Sunday, September 30, 2012


There is no other
place than here,
there is no other now,
just moments held
in time’s sure hands,
that we can call our own.
It is the living of the day,
the dying of the night,
as all eternal wandering
puts certainty to flight.
To live beyond
the moment,
to dream
of what might be
throws bitterness
upon God’s gift
of true eternity.
So take the now
and claim it sure,
as truth so clearly
found and place
all thought within
the here, that Life
 will know your name.

Saturday, September 29, 2012

Thank you for coming

“Thank you for coming,” she said.
Pillow-huddled, curled toward her own imaginings,
the bones held loose in panting flesh,
she lay upon the self-breathing bed.

This bed of life could rise and fall,
with one sure touch, with pure  and practical intention,
prepared as it was, to hold lightly
the shrivelled soul that sought sanctuary.

Sounds of breath and sounds of bed,
drew patterned hopes in steady weaving
and eyelids closed in weary fall
upon the days, the dreams, and visitors.

How many years had drifted past
upon this stark white cushioning?
No answer, for she had none, and neither did she know
if she lay upon reward, or punishment.

If truth be known, and it rarely is,
the answer must embrace both offerings,
for in the suffering lay peace,
and in the sanctuary, brewed torment.

But such things had all become as one
through years of  woven thoughts and words,
and now she simply lay and breathed …
in what was life’s last offering.

No more

No more than a speck of dust
upon the fleeing moment,
No more than a silent breath
upon the wind,
no more than a forgotten seed
that breasts the unforgiving earth,
no more than all the words
that lie unsaid.
For this is life, and this is how
the moments draw and creep,
when hope and meaning
hide themselves away,
and dare to taunt that all
is nought but shadow,
that who I am is fantasy and dream.
And yet each speck of dust
is borne on dreams,
and silent breaths can carry
words across the world,
while seeds that strive through soil,
or stone, to reach the sun
will always speak of God,
of life, of love.

Friday, September 28, 2012

Within the dull and dreary days

Within the dull and dreary days
When boredom seeks to call
And knocks upon the withered door
Of hope that is no more.
Then can I see the dreams that live
Within the sullen breast,
And know that they will haunt me now
And keep me from all rest.
It’s in desire, and wanting life
To be some other thing
That discontent can clear its throat
And loud and brittle sing.
And yet while I can see this clear
And know its truth is cruel,
I cannot seem to shift myself
Beyond its narrow view.

Sun sends forth

Sun sends forth a shaft of light,
in arrowed, bounteous bright,
reminding us of glorious life;
the source of all that is.