before.

Progress as regress,
mocking evolution-
a 360 degree revolution,
now we’ve taken up
weapons both have wielded
for centuries,
reclaimed our bodies
by hurling them like hand grenades,
making Woman nothing
but body parts to lure; entice;
give some false sense of hope
that we control something
ultimately, outside of self.

And so we are violated twice-
once by men, then by ourselves.

The body of a woman holds much
power; has been misused in myriad ways-
illustrious, imaginative, ingenious-
impudent, insolent... ignorant.

You make the sacred an asylum;
beauty, ashes;
personhood a thing to wield;
womanhood, political fodder.

Empowerment becomes a straw-man,
and it matters not if you win the debate,

for the givers of life have sold
their birth-right
in order to sate their pride.

Saturday, August 19, 2006

Exceeding Splendor

19 August 2006, 12:16 PM

Harrodsburg Road is a long, dim drive
most mornings. Monotony sets in
long before I think to pay attention to the trees,
the horses, or even the expanse above them- dark
or bright, gay or filled with tears- a favorite subject,
and ubiquitous on days when misty-morning haze
knits landscape to muddy-gray of not quite cloudy,
not quite cloudless sky.

On one such day, the sun appeared-
amidst a sullied plain of muddled colorlessness
which I mistook as overcast- a neon disk of fire
dulled by the morning haze, impressive,
though not quite lovely; undeniable, though not
quite convicting, not quite high enough in its ascent
to beautify the heavy fog upon rolling hills;
valleys of blue-green.

The higher she rose, all the more golden seemed
the land before, behind, above; the more inspired
seemed the wisps of cloud, descended that morning,
as if they meant to kiss the Earth before ascending;
vanishing again.

As earth and wind and sky waxed in loveliness,
less and less could eye behold the beauty of the sun,
so brightly did she shine. Only for the radiance
released; bestowed upon the land did she shine out
all the more magnificent; find her glory in drawing eyes
toward something other than self, and so exceeded
all else in splendor.

Saturday, August 12, 2006

What You Would Say

12 August 2006, 1:17 AM

I can’t say I didn’t stop and wonder,
only that I didn’t stop as I wondered
(as if there was any question)
what You would say
if I asked.

I pushed and grasped for things not mine
and foiled a good gift You might have given;
foiled the good gift You could still have given
even as I realized what I missed in my grasping.
Even the thing grasped might end in blessing
if I let it.

And now, thwarted in every plan and gift,
the blessing may yet fall,
if I let it-

so now, “after the ruin has fallen,”
I will stop and I will ask
what You have to say about who I am
and who I’ve been tonight,
and though the blessing may strike
thrice the more painful for my struggling against
the answer I’ve known all along I’d receive,
I will receive, and in the pain
Your blessing will fall
as I let it.

Saturday, August 05, 2006

Near Enough

5 August 2006, 3:28 PM

This gift can be a burden,
driven to encapsulate every movement
of grief, rage, despair, joy.
Pen runs dry, and so do I
tire of the attempt to convey
imperceptible shifts of mood,
light and shade- they play
perpetually upon the waters of mind,
broken not occasionally by fin
and ken which runs too deep
for words. I cannot stretch
far enough to find the place and time
wherein self knows and is known
perfectly- must be content
with a near-enough representation,
far from enough to sate desire.


5 August 2006, 1:57 PM

So accustomed to an unchanging glimpse-
a painting, poem, book or song-
encapsulation, representation of a moment
in time, though not the moment itself-

it no longer exists.

The essence of time: Movement.
unending alteration,
occasionally imperceptible. Beauty indwells
the painting, poem, book and song
because it captures movement
of a unique and unrepeatable measure of time.

Love and long for it with hands, arms, heart
wide open to the possibility; probability
such will not last; is only held for being
set free to run its course; bring deep sadness;
joy inexpressible, a gift for salvation
if we let it.

Friday, July 14, 2006

This Time

14 July 2006, 12:16 AM

azure breeze dances
leads me through trances
of light
of color and serenity
now I can see, see more than

on the face of the waters
beckons me toward the deep
I know not what keeps me
from the edge, what keeps me
from sinking so deep I cannot

escape never crosses my mind
these days- I'd rather float free
upon the depths; discover
where they'll take me
this time

Tuesday, July 11, 2006

Mattie's Magnolias

Awaiting Mattie's arrival.
10 July 2006, 7:54 PM

To the right of the porch,
a young magnolia- the southern variety-
no pink saucer bullshit.

Don't get me wrong, the saucers are beautiful.
But the great southern magnolia has no equal.
So many graceful branches merging
to a trunk of such girth
it must have evolved from multiple seedlings.

Leaves of young, matte green, healthy
and open to the sun. I wonder how I ever
preferred the watered-down saucer bullshit
to this lovely bit of southern hospitality,
like an afternoon spent on a porch-swing
twenty years ago with my grandparents
and a tall glass of iced tea on a hellish,
South Texas Sunday afternoon.

To the left and slightly back- I cannot see
its fullness- only a few aged branches
peaking out around the porch. An older specimen
I cannot call stately.

I remember how I came to prefer bullshit-prissy
saucer magnolias to a less refined variety.

Leaves are curled and waxy; darker, muted
green in places, yellow in others
with all the markings of a ripe, brown banana.
Foliage less dense, unarguably less attractive.

Halts the mind, mid-critique:

How easily one abandons
a thing no longer beautiful as it once was,
though still alive,
which in proper time gave joy of a kind;
in proper time would bring joy of another
if one could be found to receive the gift,

not unlike my grandmother
a decade ago, standing outside on the driveway
in a cotton dress waving, watching us disappear
around the corner. She stood there without fail
beside my blue coverall-clad granddad in the South
Texas heat. They never once considered
going inside before their granddaughter
was out of sight.

She is no less lovelynow,
sitting in her rocking chair, alone
except for the cats, hair discolored,
wits less poignant, a little worse for wear
after decades spent in that damned heat.

I steal another glance at the aged magnolia
as I wonder when last I saw my grandmother,
bearing no less love in her growing frailty,
standing in the sun, waving goodbye to me.


Awaiting Mattie's arrival.
10 July 2006, 6:43 PM

Concrete is hard on a body,
regardless of it's berth; harder,
I'd argue, on skinny folk, those of us
with too little padding to ward off
discomfort of bone and solid, unforgiving
cement pressing hard against skin.

The sound of engines roaring
down a main drag that isn't Main Street
jerks me to attention every time.

Time... what time is it?
Where the hell are they?

No matter.

I'm sure to be thoroughly bug-bitten
by the time they arrive- more alive
for all the slap-and-scratch
keeping me alert, present, and waiting.

Saturday, July 08, 2006

Back in Time for Vespers

On the Sheltowee Trail II
8 July 2006, 10:13 PM

We wanted to be back in time for Vespers,
so we set off early, though not as early
as we’d planned. We packed into vans
and headed to the Gorge.

It was a strange but beautiful slice of Paradise.
A little Nora for while, then all consented
to a blast from the past, immersing ourselves
in the King of Pop as my son danced to a song
he’d never heard… He’s still singing
about how really, really bad he is.

A supposed-quarter-closer-to-a-full-mile hike
to the swimming hole, a morning well spent
jumping off two-story boulders to an icy-cold
river below; swinging on a rope whose integrity
was as questionable as the potability of the water
into which we flung ourselves; of which all received
a fair mouth-full or two.

Smooth, flat rocks were good for the getting.
Several found their ways across the water hole
to a new resting place beside the boulder.
Perhaps they will not see the light again,
but no more glorious end may be found
for a well-worn skipping-stone, skimming dizzily
across murky waters so fast the one who hurled
could not quite count the skips from shore
to Sheltowee boulder.

We wanted to be back in time for Vespers,
so in the early afternoon we set out to hike
a five mile hike, kids-in-tow, on the Sheltowee.

Queen of the Rock-Skippers

On the Sheltowee Trail
8 July 2006, 1:35 PM

There's sand in my shoes.
That may be why they're called sandals.
Little children run this way and that,
splashing on the shores of the river.

The breeze is cool. The water, icy.
The boulder's just high enough to inspire
both terror and delight.

I think God made rocks for days like this.
He may even have made the one in my hand
to set the others in awe of me;
crown me Queen of the Rock-Skippers;
help us understand how holy it is
to laugh and play together often,
under a pale strip of blue sky
and sun's warmth, made gentler now and again
by a darkling cloud.

The trail is calling.
Noon has fallen.
Evening draws nigh,
and we want to be back in time for Vespers,
so we leave behind this corner of Paradise
to find another
as we set off on the Sheltowee Trail.

Thursday, July 06, 2006

The Day After

6 July 2006, 12:23 PM

I realize now and again
life isn't what I think it is.
It isn't all that bad (now).
It isn't all that good (yet).
It's altogether livable,
even enjoyable if I let it be today,
and if it is not tomorrow, it will be
the day after.

I can see now and again
the moments of annihilation
will pass if I don't hold them
too tightly. I close my eyes,
understanding the darkness
will be gone when I open them
again. I weep now, knowing
tomorrow my eyes will be dry,
red, but dry. And if they aren't
tomorrow, they will be
the day after.

Few things are permanent,
fewer still are certain
in any sense of the word.
I know at least this emptiness
is bound to find its fill.
If it does not tomorrow, it will
the day after.

Monday, July 03, 2006


Pondering something vague from the vantage point of a mood that is fleeting- how life develops into modes of complexity before we have the thought to exert any influence over it. We are often spectators in a story that does not lend itself with any success to passivity. One might at any time choose a more active role in the narrative, but once a body has resigned itself for any significant amount of time to inactivity, it is all the more difficult to rouse the senses; sharpen discernment.

Thursday, June 29, 2006

The Boss

Seager Sessions I
29 June 2006, 10:47 PM

There's nothing like a cancelled session,
a little Springsteen
and Bourbon on the rocks to make me glad
I'm not anywhere but here.

I can't say I recognized him at first,
all clawed-and-hammered up-
there's nothing like a little Seager
to make a man what he ought to be.

I'm terribly glad to be at home with you.
So many things ought to make me so not
comfortable with who you are.
The man's man has never been my forte,
to say nothing of the little black dress,
so intimidating at first glance,
but so appropriate.

And it's all those things rolled into one,
making you the big brother I never wanted;
the bouncer of my love life (or lack thereof);
the harasser of any man who comes to call
and the harbinger of gritty wit on a day
that wasn't what it should have been,
but was so much more than it would have been
without you,
the Boss
and the Roses.

Wednesday, June 28, 2006


Of Trees & Skydiving
28 June 2006, 2:29 PM

So you want to be a tree,
which, by the way, is fine with me.
I'm not yet prepared to leave
the shade you've provided.

You see, I also am a tree of sorts.
My roots are tender,
still a bit weak and reaching
down into the soil beneath
the canopy of your branches.

I've been skydiving all my life,
not unlike you in that regard,
each landing a gamble;
a little harder than the one before.

That last jump finally broke my pot.
Now I'll plant myself for good or I'll fade;
my branches will not green again.

I'm glad to know my roots
have time to grow strong
before you jump;
if you jump

Monday, June 26, 2006


26 June 2006, 2:51 PM

Every breath expands
possibilities, like great gray ships
sailing the azure firmament.
Any moment, they'll release
a flood to bring life
singing from root, bough and twig.

Life as it is
will never be again.

That tree will shed at least one leaf;
tomorrow will be something
other than it is today.

Perhaps three or four will sprout;
replace the fallen,
but he will never be;
his like I'll never see

Tuesday, June 20, 2006


19 June 2006, 12:37 AM

I enjoyed a smoke tonight.
It may raise your brow for me to say
I need this pipe, but I do, for now.

I need something that makes you
smile, shake your head, question my wisdom;
something you wouldn't do, that I would,
just to make it clear to you (or me)
that I can choose it against you
and your better judgment.

Ah, the adolescence I never experienced:
the drive to disobey or rebel
that I never indulged back then-
it still exists, lives, breathes inside of me,
and I grasp at times for ways to give it voice,

though the time for breaking free of parental
authority is long past. I still feel this dire
need to throw back the Bourbon;
foolishly stand the ground you give so freely.

I am not deceived.
My rebellion is milder by far than I imagine.
I spend a great deal of time blowing smoke
as you stand by and applaud my voice,
regardless of where I find it-
in a poem or a pipe
or a shot of Woodford Reserve.

Sunday, June 04, 2006

Dream with Me

4 June 2006, 3:15 PM

We lay under that tree again,
only this time it wasn’t Maille.
Little Jacob had the time of his life
wiggling his toes, grabbing my nose,
smiling at the faces I made
as his chilly little fingers found my face.

Maille found us, as if she remembered
that very spot a year earlier.
She plopped down beside us,
said my name and smiled, delighted
at how wonderful the wind felt to her toes.

Tree gave us shade, wind cooled our skin,
leaves danced and whispered in light
of a blue sky day, while great white cloud
ships sailed the deep.

A year ago today, I lay here with Maille
waiting for a storm that came
just as it had promised.
It came and thrashed about,
turned my world inside-out,
but left me whole and yearning
for just one more moment
beneath the shade of an oak tree
with whatever child saw fit to stare
at the azure sky
through the shimmering emerald canopy
and dream with me.

Tuesday, May 30, 2006


30 May 2006, 1:20 PM

Brilliance is exhausting;
tempts one to lay down the quill,
even when she longs to write,
against the will.

So few the labors which meet the mark;
lay open mind and heart
in such a way that those who read
as well as she who writes
leave the page with vision clearer,
within and without self alike.

Saturday, May 27, 2006

This Side of Reflection

27 May 2006, 9:52 PM
Alone at the reservoir

Black as pitch against a fading sky,
the treeline reflects
upon the surface of the Reservoir.

A latticework of ripples
makes its way across the waters,
blurring all in its path,
muddling clear-cut lines
so that only their vaguest forms remain.

Even light is skewed;
made something other than it is
as the waters dance and play
against the dark,
beneath the wind,
above unseen currents,
encompassing the flick of fin;
movement of ken.

It occurs to me that this is how we see:
dimly; a reflection upon moving waters.

Few things are certain...
but reflection suggests form,
form entails purpose,
purpose begs volition,
volition is bound to One who wills;

who can still the waters,
clarify vision
this side of reflection.

Friday, May 19, 2006

For You

19 May 2006, 1:37 PM

The sky is blue for you today
deep, piercing, azure blue
the shade that makes me think of you
and I do quite often today
as you are where I cannot guess
but I know you're not so very far away

There is a prayer on my lips for you
as constant as the color of the sky
for it is blue even when I cannot see
beyond the clouds
beyond the darkness
to your eyes

Blue Sky Day

19 May 2006, 10:03 AM

It's a beautiful, blue sky day
and the moon is not so very far away
on the horizon I suspect
awaiting what he cannot guess
as I sit in a very prickly place
holding him up as best I can
It is a heavy load of care
but so much lighter for the love I bear
as I search the sky for
trace of white

Tuesday, May 16, 2006

Unholy Comfort

16 May 2006, 12:25 AM

It’s tempting
I can see why the alcoholics
sexaholics do what they do

because I do it too

I don’t drink excessively
though I’m tempted to dull the pain
now and again
and it does dull the pain

I don’t compulsively seek men
to warm the parts that feel so cold
when I’m alone
though I imagine they could satisfy
for a time

Once in a while
more often than not, if I’m honest
I eat for comfort
and it’s no more holy a habit
than fucking for the same reason
or drinking oneself into oblivion
on a daily basis in order to avoid
the pain

We all do it
It’s just a matter of how and what
and when and why
and who we dehumanize
in the process

Saturday, April 22, 2006

Holy Friday

22 April 2006, 8:13 AM

I wonder if this is death
following the crucified Christ
having gone to His voluntary death
(O great heavens, have mercy—He is dead!)
now carried to His voluntary entombment

And we follow singing
knowing whither we go
knowing there is no return
to the life we knew before
knowing also there is life truer
more beautiful and alive
than we have ever known
but not until we have followed Him
followed Him
followed Him to death and burial

I wonder if this is death
as I follow the corpse of the Living God
through the doorway of the Temple
through the Narthex to pass beneath Him
to the Nave

On this side of Him

Passing underneath I cross myself
preparing to die
preparing for anguish
preparing for dark despair

On the other side of Him
(that which cannot be conquered by darkness)
light and beauty and faces of loved ones
Gold and fine vestments
beeswax burning, incense rising
olive oil aglow with light
recalling the Light that will come

I wonder if this is death
body, mind, spirit
overflowing with brightness
which cannot be contained
within a purely human frame
for the Spirit of Peace
will flow forth from us
having collected in these clay basins
the Faithful, filling us
to so much more than capacity


Today the earth is robed in white
Trees and men walk in shadows
as clouds descend to venerate the Living God
Laid in a tomb by purely human hands
grieved by purely human tears
lamented by purely human tongues
He makes our purely human lives
accomplishments as nothing
compared with the surpassing beauty
the endless faithfulness
the wellspring of tenderness and love
even as He lies dead in our midst


Yet only for a moment
does the Son of Man descend
for it takes but a word from His lips
to conquer the gates of the Hell of hells
to reclaim the keys
nay, to wrench those gates from their hinges
to tear them bar from bar
and hurl them into the Abyss
that no created being may retrieve
the full recompense owed humanity

Wednesday, April 19, 2006


19 April 2006, 10:43 PM

Truth spoken in malice, spite or pride
it is no more honorable than a lie;
more often than not, silence is a virtue.

Peace kept in fear or insecurity
disdains edification of a brother
where love dwells not, even silence is a vice

Monday, April 10, 2006


10 April 2006, 12:10 AM

I’m not self-flagellating

I’m soberly looking at what I’ve handed you
and my heart is broken for you
even at your tender age of five
when you really can’t comprehend
what you will never have

But someday you will

And when you do I want you to know
you can tell me and you can be angry
You can wish out loud that things had been different

God knows I have

I never wanted to hand you two homes
one with a mother, one with a father
two distinct remnants of a family
and all the wounds you may someday discover
in your person, the deficit you may experience
in your sense of self and safety and belonging

I have great hope for redemption

If God can make good of the evils I’ve seen
if He can turn my heart
so that I am bent on loving you rightly
first and foremost
with or without my husband

if He can redeem my sin as I’ve seen Him do

perhaps He can protect you, heal you
guide you toward redemption in His time
for His glory
and for our salvation

Wednesday, April 05, 2006

Fisher Boy

5 April 2006, 11:29 PM

Sweet little fisher boy
you had the time of your life today
being a boy with a man who could stand
for those moments
in the place of a father or grandfather
baiting and tricking fish
into thinking your hook was a feast

You’re such a clever little fisher boy

and I can just see that moment
when the first one bit
that moment when your joy was too much to contain
within your sweet little five-year-old frame
and I wish I could have seen your face
Though I’ll never take a father’s place
I wanted to be there

The best I could do was give you the moment
arrange for the circumstance
where you’d find a new voice
a smile too big for your five-year-old cheeks
and soppy wet tennis shoes
you’ll never wear to school again

Sweet little five-year-old fisher boy
mommy loves you more than you can know
as I kiss your sweet, unconscious brow
and you drift off to sleep and dream
of your day in five-year-old fisher boy Paradise


5 April 2006, 6:30 AM

It’s not that I don't ever rhyme- I do
I’ve even written a sonnet or two

It’s just that sometimes a rhyme can sound tortured
like gorging oneself on a walk through an orchard
minding not season nor firmness nor color
considering each fruit just as good as another
and stuffing them down till one’s hunger is met
then eating beyond til the stomach’s upset
and the eater forgets (or never quite knows)
the pleasure entailed if she dared to propose
a restriction upon her walk through wood

A boundary would be
in the end
for her good

Sunday, April 02, 2006

My Own Shalott

2 April 2006, 10:10 PM

Precious are the gifts entrusted to me
though I set aside their joy in a moment
to grasp for shades beyond my reach

I grow weary of shadows
Clearer grows my vision
when I see the thing I look upon
and not another
the beauty alotted my eye
and not a reflection in my mirror
my own perception
of that which I do not have

Wednesday, March 22, 2006


21 March 2006, 12:26 AM

All this talk about butterflies
it's got me wanting to see one
though I'm awfully fond of caterpillars
their fat-sectioned bodies and almost-legs

They can be soft
those little caterpillars
I've always liked the feel of the fuzzy ones
against my cheek
(though butterfly's wings are softer)
and they're so harmless

But I wouldn't call them beautiful
and I so want to be beautiful

A Walk at the Reservoir II

11 March 2006, 4 PM

A harsh wind day
cold and uninviting
yet beautiful nonetheless
for one with eyes to see
the multi-faceted slate gray
splintered by the wind into ripples
endlessly shattering across the reservoir
toward Sycamore

lovely as she ever was
so bare and bright
so faithful throughout my plight
day and night she stands
keeps vigil at the reservoir

She aches and yearns
she longs for what she does not have
but she stands and never ceases
to reach heavenward
even when she cannot see
the azure firmament
beyond a stubborn slate gray sky

She knows who he is
the wide blue sky
She knows he houses the sun
the stars
the guardian of night
She also knows he is not all in all

She knows his beauty
and loves him rightly
reaching through and beyond his splendor
toward the Deep
as he would have intended
if ever there had been any doubt

I catch a glimpse of Milward
in the shallows
He cannot possibly be sunning himself
there is so little of the sun today
though spring fast approaches
On winter she encroaches
draws sap from roots
tempts buds from limbs
begins the season once again
leaves me breathless in the biting wind

Green as the Grass

22 March 2006, 8:03 AM

Still saddened by the plight
and wondering when it ends

if it ends

and I remember that I once heard
a very wise man warn me against
striving to rush the process of healing
for we are healed
delivered from our crosses
to bear more crosses

I understand it never ends
this side of Eternity

And oh, how I long for the other side
to see the side of the leaf that meets the sun
unfiltered and green as the grass of the lea

Thursday, March 09, 2006


9 March 2006, 3:30 PM

How fickle are our appetites

They wax and wane
from pleasure

Round and round and round again
with not much more to show for gain
than heartburn

Sunday, March 05, 2006

Inheriting the Earth

5 March 2006, 1:04 AM

Reaching hard for lumps of coal
I miss the diamond You set so gently before me
refracting perfection
blazing with divinity
within my reach

Clambering in soot
I miss more than the gem
as evidenced by clumsy fumbling toward the treasure
I finally behold

Thinking that I know
believing I may grasp at will all that lies within my reach
my hands meet infinite value glittering on my skin
Lost in ecstasy of having claimed
my prize I fail to heed
the heat which sears my fingers clasped so tightly
for fear of losing what I've found

The smell of burning flesh brings me to my senses
Reflex takes its place
I drop the stone and for the first time I wonder

do I want it?
Do I really want to hold the earth in my hands
For meekness will deliver it
but not before it burns from my person every part
not in keeping with attaining the prize

"Death is in the cost"
and if I will not be burned
my inheritance is forfeit

"Death is in the cost" taken from Wendell Berry.

Thursday, March 02, 2006


3 March 2006, 11:11 AM

She grows best
with roots in the waters
her arms raised
high into the azure sky

A dragon lurks in the hollow
where her heart once was
and may still be

A sycamore has room enough
to house despair alongside hope
desire beside her grief
She was always thus inclined
always will be

Choice did not make it so
in the beginning
but necessity

Wednesday, March 01, 2006

The Dungeon

1 March 2006, 12:52 PM

These kids don't need my panic
They can use my fear
my rage
even my helplessness so long as these
places within drive me to love them
remember them
bear them before the Holy Table
speak the "Lord have mercy" for their sake

But the panic and despair
rob my vision
fool me into thinking I'm still there
and all the years between
those tears and these don't exist
They're not real
just a figment of a half forgotten imagination
run wild with hopes and dreams of life
beyond the dungeon

Sunday, February 26, 2006

A Walk at the Reservoir

26 February 2006, 12:17 PM

Starlight sprinkles over rippling waves
wind dances through the dappled limbs of sycamores
pale under a moonless sky
and overhead Orion keeps his chase
seeking after those who would not have him
one who seeks in shame to hide her face
and six too proud to bend themselves once more
to taste disgrace

Saturday, February 25, 2006


25 February 2006, 4:06 PM

That appetite is corrupt
which cannot be satisfied
with its rightful food

I used to pity birds
sun and moon
for the repetitive nature of their lives
I could not imagine the emptiness
which must be entailed
within such an existence

I have lost such pity as I realize
it is I who have the perpetually
monotonous experience
of dissatisfaction
restlessness and searching for something more
something to fill the emptiness
creeping about in the darkness of solitude
or just as often
in the forgetfulness of meaningless
or meaningful company

In the midst of distraction
or in the deafening silence of solitary moments
I forget who I am
what I am
and what I am meant for
I become ravenous for what I cannot name
and it seems an eternity since I have tasted
my rightful food
by no fault of the provision

it left me hungry

Monday, February 20, 2006

Good Gifts

19 February 2006, 11:55 PM

It was just what I hoped it would be

My family came
blessed my home
ate my food
drank my wine
brought me poetry

Half a dozen voices
ringing through the halls of this
my home
Twice that number
sharing food and air and wine
and couch-space
laughing uncontrollably
appropriately and not
and capturing every bit
of mirth and gaiety on camera
and in my memory

I want for naught tonight
I cannot need anything but You
after the good gifts You have given

To Alanis

20 February 2006, 8:36 AM

I think I may be leaving you behind
Not all at once nor once for all
but something in the taste of wine
the sound of Wendell
Longfellow and Tennyson
eases the angst you helped me find

So little by little I'm putting you away
learning that there is no doctor
There is time
the great healer
faith in Someone bigger than myself
There is wine and music
poetry and blessings
friends to bear the burdens together

I do have my reasons to be here
It goes without saying
I have a thing or two to learn
We all believe in something
it's not a question of compulsion
but of reality and of what or whom
so we do

But you're wrong about one thing
I don't have to believe what I do
This place wounds me daily
enough to make me question
why I do this day in and day out
It teaches me to feel
to choose
to live
alert and aware of how
few things are certain

So I'm putting you away
bit by bit and slowly
loving you just the same
but more as a sister
less as a mentor I've outgrown

Angst is the beginning of wisdom
not its end

Tuesday, February 14, 2006

Learn to Feel

14 February 2006, 7:41 PM

Learn to feel the pain of solitude
without the posthaste rush for mindless
or mindful company which dulls the sense
which otherwise might draw one
into something
greater than self

Learn to feel the sting of betrayal
without knee-jerk's desire
to return ill for ill
for retribution numbs compassion
which otherwise might draw one
into greater understanding of other

Learn that affect
does not always require effect


most often
reaction negates the gleanings
the good which might
redeem what was lost

Sunday, February 12, 2006


12 February 2006, 9:32 PM

I'm trying to live in the present
Does my disappointment
prove the effort futile?

If this ache subdues
desire to take up the cross
(the only one I can call mine)
and continue to walk

if I am left with only will
only raw volition at my beck

what then?

Choose to place
one foot before the other

do the dishes
wash the laundry
love the little boy who is my charge

and leave chasing to those
who have the strength
to pursue

Thursday, February 09, 2006

Thank You

9 February 2006, 10:20 PM

Thank you for a place of healing
of broken things made whole again
though scarred
a place where time has little meaning
where every little part of me runs
free within a realm of relativity
contained within
the concept of Truth
the notion of Absolute

Friday, February 03, 2006

Apart From You

3 February 2006, 2:40 AM

The need escapes me at times

But most often sits beside me
holds my hand
strokes my hair
whispers your name in my ear
tells me time and time again
only you can still the sorrow
only you can calm the pain
only you can sate the yearning
only you can ease the strain

It is a bitter lie
which would take the lovely
loving thing you’ve placed
within my grasp
and make it an end
rather than the gift you intended
to provide the means for me
to live and learn
to love and dream

apart from you

A Moment's Peace

3 February 2006, 2:32 AM

I get lost in these pockets of grief

I know you know
but every time I realize I’ve done it again
I feel compelled to explain
just one more time

I get lost in these endless rooms of sadness

I know you’ve seen me
searching for a reason to get up and leave
not come back
though I’ve never found a reason not to stay

I get lost in these moments of anger

When suddenly I’m blinded by the pain
I could tear you down to size
or so I’d like to think
should need arise

I get lost in these voices in my head

Sometimes I can’t hear you when you’re sitting
right across the room from me
such a tiny room but I can’t hear for all the
screaming in between my ears
the selves each clamoring for you to see and hear
to come inside these rooms of chaos with me

bring a moment’s peace

Tuesday, January 31, 2006

One Coin

30 January 2006, 10:30 PM

Discontent is no longer
an appropriate description

Utter humiliation is closer to reality

Other times
I couldn't be more proud
of where I've come from where I've been

I think
are folly

opposite sides of the same coin

This flagellant self-deprecation betrays
a hubris not worthy of the glory
of the image innate within my person
whose beauty my artistry could never have attained

There is a place
far more deeply interfused with wisdom
than a happy medium

It is a different existence altogether

less preoccupied with blame and credit
more concerned with personhood

Monday, January 30, 2006

I Hope There Will Be Poetry

30 January 2006, 10:50 PM

There will come a day of light
which has no source in sun
or even firefly

though I hope there will be fireflies

even sunshine warm upon my face

There will come a day when laughter will replace
the grief which hangs so heavy on my brow

a day when tears of sadness finally will bow
to tears of joy

I do hope there will be tears of joy

There can be such a sweetness in weeping
for loss of what was good
for hope of the incomparable better
for gain of the incorruptible best

There will come a day when all these words
will be superfluous
perhaps even obsolete

though I do hope there will always be poetry

There is such beauty in striving through futility
to proclaim the wonder
majesty of Paradise


30 January 2006, 10:39 PM

The darkness
cannot be as prevalent as it seems

I live by this truth

for if it be not truth
then life and breath must fail me
for mercy’s sake

Yet the darkness
creeps within my home
before my eyes
hiding in places none should ever dare to go

But I must

else the darkness
ever deeper
threaten to undo redemption
before it even


30 January 2006, 2:10 PM

If it takes a lifetime
I will turn this grief inside out

I will pray for the violators
love those who do not love
forgive the unpardonable
release when I am desolate

By God’s grace
I will turn this grief inside out


30 January 2006, 1:55 PM

I'm sad today
There's no escaping the reality of my sorrow

Perhaps I no longer need

My grief could carry with it hope
for something better

This state of being
and any other that eludes some innate ideal
serves to remind me I'm meant for something
more than what I perceive

Until now I assumed
I was discontent because
I want something I can't have

I think it may be more accurate to say
I'm sad because there's so much I want
that I don't need
and there's so much coming
for which I have not the patience
to wait

Maintaining Darkness

17 January 2006, 2:04 AM

It takes very little energy
to maintain darkness
I think that’s why we do it

Once deception is established
all one has to do to see it’s kept
is not turn on the light
and as long as night reigns
so also does the ruse

It’s a simple ray of morning
sunshine that pierces the walls
breaks the cardinal rule
spilling in through cracks
and crevices we couldn’t see
by light of denial

Then the mansion is exposed
and we also
laid bare by daybreak
suddenly naked and ashamed
and quite surprised besides
though we should have known this
day would come

We should have longed for it

Most often
we are caught unawares
for we have let down our guard
We have spent our diligence
maintaining darkness

Monday, January 16, 2006

Worth the Read

16 January 2006, 1:16 PM

I didn’t know what to make of you
back then

I knew you loved me
because you welcomed me
fed me and mine
entered into relationship with one who
by all relevant indications
might prove more hindrance than help

Over time it has become clear
that you love me
not only because you’ve welcomed and fed me
put up with my eccentricities
opened your door
and even allowed me to open it a time or two

but also because you seek to know
to speak my language
to love me in ways that I will understand

You’ve become something akin to sister
and even alike to mother
(I intend no offense)
for the places you’d never have chosen to go
you enter for me

You know my story
what’s more
you find me worth the read

Thank you


16 January 2006, 11:16 AM

He told me it’s lovely in December
here beside the reservoir
even in the biting wind
He said I ought not miss the sight

I neglected December
but January is milder than it’s been in years
and sitting here is lovelier than I’ve felt since
before my Sycamore lost her lovely green

She still bears
will always wear her splendid dappled skin
so bare yet so beautiful

She may be most beautiful
in consenting to be naked in the sun
white and sage and brown
unobscured and unencumbered

He told me it’s lovely in December
here beside the reservoir

It’s lovelier yet
the colder it gets

I must learn to take it in
remember as I walk towards
the comfort of my home



16 January 2006, 11:07 AM

There’s a little rock-fort
at the foot of the Sycamore beside the reservoir
It faces south
as does she

I sit upon the stony ledge
watch the ripples coming
perpetually rolling toward the shore

They never turn back

though there’s nowhere left to go
Whither do those ripples wash away?
They disappear beyond the confines of the reservoir
They roll along far past the place at which
my eyes fail to see them any longer

Perhaps there is a place
beyond the murky boundaries of the reservoir
where water finally meets its mark
finds me unprepared for its
gracious brutality
in the moment when I cease failing to see
those waters of the reservoir have less to do with
simple lovely imagery
and more to do with what I’ve never sought to see
what I’ve struggled not to see
inside of me


16 January 2006, 11:01 AM

Little ones they once were too
with sins against their persons hurled
not fitting to be written on this page
Now they give to others
the wounds they have received

Taken as a whole
their crimes belong to humanity
and also to me
All were vulnerable to such atrocities
when we were green
and each is capable of rendering the same

Renewal is far more taxing than corruption
capacity may wane in some
now we are grown brown and woody

It stands to reason
Taken as a whole
the redemption of one belongs to humanity

My healing paves the way
to greater things for them
not only for me and mine

A charge I keep
to struggle hard against this yoke
we bear
this broken humanity

for my sake and for theirs

Strange Nave

14 January 2006, 11:08 PM

I stood there in the midst of a strange Nave
wondering if those back home were missing us

as we stood there in the midst of a strange Nave
Sights and sounds and smells were
simultaneously familiar and foreign
Incense may not change from House to House
though voices do
and I longed for just a moment to be back
in the House of my father
with those who have graced my life with their love

Tears welled up behind my eyes
Truth suddenly dawned that I have a Home
a House I call my own
and fathers
brothers who form the heart
of a place which houses my heart

And as light filled the darkness in my mind
a familiar voice rang out across the Nave:

“Blessed is our God always
now and ever and unto ages of ages”

It was the voice of my father
It was the sound of my Home

Your Company

14 January 2006, 10:57 PM

It’s not such a long walk
from where I am
to where you are

Every one of you is waiting
for me to realize how very close
how very attainable
is your company

I’m swiftly learning there will be
no escape from the inevitable
if I truly wish to live within


seems so fleeting at times
and yet I find you waiting around
every corner in my mind
plucked to the fore by little things
that cross my line of vision
whether I expect them or not

You’re not so very far away
I’m learning to hear you

Even as I seek to run
I know that when I turn around
you’ll still be there waiting
for me to realize how very close
how very attainable
is your company


14 January 2006, 10:52 PM

I had been silent so long

I could have found so much to say
so very long ago
but for loss of my voice

Even my will was raped away
If I’d had words to speak
I’d have struggled for volition

These days there seems no way to stop
the flow of words tumbling from my fingertips
The dam has given way
and if one could place

every greeting we’ve exchanged
every curse I’ve screamed
every entreaty that has fallen on your ears
every lamentation finally released
every endearment proffered
every blessing poured out
every word of thanksgiving spoken
every farewell
end to end

my words would prove inadequate
to measure out the space between
the time before you came into my life

and now

Wednesday, January 04, 2006

Beauty of Ashes

3 January 2006, 11:31 PM

They left a candle burning-
each her own, and his.
Long they waited
each in turn adding a flame
until all about the sleeping
Shepherdess was blazing
with the fire of suns long set
below horizon’s edge.

One day she will wake and see
the beauty they have made
of ashes.

Monday, January 02, 2006


1 January 2006, 5:33 PM

Once in an Azure Moon
hope finds its way through despair
and all that once held no meaning
beyond shame
becomes priceless;
for the bridges spanned
in the journey toward redemption
would never have become if not for
the faithless wounds and the faithful
tenderness which heals them
even in the midst of the storm.

Another Vignette for Lisa

Dear Lisa,

I've been at it again-
I've filled this page up with my pen,
or rather with my keyboard.

And now my thoughts are safely stored.
Find below some reading for you,
and I had better "skiddley-doo"
off to bed...

for I've been reduced to Simpson-isms
in order to rhyme.



New Year's Eve

31 December 2005, 1:29 PM

The year is drawing to a close
and I’m sitting here waiting
for my son to come home
so we can celebrate

He has no idea of the darkness I’ve seen
the anger I’ve felt, the places I’ve been
inside myself so that


he too may walk these lovely shores
see this silver sand beneath his feet
and know that weeping can be sweet

This year will see me begin
My third decade of life and yet
I’ve only just taken my first breath

May thirty find me
more alive than ever I have been
ready now to live and breathe
maybe even love again

It is time

I’ve waited patiently but eagerly to end
this book you now hold in your hands
The day has finally come
and while there’s surely more to say
for now
I’m done

I’ll start afresh tomorrow
knowing yesterday is just that
It lies behind me
and I shall never see it
I shall never walk that shore again
though surely I shall visit now and then
in my thoughts and visions

Come now the new and shining years
the unknown and the certain tears
the facing up to every joy and fear
of all that is to come

Do Not Wake the Shepherdess

30 December 2005, 1:09 PM

Dark clouds roll
Grow gray and argue fervently
But do not wake the Shepherdess

Deep she sleeps as Lion creeps
In Lowlands grassy green and ringed
With Sycamores the Lost Ones weep

Another came to lead them home
Led them far afield
Among bare trunks and dry
Strewn leaves of Sycamores

The Shepherdess is sleeping
As mountains in the distance quake
She barely stirs

Branches far above her shake
Raped by angry winds which break
Against the boughs
But do not wake the Shepherdess

Conversations with a Sycamore

28 December 2005, 6:31 PM

I remember saying a storm was coming
Quite suddenly I realize it's here
I'm caught off guard
Despite my fretting

With darkening clouds
Comes a sense of grief
And yet a sullen sort of relief
Perhaps I'll never have to be
Ordinary after all
There will always be butterflies in spring
Dark birds
Rising from the ashes of sultry summer
And on the horizon
Glimmering despite the overcast
Sky of autumn's seeming dead calm

Dappled and beautiful

So patiently for me to find
Courage to follow desire into her world
To see the colors adorning her branches
Especially when all else goes cold
And the chill wind bites
Renders wool and hot tea
Feeble comfort

Even then
She blazes like the summer sun
She is not one to balk at weather
whether or not it pleases her

So beautiful
I see her in my mind's eye
Now bare against a winter sky
Waiting patiently for me to see
For me to look up from my busy work
My very very busy work

Catch a glimpse of her


19 December 2005, 9:53 PM

This stagnant mask exposed
A thin deception
Veiling the flow of time
Binding her to ways
She ought not to hold sacred

If it were as simple as turning
She’d have done it long ago
She cannot say it any simpler
Than to say it takes time

One must be patient to see it

Yet in the end
Darkness recedes
Color pleads for expression
Finds voice in this yearning
She cannot comprehend

If it were as simple as speaking
She’d have said it long ago
She cannot say it any simpler
Than to say it can’t be said

One has to see it to know it

For a Rooftop Dweller

5 December 2005, 10:15 AM

I am not dwelling on
I’m dealing with

The fact that you can’t see me
Only serves to prove the point

You have never dealt with

All your life you’ve fought not to
Struggled to move past
To get on with

And you wonder why
You can’t get around

You cannot dwell elsewhere
Until you climb down from it
Go inside and dwell
Sit a spell
Study the hearth
The halls
The pictures on the walls
The stains
Upon the well-worn carpet

And the very cold
Very bare floor

Be haunted by the mournful creak
Of rocking chair
The solitary moan of chimney
As North Wind makes her endless pass
Over the roof

Where you stubbornly sit and wonder
Why you are so cold

The stair

The stair is waiting for your steps
Longing for the day you come again
Let her carry you to places
You have been

Long forgotten

Darkened doorways
Consuming fright
Sweat-damp sheets
Extinguished light

Face the night
Accept your plight

Cease denying what has been
It need not come back ‘round again
Turn your back to the North Wind

Begin again

George MacDonald

"Home is ever so far away in the palm of your hand, and how to get there it is of no use to tell you. But you will get there; you must get there; you have to get there. Everybody who is not at home, has to go home."

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