2019
Poems
September-
December
Poem List: 2019 September thru December
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​Fence Builder Print this poem only
All the houses around us are fenced.
Boarded against the hoard
of vagrant eyes, imagined robbers.
Five yellow pages of our fears -
fence builders -
many hoping we will overcome our thrift
and buy their iron or vinyl
rather than the cheaper wood.
I prefer to see my neighbors
repairing their pickups
throwing their kids a party
driving, walking, scooting
down the back alley.
Where are they headed?
To the store for lettuce or the lottery
to the doctor for their asthma,
some at an unsafe speed,
are they late to the office
or are they slaves to productivity?
It seems we need a retreat
from the attention-demands of a crazy world.
But is it too easy to insulate and isolate?
My no-fence house
is my declaration of dependence
on this neighborhood
and my ties to it.
But how well I know
my dark talent
for building walls within
to divide me from those I count
as family
friends
and intimates.
I don’t want to be
a fence builder.
The costs are too high.
​
Written 5-9-11 Revised 9-1-19
​Driller Print this poem only
Sometimes I feel like a tiny speck
a pinpoint on the cosmic map
in a long and eventful trek.
I wonder: has it been a twinkling mishap
in the eternal river of creation-
this small life on this land-
has it been a mere gestation
a tiny flame to be fanned?
This great project of learning
feels like a random flow
an era of melancholy yearning
an endless lurch and search to know
a fitful labor to pay the bills
fill the day with peak emotion
explore the plains and the hills
make history with earnest devotion.
I’ve concluded at this late stage
that it’s ok to stay in one place
linger with the words on one page
stay a while and embrace
the depths of each soul,
to drill relentless and brave
through layers of coal and gold
to be a faithful drilling slave.
It is in this drilling quest
seemingly in one hole
each passage explored and pressed
until its juices yield to the bowl
and the story is told whole and wide
when I find there the cosmic Word
every star and atom tied
and each syllable and song is heard.
​
Written 9-7-19
​Back to the Fold Print this poem only
The sheep graze in the field
one of them departs and goes astray
on a trek to find what’s revealed
beyond the rife and usual way.
The shepherd watches, and stays
as the animal explores what’s beyond.
That roamer keeps the shepherd’s tender gaze
and doesn’t lose the love that forms their bond.
But when stray approaches the cliff,
in danger of falling to his death,
shepherd’s run for him is swift
and his pursuit takes his pep and breath.
Shepherd trusts that the lone stray has learned
the needed lessons in his trek so bold
smiles and speaks the name of the trekker he’s turned,
that single fervent seeker joyfully welcomed - back to the fold.
Dedicated to my wonderful pastor, Kevin Williford, for his dedication to and love of his flock, including those of us who ventured long and far on their spiritual journeys.
​
Revised 9-14-19
​Reflections of a Tree Print this poem only
There you sit beyond the window
in what you call the inside
but think not I am on the outside
for when you look at me
you notice how beautiful I am
as my amber, coral, and russet leaves
prepare to fall into winter.
I join you to the seasons
cast you into the universe
of your origin my brother.
Your eyes feast
on my living and dying
reminding you of your own passage.
Yes, you are on the inside -
the inside of me
and when you mistake yourself as separate
you suffer the sorrow of your species.
So here we are together
in the cooling days of autumn
the wind and I and you are one
waving goodbye to what was,
and hello to what is and is to come.
Author’s Note: Just outside the garden room window is a Chinese Tallow tree whose leaves are just gorgeous in the fall, reminding me of my own autumn.
​
Written 11-9-19
The following was written by Rudy Rountree to end a piece he wrote for our budding Bible Study Group of which he was part at El Centro College many years ago. In his writing he honestly and warmly shared the goodness that he saw in each of us in the group. In re-reading it I was struck by the love Rudy had for all of us and for himself.
“I have never quite known how one loves God. It is very hard for me to understand that. But what I think I am feeling more and more is an appreciation for life; an appreciation for a creator that gives me life— with friends like you, my family, and a place to work like El Centro [College]. I sense him more and more. I love Him for that personal revelation. - Rudy
An Appreciation for Life from a Tender Man
To know Rudy was to soon discover
that above all he was a lover
he would look at you with those penetrating eyes
he’d nod and listen as if you’d given him a prize.
His love of friends and family filled his heart
he made you feel like you were part
of him, as if you somehow snuck inside
and found a place there to abide.
A friend of ours said that Rudy was a tender man
who never forgot his roots in the farming lands
of East Texas where he picked cotton and hauled hay.
A humble man, Rudy said of himself there really wasn’t much to say.
Early on he struggled with little pay
held many jobs that showed him the way,
the way good, hard-working people live
and from them and his kin he learned respect and how to give.
It has been said that Rudy was always there,
a loyal friend and Brother who cared, unfailingly fair.
And his daughter and beloved wife
were “his girls,” the precious, precious gems of his life.
Yes there was a country boy deep inside
but his knowledge and interests were very wide,
a Renaissance man, educated and urbane
yet uneasy with praise and not prone to be vain.
He was not a “my God/your God” debater
but he had a simple love for his Creator.
An appreciation for life swelled and flourished in him
and the abiding light of his gratitude did not dim.
It is said God is love and he who abides in it
abides in God and God in him. Doesn’t that fit
Rudy who had an enduring slant and bent
toward Love and took that tilt wherever he went?
And so here we are remembering this giant of a man
any words I could write or say could not span
the scope of his tender, merciful spirit, or begin to make whole
the measure and size of Rudy’s beautiful soul.
Author’s Note: Dedicated to Aven Rountree and Lacy Rountree Stanley
Written 11-7-19 Read at memorial service for Rudy Rountree 11-9-19 Fort Worth Texas
A Few Quotes from Rudy
For whatever might have been wrong with the morals, it seems like loving is so much less wrong than all the other "bad" things some people list as no-no's. Least ways there will be a lot of fond memories as we all start the rocking chairs.
And at our off-campus facility sometimes called the Green Glass—Boots and Belle and Nitse (or whatever her name was—I couldn't get it straight). Major philosophy was debated there, as good as when authentic philosophers gather, and probably infinitely more fun.
"Though nothing can bring back the days of splendor in the grass, we will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains."
I have been on a steady road to deeper and deeper contentment.
I spent twenty years at El Centro. There were a few down times, but like the saying on the sun dial, "I count none but the sunny hours."
I will speak a little of the dead, for it is not likely I can hurt anyone left out. The pain I felt at Jim Hankerson's death was like that of a family member. That classic original was loved by everybody. So many of us have wished we had written down all his special sayings—things like, "rougher than a stucco bathtub." He was my mentor and close friend.
… to go to college I worked at many minor jobs: ice cream store soda jerk; janitor at the high school; painter; assistant to librarian; worker at wood factory; furniture mover and farm work among other things. I also borrowed fifty dollars at a time from two bankers, and paid them off slowly. I usually borrowed at the beginning of a semester to pay tuition and get some clothes, and from my odd jobs paid them back.
​Which Measure? Print this poem only
The deficit of a Monday morning
piled up during Saturday and Sunday
my mind muses a foggy warning:
approach the breach without delay.
But what gauge to use at day’s end
of success and fruitfulness
which tape to measure a win,
if I fell back or made progress?
The tape of yellow and black
to find the structure’s strength
the green measuring tape to track
the growth of life by its length?
The white one given by the boss
to decide the next raise
from the amount of profit and loss
who goes and who stays?
--------------------------
Or the silver tape to measure my meddle
I hope this is the one I will employ,
and for the quality of courage in this vessel
did my work this day give me joy?
Did I honor my values and ideals
will heaven smile on me
my better angels at my heels
and finally, what measure of peace in my soul will there be?
​
Written 10-28-19
​​​See-throughness Print this poem only
She was disabled, twisted and another race
he a beautiful healthy young man
and there he was hugging her
speaking softly into her ear
eyes sparkling
smiling broadly
as if touching an angel
and I wondered about their story
two seemingly such different people
so closely bonded,
he holding her up
she clutching him,
together strong.
Have you known people different from you
in beliefs, habits, politics, words,
but it just so happens
you see through the oppositeness
to their inner beauty
knitting yourselves together anyway?
That see-throughness is a gift
a gift I sometimes refuse
due to my “either-or” walls.
Ashamed, I feel sad
sensing I have detoured past
an accidental grace.
Author’s Note: Written after reading Ecclesiastes 4:9-12.
​
Written 10-25-19
​Blurry Vision Print this poem only
My vision is on my mind
lately it’s blurry
in a hurry in a bind
too many things all round
focus lost and losing ground.
Make it simple I tell myself
pause and prioritize
take stuff off the shelf
stop telling myself lies
like I can handle it all
juggle every little ball.
Focus, focus I repeat
turn down the heat
let both eyes adjust
on the things I can really trust.
Author’s note: On October 23, 2019 I had cataract surgery on my left eye. The next day my vision was very blurry. Doc said swelling has to go down. Both eyes will have to adjust to each other and my brain will learn to balance them. That will take a while. Patience patience I tell myself. It’ll be worth it not having to mess with glasses anymore. Have trust. I must.
​
Written 10-24-19
​Music and the Muse Print this poem only
In between the chords and notes,
spaces and pauses, can I find rest
for my hands long enough to get a dose
of the muse, a cosmic moment to reflect?
And when a chord is sustained
it carries me in anticipation
of what change or pain
will come, and for what duration.
From measure to measure
I wait upon the muse
for some small treasure
to dwell, disrupt and suffuse,
interrupt the normal routine
and reveal something splendid,
an artistic moment unforeseen
a miraculous onset unintended.
Do the angels and the divine
intervene in a poet’s affairs,
create miracles in the mind
momentarily suspend daily cares?
Or are we listening to the music and muse alone
save the few who gather around
our lines for now til we’re gone
to embrace wholly ground?
Written 11-12-19
​Bound to Mercy Print this poem only
I feel a loving presence all around
it seems it’s mercy in which I’m bound
I need not earn it even as I spurn it by day
but for grace each night before sleep, I pray.
If I do what I should, I’ll imitate the call
to mercy by day in ways big and small.
When someone irritates and gets under my skin
may I have the grace of mercy to extend.
For if I bind myself to my darker side
in that flaw and fault I’ll be tied,
tied as a slave to pain, so let mercy reign
that I may be bound to its freedom train.
​
Written 11-14-19
​Fall to Winter Print this poem only
The elm has lost its leaves
fallen to ground
gravity has done its work
sucking the dead and dying
back to the earth
their spirits risen
to the beyond.
I too in my olding
stay close to ground
my roots dug in here
where my life
is falling into winter.
​
Written 11-26-19
​Cranberry Sauce and Home
Dishes are apportioned according to skill
Sis does great pumpkin pie
Cuz’s fudge gives you a thrill
Brother’s mimosas make you high.
Grannie’s stories warm your heart
Unc loves to talk football trash
Dal’s video’s are state of the art
Genie’s song makes a splash.
Aunt Inez brings cornbread dressing
We’ll ooooo and ahhhhh over Ginny’s quilt
Brother Steve says the blessing
Larry shows pics of the table he built.
We gather in the home of sister Lucy
Roger tells tales of flying planes
Dorothy does a turkey fine and juicy
Mel spins yarns of trucks and trains.
Cam excels at shuffling the deck
Ann always makes us laugh
Nita’s gives us dignity and respect
Dick takes our photograph.
We love Helen’s luscious cranberry sauce.
But what of those who have no cheer
the folks who feel lonely and lost
the folks who live in fear?
We love Christmas and Thanksgiving
but what of those out on the streets
the manic, depressed, the tired of living
those who are sad and bittersweet?
The day after the turkey’s been eaten
maybe you woke up feeling alone,
anxious, bereft and beaten.
But here’s hoping all of us will find our true and loving home.
Author’s Note: Yesterday was marvelous - being with family and sharing a wonderful meal, but I woke up too early this morning feeling lonely and anxious. I know not why. I came in here and started typing it out and this poem is what I came up with. Forgive me if I left you out and please be tolerant of my poetic license. Sometimes I wonder if any of us are truly at home in this world. Thank God I have a warm and dry space to wake up in. And today and every day may I live in thanksgiving.
Written the day after Thanksgiving, 11-29-19
​​September Speaks Print this poem only
Here I am in the middle of your days
before the summer has said goodbye
and the brown beauty of fall has arrived.
It is easy to forget to notice your
persistent pink exuberance of crepe myrtle
to escape the warmth of your winds
for the coolness of the den.
There is still time to grow
before autumn ushers in the first snow.
Being in your midst makes me mellow
slows me and gives me time to re-member
those I’ve loved in the midst of you, September,
time to listen to you in the songs of birds
hear the wisdom of your words
on the peaceful cusp of Libra and Virgo.
Speak to me September
blow your breath upon the ember
of this era in my journey
let not the sparks still remaining
be lost in the cross fires
and anxiety of these days.
In your haste to bid farewell to summer
forget not my moments of wonder
let me hear your thunder
and please before you leave me
speak to me in your deep warm voice
and resurrect me from the wasteland
of this languorous slumber.
​
Written September 16, 2019
​Flood Print this poem only
Sometimes I seem short
of the sort
of vigor and health
I require, or I delude my self
into thinking I am in need
of the force of character to succeed
in my hopes and dreams.
Yet your goodness is there in streams
and your love is so great
all I have to do is locate
a private quiet place
and tune into your loving grace
where I get all the endurance and hope
I need to thrive and cope.
Lord, give me gratitude
in a vessel of magnitude
and in hopeless moments help me recall
all the times I came to you in a crawl
and you helped me stand,
placed me in the palm of your hand
or floated me atop the flood
in the arc of your grace and abundant love.
Author’s Note: I am in Louisiana hoping to travel west toward my home in Dallas through Houston on Interstate Highway 10 but it is closed due to flooding. I see pictures of people in desperate straits having had their homes again flooded out and losing almost all of their possessions. I see the Cajun Navy and so many others in their boats yet again rescuing the stranded and discouraged. This poem is my attempt to remind myself of the Abundance I have and to make me grateful for all of it especially for a safe and solid home on dry land where my wife awaits my return.
Written 9-20-19
​​​Your Body Print this poem only
Your body shows me what it means to be me
to be part of something beautiful and alive
and in touch with every cell that makes it
to be out of this world while right in the middle of it.
My old body creaks and lurches from this state or that strain
now tired, now awake, now lively and linked
your blood courses through me like the surging surf
our life and lively spirit get me up and out of bed today.
I am in that spirit, active and large in the universe
a nebula, a patch of bright or dark against other luminous matter
never alone never or divided. apart from your presence
always right in the middle of your magnificent body.
How could I doubt your power
to heal or lift me from the fatigue or state of dis-ease
when I’m surrounded by all of this energy and light
that invades every cell of my body…
which is never wholly mine at all?
Author’s Note: This piece was written after rising from 5 hrs. of sleep, not nearly enough for me. I asked God to help me be a moment of joy for others, to give me strength and to help my unbelief. I wondered if I was immune to him and his intervention. So I began to reflect on the fact that I am part of something larger.
Written 9-10-19
​Aspen Print this poem only
There you are all in all
you there standing tall
in your white robe
on the rocky slope
reaching for your higher power
and your glorious encounter
with what is true
like Skies of Blue
and Rays of Sun
praising what creation has done.
And beneath the earth
you clone birth after birth
propagate your leaves of gold
and for centuries your old
family graces us with offspring
that sway and sing
windsongs in every season
giving us reason
to rejoice in hymn
and shout a brilliant amen!
Author’s Note: Aspen clone themselves and a single grove can be up to 80,000 years old. In Utah there is a grove that is 40 times the weight of a blue whale making it the largest living organism on earth.
​
Written 9-25-19
​In the Flow Print this poem only
​
How sweet to be in the flow
how dear here to know
you and I are one in this glorious stream
I am teeming
with your life and love
right here below your skies
yet never beyond the view of your eyes
your eyes so old and so wise
I am in the middle of you
in the orb of your love
here, yes, but also above a hectic world in such a mess.
Here I am again
looking for you within these lines
in this small cosmos full of signs
of your great love
the swift current of your rushing tide
where I have the privilege to abide
for these precious moments of time
here in this magnificent gentle flow
where I get to search and to know
the fullness of you and your creative force.
​
Written 9-26-19
​
​
​Eager Print this poem only
How sharp is my knife?
Do I keep it honed
by steel on stone
ready to cut through foolish distraction
into the heart of life
or does it remain dull
and ordinary, lost in clouds and shadows?
I want a knife
a life
that gleams in sunlight
reflects goodness
fresh crisp and vivid
sharpened by friction
and communion
with others
eager to love
keen from discovery
of goodness
within
having cut away
resentment and fear
until all that is left
is surrender
to light.
Author’s Note: This poem comes from my reading of a Richard Rohr meditation (9-27-19) in which he says:
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God cannot be found “out there” until God is first found “in here,
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Fear, constriction, and resentment are seen by spiritual teachers to be inherent obstructions that must be overcome.
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All mystics are positive people—or they are not mystics! Their spiritual warfare is precisely the work of recognizing and then handing over all of their inner negativity and fear to God.
Written 9-27-19
​The Visitor’s Gift Print this poem only
She came into the living room
noticed the painting on the wall
they said it was just an heirloom
and they barely noticed it at all.
She was entranced by the work of art
her eyes danced over its scene
said the painting touched her heart:
the shepherd in the valley of green
the puffy clouds, the grazing sheep
the gray mountains and that little boy
on the flowery hill sound asleep.
On her cheek appeared tears of joy.
I wonder what works of art I miss
in the landscape of my daily life
like the glint in her eye, the hint of bliss
the way a smile forms on my wife,
rich emerald ivy that bows to the light
roses blooming fresh outside
the candle’s flame - gold in the night
the wedding picture and youth of my bride.
God grant me the gift of the visiting guest
who loves the colors and contours of the every day
to hear the poetry in that which I’m blessed
and transform this humble lump of clay.
Written 9-28-19
​​​I Don’t Even Know Print this poem only
I watch TV and stay too long
I feel restless and kinda tense
and start to think it’s wrong
to stay there at my soul’s expense
to watch till I’m feeling numb
and my gut’s tight as a drum.
I don’t even know when you reach
out your hand to touch and teach
I’m mowing the grass
in the heat of the day
I feel beat and out of gas
my thirst stops me and I make my way
to a shady spot to rest and stay
to take a drink to stop and think
I don’t even know when you reach
out your hand to touch and teach
She looks anxious or mad
or maybe a little sad
I’m afraid to stop and ask
what’s troubling her or going on
but I take off my manly mask
shut up to let her talk
and hand in hand we take a walk.
I don’t even know when you reach
out your hand to touch and teach
When I’m worried or afraid
this or that won’t turn out
according to the plans I’ve made
or I’m full of doubt
if the surgery’s right
and I fear the doctor’s knife
I don’t even know when you reach
out your hand to touch and teach
And in the midst of all the fear
I remember that you are near
and all I have to do is let go
fall into that moist green meadow
and the stream that runs through
to refresh me with a peace of you.
I don’t even know when you reach
out your hand to touch and teach
Written 10-3-19
​Your Heart Print this poem only
The rhythm of your heart
let it beat regularly in me
the flow of your heart
let me float in it
the richness of your heart
let me soak in it
the sound of your heart
let me intently listen
the warmth of your heart
let me spread it around freely
the abundance of your heart
let me practice it
the peace of your heart
let me feel it.
Written 10-4-19
​Dawn Print this poem only
I love the way
you approach silent, soft
first shadow gray then slowly
ray by soft ray light creeps in
to transform you from a shy and delicate dawn
into the confident beginning of another day.
Written10-4-19
​Before Dawn Print this poem only
The night is all around me
wraps me in its sweet soothing arms
comforts me before the brightness of day
makes its insistent demands upon me.
I sink into the night
surrender the dilemmas of the day
its anxieties and problems
into the darkness where the God of all being
will make all of these concerns into nothing
if only for a while
so I can find him and myself
in sleep.
​
Written 10-5-19
​Poetry is my armor Print this poem only
There is the ancient story of a shepherd boy
whose king outfitted him with armor
to ready him for the challenges of the day
and the boy could not walk
so he threw off the armor
picked up his sling
and tended his father’s flock
with peace and joy freely erupting in song.
My armor is not wealth or wit
I cannot make myself fit
into the current conventions and hype
trying to conform to the normal type
stops up the energies that yearn to flow
freely and gleefully and urge me to go
to the dawn, darkness, clouds and sun
to wrap myself in words that run
like sparkling streams
and windswept dreams.
Poetry is my armor for each day
where worries and problem allay
where I search my feelings and mind
for the word elixir loosening knots that bind.
This armor does not weigh me down
but frees me to my triggering town
where I find and create the poet me
and the landscape of my soul’s poetry.
Author’s Note: My favorite book about writing poetry is one by Richard Hugo, Triggering Town where he says, “Your triggering subjects are those that ignite your need for words. When you are honest to your feelings, that triggering town chooses you. Your words used your way will generate your meanings. Your obsessions lead you to your vocabulary. Your way of writing locates, even creates, your inner life. The relation of you to your language gains power. The relation of you to the triggering subject weakens.”
​
Written 10-5-19
​​​Good Conversation, No Romance (Dodoitsu)
So cute with her turned up nose
hair styled perky with turned up twists
perfume aroused eros
but without one kiss
Author’s Note: This is my first attempt at this new (to me) poetic form.
​
What is a Dodoistu? A lot of Dodoistu poetry focuses on love, humor or the unexpected, though there are many Dodoistu poems that also look at nature and beauty. It has 26 syllables: 7 in the first, second and third lines, and 5 in the last line. (7/7/7/5).
Written 10-7-19
​Ten Minutes Print this poem only
Got so much to do today
get the table clean
call the bank right away
fix the hole in the screen.
Always something vital to do
duties, playing, reading
more important than you
all of them screaming.
But in ten minutes time
my heart might fail and I die
before the end of this rhyme
and I let this moment with you go by.
Do you ever put off praying
or writing a note to someone
who needs it or saying
a few words to your son
when you really don’t know
if you’ve got ten minutes to live
ten minutes before you go
ten minutes to forgive.
Written 10-9-19
​Keep Coming Back Print this poem only
My cat comes into the bedroom in the mornings
when she knows I am up for the day
jumps on the bed and waits patiently
for me to return there after I’ve cleaned up.
She’s there waiting for me to love on her
she hopes for my love, longs for it, savors it.
She makes me a better man
for she believes in my love
and most often I give her
my hand caressing her soft tabby coat
for a few minutes, just she and I
there together in a moment of connection.
Christians speak of the awaiting the second coming
and are encouraged to wait faithfully for the Lord.
I wonder if he wants me to seek expectantly
his coming in each person in my life.
Maybe I can be as faithful as my cat
expecting, looking for, and returning love.
​
Written 10-13-19
​Coexist Print this poem only
Figure out how to fix the drain
and the computer glitch, clean the dishes,
mow the lawn before the rain
go out and buy new britches.
Sometimes I find my mind in a bind
The teacher says let your self go through
fall into or upto mystery
climb over all the stuff to do
open your heart beyond your history.
Sometimes I find my mind in a bind
But why not loosen the rules that say
mind and heart don’t mix?
Embrace the gray today
open up and let them coexist.
So, don’t bind the mind, let it and heart gently combine.
​
Written 10-14-19
​Walking Crooked Print this poem only
I am still becoming the man I want to be.
I know it’s said we’re redeemed once and for all.
But over time - lots of conversions needed for me -
I walk straight but then I trip and fall.
I know God loves me just as I am
for I’ve wept in my talks with him
and I think he too weeps for this old man
as in his ocean of grace still I learn to swim.
Walking crooked I need to steady my gait
sometimes on a chair or even a wall.
Jesus, friend and kin help me step straight
for I’m still becoming a guy who can stroll steady and tall.
​
Written 10-18-19
​Darkness in the Ditch Print this poem only
I lived here far too long
in this cavern dripping its darkness
with accusations and critiques
that have wetted my back with thick moisture
sticky with comparisons.
The crevasses and stones were placed with my collusion
in crazy cooperation with shadow.
Sadly the path of my past is strewn with this profusion
but gladly timely shafts of light spoiled the deception
and I climbed to a luminous plain
encountered rocky mounts
with veins of silver and gold
that bantered with the pain.
Now my long conversation with light
has staunched the blight
and rarely does the tempest threaten
to drown my spirit in its flood.
For now my shortfalls are taken in stride
measured against the serenity of truth
that surrounds me.
Now my hands are joined to fellow travelers,
to the faithful who laugh with me
at the reaper of darkness
weak in the ditch
whimpering over the paucity of his power
in the face of brothers and sisters
redeemed by the force
of honesty, trust, and Love.
Written 11-9-19
​Wedges Print this poem only
It comes from I know not where
the tiny wedge of doubt
that reshapes itself into a dark and ugly snare
and glimmers of hope are crowded out.
Is that wedge rooted in shame?
Words from the past: “You’re not enough”
when I learned to live in the land of blame
and recall “Boy, you just gotta get tough!”
Or is it the moral mistakes I’ve made
like the lies and angry cries
or the thoughtless trick I played
on my friend and possible ally?
Some speak of the devil who cunningly placed
an accusation that rang in their heads.
Others say it was turning down grace
that cut discipline and confidence to shreds.
But this I know, the wedges begin thin
and unseen when we are content,
safe and comfortable within
or when all our energy is spent.
They separate us from the divine inside
these wedges of doubt that come like a thief in the night
to corrupt the soul where goodness abides.
But, I pray: do not let them steal away your sublime and precious light!
​
Written 11-30-19
​Sage Print this poem only
There you are through the seasons
quietly standing
in your humble green
not seeking attention or glory
even in spring your little magenta flowers
peak out from your branches too modest
to make a loud fuss.
The scent of your body
transports me
to the place of your birth,
the plains of heaven.
May I take your simple doctrine
of acceptance and humility
to heart and rest silently
unconcerned with appearance
happy to let a soft inner light
be the meek gospel of the universe.
Author’s Note: This morning I was reflecting on the way the divine is manifested (and mostly ignored) all around me in the most humble things of creation. Then I noticed the sage bush in our back yard, planted and growing a little way off from the corner of the sidewalk. I remember smudging (burning a small bunch of sage) as a meditative spiritual practice decades ago. I can almost smell the unique aroma of the smoke rising to my nostrils and on to the heavens. Even the memory gives me a momentary wonderful peace.
​
Written 12-7-19
​Joined at the Heart Print this poem only
This small gathering of lovers
meet and hug and inspire each other
often enough to keep the pilot light
of friendship glowing for it to burn bright.
Each time we sit at table
we tell as best we are able
the events and people in our lives
and again the flame is revived.
We hold hands a moment there
and speak our spirits in prayer
We eat of God’s abundant earth
share both our sadness and mirth.
We’ve watched each other grow old
dug up hunks of coal and gold
found leaves of precious inspiration
from the tree of grace and salvation.
We trust each other to share our emotion
our dreams and struggles with devotion
here’s hoping nothing will tear us apart
for we are souls joined at the heart.
​
Written 12-9-19
​
​
She touched his robe Print this poem only
Do you know someone who heals,
in whose presence you feel whole
you do not have to bow or kneel
nor beg nor fool nor cajole?
Do you know another whose care
and ability to reach inside
erases doubt and lays you bare
your doubt and pride are laid aside?
Distrust in me is the boulder rock
that averts, delays and hesitates,
stems the tide and sadly blocks
the flowing stream of healing grace.
​
Luke 8:46 "But Jesus said, Someone deliberately touched me, for I felt healing power go out from me.”
​
Written 12-10-19
Beware the Dog Print this poem only
Hot dogs and more hot dogs
turned my gut into a bog
so today I move in a slog.
They are so tempting and easy
at the store fatty and greasy
but last night they made me queasy.
Sleep interrupted for a trip to the pot
because I did what I ought not
brought me to kneel at the porcelain spot.
The moral of this story so pitiful
eating easy can make you miserable
so about food: Be a bit more critical!
​
Written 12-11-19
Souls on these Shelves Print this poem only
These shelves stacked with books
drip gold from their pages
mined from the souls
of the fathers and mothers sisters and brothers
who I’ve placed side by side
resting and waiting for my eyes
to sojourn from between bookends
down the crooked path into my heart.
I pull one out by its spine
and Rumi walks down my fingers
then leaves of grass waft with Whitman
falling from his beard as he laughs his rich humanity.
Buddha’s followers file behind him
and perch on my shoulder whispering in my ear
peace, detachment, and compassion.
David, Samuel, Jesus, John, and Paul sail their ships
onto my legs as if to urge me to rise and travel with them
from the comfort of this peaceful space
into storms, deserts, and paths of discovery and grace.
And there is Black Elk and his native kin
speaking from weathered tortured souls
drumming the earth and wind across the ages
I hear their jangly dances wafted by feathers and leather
and their horses run over the land sounding a deep beat
thu-thum, thu-thum, thu thum
over the decades, plains, and mountains.
And here I am feeling so small in their presence,
honored to have them resting and sleeping under my roof
until once again I open their pages
and they cry out and whisper their centuries of wisdom.
I am humbled and unworthy of this gathering of giants
and yet they sleep silently on these shelves
knowing they are my friends and fellow travelers
who have found their way and dwell within me.
I am full of them
my heart bursting with joy
and quiet peace.
I feel them in my lungs
as I breathe in their scent
and hear the echoes of their voices and rich, sonorous music.
Written 12-14-19
Fifty Years Together Print this poem only
This couple still walks together
in sunny and stormy weather
both are blessed with many years,
seasoned by laughter and by tears
and love of family and friends
learning each day how to transcend.
They still walk together sometimes a hitch in their gait working at marriage finding out what God will create.
They find each other at every turn
still surprised by what they learn and discern
in each other along the winding road,
each mile sharing life’s heavy load
learning to live out their vows,
to pause and listen and be in the now.
They still walk together sometimes a hitch in their gait working at marriage finding out what God will create.
At times he gets up early and washes dishes
feeds the cats, writes prayers and poems and wishes
and when she’s tired and in pain on her feet
she launders and folds tee shirts and sheets.
He shops, goes out and about in the car.
She sews and calls sisters to see how they are.
They still walk together sometimes a hitch in their gait working at marriage finding out what God will create.
They’ve had romance, disillusionment and joy
melted two metals into a precious alloy
each of them has had earnest searches
for the Spirit in people, groups, and churches,
went to mountain tops, deserts, and plains
nurtured each other through hurts and pains.
They still walk together sometimes a hitch in their gait working at marriage finding out what God will create.
They’ve driven through sweltering heat and snows
to be with family or in resorts and hotels for repose
together they’ve flown on planes and on eagles wings
listened to drums, brass, and stirring strings
joined fellow travelers to sing with their voices
learned to love each other with a million choices.
They still walk together sometimes a hitch in their gait working at marriage finding out what God will create.
Their marriage encounter happens each hour of each day
discovering anew to forgive, heal and just what to say
pausing on occasion to read and speak inspiration
taking time together for questions and affirmation.
It is a Holy Spirit that binds this couple in love
moves them from shadow and lowlands to above.
This couple still walks hand in hand together in every season, on sunny days and stormy weather.
​
Written 12-24-19
Twilight Together Print this poem only
It’s a quiet cool twilight
and through the windows I see
elm and pear standing in elegant silhouette
arms and delicate fingers
calmly reach for the sky.
They know not the years’ end is nigh
they remember spring summer and fall
and now they rest in winter’s arms
theirs the wisdom of passing
season unto season
their roots reach down and deepen.
We two are quiet at twilight
yet reaching for the heavens,
but we do know the years we’ve stayed,
more than eighteen thousand days
in the embrace of our love
season unto season
our roots deepen
and reach into our hearts
finding reason upon reason
to learn and grow and mature
millions of minutes step by step to endure.
And breath by breath
she has said yes upon yes
to this man unworthy of the grace
I have found in her voice and her embrace.
In moments of anger and near despair
we crafted a sculpture of care.
We’ve walked through darkness into light
knelt before each other sad and contrite
for our failures and night upon night
we have laid side by side
and together we’ve stayed
conquered our pride
found the divine in each other and beyond
turned tears and fears into a durable bond.
Still her smile melts me
floats me and bolts me
and her lips still thrill and pull me into her fiery orbit.
Even after this long, this woman I cannot resist
and yes, she persists
in her acceptance of this old guy
who can still bring a sparkle to her eye
a chuckle to her voice and a smile to her face.
​
Here we are at this twilight time
golden and holdin together
and – still – yes, still we rhyme.
Author’s Note: Dedicated to my wife, Helen Elizabeth Currier on our 50th wedding anniversary
​
Written 12-30-19
