Sunday, July 27, 2014
Monday, July 14, 2014
Let me not be rocky ground,
parched and cracked, burned by sun
green then yellowed, bitter, brown,
all good intent, but fallow, shallow.
Let me not be choking weeds,
grasping, climbing, blocking sun
roots that run, smother seeds,
thick and high, but sticking, pricking.
Let me, God, be fertile soil,
tilled and plowed, enriched by sun,
abloom with wheat, embody royal
Word made flesh to flourish, nourish.
Wednesday, June 18, 2014
Thursday, June 12, 2014
Wednesday, May 14, 2014
Friday, May 9, 2014
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you." -- Kahlil Gibran
Wednesday, April 23, 2014
Blue as the sea, Sierra Madres rim Bandaras, bay of flags.
Mist bruises the mountains not yet burned by sun.
Time for us to go, even though the colors hold like glue;
magnolias and wild flowers beckon.
One more day, you sing.
One day more I sing in chorus.
In days, the sea will be a spectre,
pirated colored glass the only reminder of paradise,
fossil, flesh, and sand.
Sunday, April 20, 2014
you can't rinse and stack a poem.
You have to let your hands
slip across the page.
Wrap the rhythm round your fist
and plunge into the lines.
Turn the words until the stains
of last night's tea are gone.
Get between the tines.
Feel the sharp knives inside the soapy sea.
Wash, rinse, and hold it to the light.
Let it shine like finest crystal.
I want to say
a poem must be scrubbed
before you place it on the shelf
like last night's news.
Rub it. Read it clean;
Read it, feel it, repeat.