(After a trek through the Mohave Desert
From home into L.A., December 28, 2009).
I saw a mansion in the desert
With glossy paint and picket fence.
Lamp posts lined the dirt path,
Large plastic creatures strewn
Among a few nude white statues,
As I drove down Highway 395.
A couple miles back I passed
A rusted old car, heap of scraps,
Long ago forgotten beside
The boarded up gold mine--
Once valuable treasure trove,
Now an abandoned hollow.
AUTO PARTS is painted
On a few old wooden planks
Nailed on a crumbling garage.
Hard to tell if it's still open
Or if no one really cared
To pull 'em down before they left.
Well, it looks like one still lives
In this lone desert mansion.
The land must 'a been a good deal--
Not much competition for this plot.
Think it was a young girl or an old fella
Paid this time, seekin' to fulfill the dream?
I wonder how long 'til this soul
Grown weary of barren heat and sand
Flees without glancing back,
Leaving another old roof to rot,
Another stack of boards to break up
Vast stretches of dirt, rock, an' weed.
Monday, December 28, 2009
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
"Winter's night"
(Composed December 23, 2009).
The rising sun must later leave the sky,
Each blooming flower, whither and die.
Spring graces us with glorious display,
Then winter strikes to our dismay.
Although the vivid brilliance fades,
Warmth the air no longer pervades,
Time cannot their memory deplete
Stunning colors or fragrance sweet.
Although the rays dim from view
And petals melt as morning dew,
The frost of this cold winter’s night
Cannot their tender remembrance blight.
The rising sun must later leave the sky,
Each blooming flower, whither and die.
Spring graces us with glorious display,
Then winter strikes to our dismay.
Although the vivid brilliance fades,
Warmth the air no longer pervades,
Time cannot their memory deplete
Stunning colors or fragrance sweet.
Although the rays dim from view
And petals melt as morning dew,
The frost of this cold winter’s night
Cannot their tender remembrance blight.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
"All eyes to the stage"
(Moments remembered on December 17, 2009).
Clusters of choir members scattered around,
A couple of altos reviewing their part,
Another munching on carrot sticks in the corner.
Violas from the orchestra tune,
Black collars popped and red ties hanging;
Girls scurry barefoot to the mirror,
Hurriedly reapplying their lipstick.
The doors fly open and the audience floods
Down the aisles and to the front.
Hugging and chattering with a grin,
The room is filled with their enthusiastic buzz;
Eagerness and delighted anticipation pulses.
Taking one last gulp of water, I stash the bottle
Beside an empty cello case and a roll of electrical tape.
Moments later the house lights dim,
The crowd grows silent;
All eyes to the stage.
The choir adjusts our black folders,
Clicking on the little music lights.
The conductor raises his baton;
Deep breath and…
Clusters of choir members scattered around,
A couple of altos reviewing their part,
Another munching on carrot sticks in the corner.
Violas from the orchestra tune,
Black collars popped and red ties hanging;
Girls scurry barefoot to the mirror,
Hurriedly reapplying their lipstick.
The doors fly open and the audience floods
Down the aisles and to the front.
Hugging and chattering with a grin,
The room is filled with their enthusiastic buzz;
Eagerness and delighted anticipation pulses.
Taking one last gulp of water, I stash the bottle
Beside an empty cello case and a roll of electrical tape.
Moments later the house lights dim,
The crowd grows silent;
All eyes to the stage.
The choir adjusts our black folders,
Clicking on the little music lights.
The conductor raises his baton;
Deep breath and…
"Rearview Mirror Reflections"
(Jotted down December 17, 2009).
The morning commute is always an adventure!
My fellow drivers never fail to amaze me
With their crazy maneuvers and sudden stops.
Orange cone-lined construction zones are especially thrilling!
Yet perhaps my favorite part of the drive is
Sitting at a stoplight and glancing about.
Mascara wand and shiny pink compact in hand,
A young women stares at her reflection,
Applying powder, now manipulating metal pinchers
While the other cars zoom by, and
A teenager in his skinny jeans and red beanie
Pops a zit then bites his nails on my left.
A mother walks her daughter to school,
Girl bundled in pink scarf and white mittens,
Mother in a dull, frumpy brown jacket,
As the orange-vested gentleman,
The school’s friendly crossing guard,
Raises his sign and steps across.
Animatedly talking on her phone, or better yet,
Vigorously texting a curious friend,
"Baby on board" bumper sticker in the back,
The mom beside me would hardly notice, if
A fiery meteor fell from the sky
Or a bomb exploded up ahead.
And in his starched white shirt and tie,
Suit jacket hanging in the backseat,
The man ahead of me scarfs down
A steaming breakfast sandwich,
While I, finger tapping and latte in hand,
Sing along to a lively country song.
The morning commute is always an adventure!
My fellow drivers never fail to amaze me
With their crazy maneuvers and sudden stops.
Orange cone-lined construction zones are especially thrilling!
Yet perhaps my favorite part of the drive is
Sitting at a stoplight and glancing about.
Mascara wand and shiny pink compact in hand,
A young women stares at her reflection,
Applying powder, now manipulating metal pinchers
While the other cars zoom by, and
A teenager in his skinny jeans and red beanie
Pops a zit then bites his nails on my left.
A mother walks her daughter to school,
Girl bundled in pink scarf and white mittens,
Mother in a dull, frumpy brown jacket,
As the orange-vested gentleman,
The school’s friendly crossing guard,
Raises his sign and steps across.
Animatedly talking on her phone, or better yet,
Vigorously texting a curious friend,
"Baby on board" bumper sticker in the back,
The mom beside me would hardly notice, if
A fiery meteor fell from the sky
Or a bomb exploded up ahead.
And in his starched white shirt and tie,
Suit jacket hanging in the backseat,
The man ahead of me scarfs down
A steaming breakfast sandwich,
While I, finger tapping and latte in hand,
Sing along to a lively country song.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
"A rag-wrapped babe"
(Composed the second week of Advent 2009).
To these the Son of God came down:
To broken, steeped in sin,
To the hopeless, weary, defeated,
Unto wounded and hurting men.
No marble columns greeted him,
No vaulted ceilings high,
No hallowed halls, nor towers white,
Nor servants gathered nigh.
A rag-wrapped babe, God is with us!
An infant’s piercing cry,
Wrinkled fingers reaching out
From earth up to the sky.
Rejoice! Be glad! Jesus has come!
Our waiting’s not in vain.
Our Savior, Jesus Christ the Lord
In Bethlehem is lain.
To these the Son of God came down:
To broken, steeped in sin,
To the hopeless, weary, defeated,
Unto wounded and hurting men.
No marble columns greeted him,
No vaulted ceilings high,
No hallowed halls, nor towers white,
Nor servants gathered nigh.
A rag-wrapped babe, God is with us!
An infant’s piercing cry,
Wrinkled fingers reaching out
From earth up to the sky.
Rejoice! Be glad! Jesus has come!
Our waiting’s not in vain.
Our Savior, Jesus Christ the Lord
In Bethlehem is lain.
"Hearts' delight"
(A choir member's fervent prayer,
December 10, 2009).
The torn screen door swings open
Exposing a heap of cans on the floor,
Drained dry, sapped six-packs,
Dreams, distant hopes of youth spilt,
Now dingy stains on the carpet.
The stench of beer and sweat
Drenches every inch of air,
As a cloud of thick smoke swells.
Cigarette butts litter the floor,
Tossed aside, burnt out, scorched idealism.
Shining childhood naivety,
The innocent glow of youth,
Tainted, tattered, tarnished,
Smothered, suffocated, strangled,
Mangled, maimed, and marred.
There was a party here last night,
Or did he drink alone?
It hardly matters now.
Alone he slouches on the couch,
Dead eyes, anesthetized to life.
Is there hope for him this Christmas?
Might he find joy this time of year
Amidst the plastic twinkling lights?
Might the brilliant Advent candles bright
Illumine this soul and enliven his eye?
May we not glide by this Christmas
Snuggled in our jingling sleds,
Cocoa in hand and cookies sweet,
Joyful carols ever echoing
In our scarf-wrapped little heads.
May the truth of that blessed night,
Floating, soaring through our song,
As the star which shone so bright,
Lead the lost to our dear Savior,
Guided by our hearts’ delight.
December 10, 2009).
The torn screen door swings open
Exposing a heap of cans on the floor,
Drained dry, sapped six-packs,
Dreams, distant hopes of youth spilt,
Now dingy stains on the carpet.
The stench of beer and sweat
Drenches every inch of air,
As a cloud of thick smoke swells.
Cigarette butts litter the floor,
Tossed aside, burnt out, scorched idealism.
Shining childhood naivety,
The innocent glow of youth,
Tainted, tattered, tarnished,
Smothered, suffocated, strangled,
Mangled, maimed, and marred.
There was a party here last night,
Or did he drink alone?
It hardly matters now.
Alone he slouches on the couch,
Dead eyes, anesthetized to life.
Is there hope for him this Christmas?
Might he find joy this time of year
Amidst the plastic twinkling lights?
Might the brilliant Advent candles bright
Illumine this soul and enliven his eye?
May we not glide by this Christmas
Snuggled in our jingling sleds,
Cocoa in hand and cookies sweet,
Joyful carols ever echoing
In our scarf-wrapped little heads.
May the truth of that blessed night,
Floating, soaring through our song,
As the star which shone so bright,
Lead the lost to our dear Savior,
Guided by our hearts’ delight.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
"The gentle, floating breath of flute"
(Upon meeting Debussy's faun,
December 1, 2009).
The gentle, floating breath of flute,
Melody flitting as a leaf in the breeze,
Pale, lily yellow, tranquil and fragrant,
Bold flashes of color, hints of scarlet mystery,
Meandering through fields of vibrant wildflowers,
Beneath the shade of blossoming cherry trees,
Delicately sweet, glistening honey of the comb.
Pipe's playful frolicking tune overhead,
As sunbeams peaking through tender leaves,
Then burning bright as the golden sun,
Blazing in her brilliant noonday glory,
Piercing the veil of the billowing cloud,
Twirling higher, faster and faster...
Mighty crescendo of brass and string!
Stillness, cool as the babbling brook,
Serenely gliding over pebbles smooth,
Against the trunk of a budding tree,
Beneath the sparkling stars, dreamily nestled.
December 1, 2009).
The gentle, floating breath of flute,
Melody flitting as a leaf in the breeze,
Pale, lily yellow, tranquil and fragrant,
Bold flashes of color, hints of scarlet mystery,
Meandering through fields of vibrant wildflowers,
Beneath the shade of blossoming cherry trees,
Delicately sweet, glistening honey of the comb.
Pipe's playful frolicking tune overhead,
As sunbeams peaking through tender leaves,
Then burning bright as the golden sun,
Blazing in her brilliant noonday glory,
Piercing the veil of the billowing cloud,
Twirling higher, faster and faster...
Mighty crescendo of brass and string!
Stillness, cool as the babbling brook,
Serenely gliding over pebbles smooth,
Against the trunk of a budding tree,
Beneath the sparkling stars, dreamily nestled.
Monday, November 23, 2009
"The Little Lamb's Tale"
(Composed November 19, 2009).
The sun is in full bloom today,
A few wispy clouds overhead.
Birds are chirping in the meadow,
The promise of adventure in the air.
Prancing about the open field
Through green pastures and wild flowers,
A butterfly catches my eye,
So I skip after it to get a better look,
Its golden wings shimmering.
Among the trees I wander
Over roots and fallen leaves
Following the distant glittering.
My hooves now sore, throat dry,
Grown raspy with want of water,
Still I trample onward.
Entering shadows, hidden from the sun,
I stumble after the elusive sparkle.
Finally drawing nearer I hobble,
All my energy, just a few steps more...
My eyes riveted on the growing gold...
Suddenly the earth gives way beneath me,
As I fall downward, air rushing my face,
Landing hard, and SNAP!
"AHHH!" I cry out in pain,
My leg throbbing, pressure floods my ankle.
"HELP!" I moan, but no one responds.
Alone in the darkness I sob,
"Is there no one to help me?"
There is only silence.
Feet flailing I try to crawl forward,
But I am too weak.
Pushing harder I try to stand,
But I fall once more.
Utterly exhausted I curl tightly,
Clinging to a lone scraggly bush.
I wrinkle my nose as a bit of dirt
Falls from the cliff above.
Bleating once more, now with hope,
I lift my eyes heavenward.
Gentle hands surround me,
Embracing my thorn-filled fleece,
As he lifts me from the ledge.
The sharp pang in my leg
Seems to ease under his touch,
Wrapped in his strong, secure arms,
Held tightly to the shepherd's heart.
The sun is in full bloom today,
A few wispy clouds overhead.
Birds are chirping in the meadow,
The promise of adventure in the air.
Prancing about the open field
Through green pastures and wild flowers,
A butterfly catches my eye,
So I skip after it to get a better look,
Its golden wings shimmering.
Among the trees I wander
Over roots and fallen leaves
Following the distant glittering.
My hooves now sore, throat dry,
Grown raspy with want of water,
Still I trample onward.
Entering shadows, hidden from the sun,
I stumble after the elusive sparkle.
Finally drawing nearer I hobble,
All my energy, just a few steps more...
My eyes riveted on the growing gold...
Suddenly the earth gives way beneath me,
As I fall downward, air rushing my face,
Landing hard, and SNAP!
"AHHH!" I cry out in pain,
My leg throbbing, pressure floods my ankle.
"HELP!" I moan, but no one responds.
Alone in the darkness I sob,
"Is there no one to help me?"
There is only silence.
Feet flailing I try to crawl forward,
But I am too weak.
Pushing harder I try to stand,
But I fall once more.
Utterly exhausted I curl tightly,
Clinging to a lone scraggly bush.
I wrinkle my nose as a bit of dirt
Falls from the cliff above.
Bleating once more, now with hope,
I lift my eyes heavenward.
Gentle hands surround me,
Embracing my thorn-filled fleece,
As he lifts me from the ledge.
The sharp pang in my leg
Seems to ease under his touch,
Wrapped in his strong, secure arms,
Held tightly to the shepherd's heart.
Friday, November 20, 2009
"Above our own"
(Composed after our latest gathering of
The Dinner Club, November 19, 2009).
A lively group of young adults,
Munching and chattering after work
About music, family, school or sports.
It's quite a party tonight!
A few tea lights cast their glow,
As pumpkin pie is passed around
And laughter flitters in the air,
When the door swings open and
The room grows suddenly still.
"A friend is in need. Please pray."
Instantly the separate clusters unite,
One after another petitioning for peace,
Uplifting a sister before our Father.
Of one mind and a single purpose,
Earnestly pleading on her behalf.
Interests, occupations, age, and size,
What naturally divides, now cast aside,
Huddled together before His throne,
His will to seek above our own.
The Dinner Club, November 19, 2009).
A lively group of young adults,
Munching and chattering after work
About music, family, school or sports.
It's quite a party tonight!
A few tea lights cast their glow,
As pumpkin pie is passed around
And laughter flitters in the air,
When the door swings open and
The room grows suddenly still.
"A friend is in need. Please pray."
Instantly the separate clusters unite,
One after another petitioning for peace,
Uplifting a sister before our Father.
Of one mind and a single purpose,
Earnestly pleading on her behalf.
Interests, occupations, age, and size,
What naturally divides, now cast aside,
Huddled together before His throne,
His will to seek above our own.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
"Cuppa"
(Composed in the late afternoon
of November 17, 2009).
Walking through the front door
Thoughts swirling in my mind,
Bubbling to the surface like the
Effervescent fizz of a champagne bottle.
Like soap suds rushing to the drain
At the end of a long, hot bath,
So these thoughts flood my mind
Once the rumbling pressure of noise
At the end of day is finally uncorked.
And as a cuppa soothes and warms
The frostbitten, weary traveler,
So such pause for contemplation,
The cold, stiff corners of the soul.
of November 17, 2009).
Walking through the front door
Thoughts swirling in my mind,
Bubbling to the surface like the
Effervescent fizz of a champagne bottle.
Like soap suds rushing to the drain
At the end of a long, hot bath,
So these thoughts flood my mind
Once the rumbling pressure of noise
At the end of day is finally uncorked.
And as a cuppa soothes and warms
The frostbitten, weary traveler,
So such pause for contemplation,
The cold, stiff corners of the soul.
Monday, November 16, 2009
"The MOT"
(Composed in reflection
on November 16, 2009).
I went to the Museum of Tolerance the other day.
Car inspections, baggage searching, metal detectors,
Like entering a neutral zone in hostile territory.
After waiting for our guide, we were led down
The spiral ramp, descending into the pit.
Entering the exhibit, we followed the dim light,
Viewing pictures, observing the flickering footage.
Slowly we made our way past a café scene,
The rugged ruins of a dilapidated ghetto,
Through the barbed wire gates of Auschwitz.
Images of dying babes flashed across the screen,
Stories of the worst types of cruelty imaginable.
On the cold concrete we sat, silently sobbing
Beneath the wailing melody of a Hebrew lamentation,
The innocents slain for their star.
Sliding my card into the machine,
My eyes riveted on the printer.
‘Please let her live,’ I pray.
The paper glides into my hand:
Freda Gabe was never seen again.
Eyes glistening, our feet shuffle into the elevator.
Slowly we rise, flight upon flight.
A little man with a thick Greek accent,
Body scarred and arm tattooed,
Addresses the eager gathering.
He shares his story, the horrors endured,
The loss of his entire family before his very eyes,
But his fighting spirit shines through in his grin,
Although struck down, he survived.
Though tortured, Albert lived.
on November 16, 2009).
I went to the Museum of Tolerance the other day.
Car inspections, baggage searching, metal detectors,
Like entering a neutral zone in hostile territory.
After waiting for our guide, we were led down
The spiral ramp, descending into the pit.
Entering the exhibit, we followed the dim light,
Viewing pictures, observing the flickering footage.
Slowly we made our way past a café scene,
The rugged ruins of a dilapidated ghetto,
Through the barbed wire gates of Auschwitz.
Images of dying babes flashed across the screen,
Stories of the worst types of cruelty imaginable.
On the cold concrete we sat, silently sobbing
Beneath the wailing melody of a Hebrew lamentation,
The innocents slain for their star.
Sliding my card into the machine,
My eyes riveted on the printer.
‘Please let her live,’ I pray.
The paper glides into my hand:
Freda Gabe was never seen again.
Eyes glistening, our feet shuffle into the elevator.
Slowly we rise, flight upon flight.
A little man with a thick Greek accent,
Body scarred and arm tattooed,
Addresses the eager gathering.
He shares his story, the horrors endured,
The loss of his entire family before his very eyes,
But his fighting spirit shines through in his grin,
Although struck down, he survived.
Though tortured, Albert lived.
"Dear Katie"
(One month from her graduation).
Dear Katie,
Graduating from college was like breaking the tape,
Finishing the last stretch of a race,
A seventeen year long marathon,
Breathless and stumbling,
Yet full of joy, excitement, and relief.
Enjoy the last few paces of the straight away!
The finish line is in sight!
Dear Katie,
Graduating from college was like breaking the tape,
Finishing the last stretch of a race,
A seventeen year long marathon,
Breathless and stumbling,
Yet full of joy, excitement, and relief.
Enjoy the last few paces of the straight away!
The finish line is in sight!
Friday, November 6, 2009
"What to say?"
(Written the first week
of November 2009).
What to say of a pain so deep?
What to say of a loss so great?
My friend lost her father today.
I guess 'lost' is the wrong word,
For she knows where he went.
Her beloved dad went on ahead.
He left to lead the way home,
Yet he is gone and she is here.
Shock. Tears. Unbelief.
Questions. Comfort.
Sadness. Peace. Pain.
What must she feel?
What could I ever say?
So a simple card
And a single orchid
On her doorstep I left,
The best gifts I could give,
And soon a hug and a shoulder,
The most poetic images I'd display.
of November 2009).
What to say of a pain so deep?
What to say of a loss so great?
My friend lost her father today.
I guess 'lost' is the wrong word,
For she knows where he went.
Her beloved dad went on ahead.
He left to lead the way home,
Yet he is gone and she is here.
Shock. Tears. Unbelief.
Questions. Comfort.
Sadness. Peace. Pain.
What must she feel?
What could I ever say?
So a simple card
And a single orchid
On her doorstep I left,
The best gifts I could give,
And soon a hug and a shoulder,
The most poetic images I'd display.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
"Those little gold stars"
(Composed after House of Prayer,
October 27, 2009).
Head bowed, tears gleaming in my eyes
Shed for the pain of another, I was reminded:
Life is not measured in dollars and cents,
In titles, degrees, and lengthy acronyms,
Or little gold stars on the board;
Yet some days I struggle and strive,
Polishing those little gold stars,
Trying to make them shine brighter,
Reapplying the peeling adhesive,
Keeping them in a straight line.
I don't feel so bad with their glint in my eye,
Still over the years these mere stickers
Seem to simply fade and fall away,
Like the pale ribbon in the back of my closet:
A first place blue ribbon in archery,
Shiny and new the summer after fourth grade.
Actually, come to think of it,
I might have thrown that ribbon away.
Oh well. Nobody really cares about it now.
Old trophies aren't worth much in the end.
Praise the Lord He looks at the heart,
Not our paycheck, job title, or resume,
Not our model of car or IQ,
Nor our number of facebook friends!
Praise the Lord for He is good,
And His mercies are new every morning!
Praise the Lord for His lavish love,
And His gracious provision for our needs!
Praise the Lord for His faithfulness,
And His tender mercies unto me!
October 27, 2009).
Head bowed, tears gleaming in my eyes
Shed for the pain of another, I was reminded:
Life is not measured in dollars and cents,
In titles, degrees, and lengthy acronyms,
Or little gold stars on the board;
Yet some days I struggle and strive,
Polishing those little gold stars,
Trying to make them shine brighter,
Reapplying the peeling adhesive,
Keeping them in a straight line.
I don't feel so bad with their glint in my eye,
Still over the years these mere stickers
Seem to simply fade and fall away,
Like the pale ribbon in the back of my closet:
A first place blue ribbon in archery,
Shiny and new the summer after fourth grade.
Actually, come to think of it,
I might have thrown that ribbon away.
Oh well. Nobody really cares about it now.
Old trophies aren't worth much in the end.
Praise the Lord He looks at the heart,
Not our paycheck, job title, or resume,
Not our model of car or IQ,
Nor our number of facebook friends!
Praise the Lord for He is good,
And His mercies are new every morning!
Praise the Lord for His lavish love,
And His gracious provision for our needs!
Praise the Lord for His faithfulness,
And His tender mercies unto me!
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
"A new friend"
(Composed in cheerful reflection
on October 19, 2009).
A room filled with strangers,
Timidly I sit in my chair,
Trying not to look as awkward as I feel.
Glancing around the rows,
I earnestly seek a familiar face.
My eyes meet another's.
'Oh no! What was her name?
I just met her at the registration table.'
My lips form a tilted grin,
Quickly turning around in my chair.
Trying to assemble a new strategy,
I start to fidget, adjusting my sweater,
Then crossing my legs for the fourth time,
Flipping through the program again,
Checking my cell phone for "messages".
"Tori, is it?" the girl beside me asks,
Reading my scribbled name tag.
"Yep. That's me. What's your name?"
'Becky? That's not so scary.
She looks pretty nice.'
'Oh, interesting...I wonder if...'
Soon I lose sight of where I am,
Intrigued by her cheerful story,
Visualizing her life at home
And imagining her time spent abroad.
"Thank you all for coming,"
The speaker stands to welcome the group,
Starting the session and the retreat.
"It was nice meeting you," she smiles.
"You too," I reply.
Happy to have made a new friend,
I look at the lady at the podium,
Warmed by the thought of a weekend
Filled with lovely ladies to meet,
Many new friends to discover.
on October 19, 2009).
A room filled with strangers,
Timidly I sit in my chair,
Trying not to look as awkward as I feel.
Glancing around the rows,
I earnestly seek a familiar face.
My eyes meet another's.
'Oh no! What was her name?
I just met her at the registration table.'
My lips form a tilted grin,
Quickly turning around in my chair.
Trying to assemble a new strategy,
I start to fidget, adjusting my sweater,
Then crossing my legs for the fourth time,
Flipping through the program again,
Checking my cell phone for "messages".
"Tori, is it?" the girl beside me asks,
Reading my scribbled name tag.
"Yep. That's me. What's your name?"
'Becky? That's not so scary.
She looks pretty nice.'
'Oh, interesting...I wonder if...'
Soon I lose sight of where I am,
Intrigued by her cheerful story,
Visualizing her life at home
And imagining her time spent abroad.
"Thank you all for coming,"
The speaker stands to welcome the group,
Starting the session and the retreat.
"It was nice meeting you," she smiles.
"You too," I reply.
Happy to have made a new friend,
I look at the lady at the podium,
Warmed by the thought of a weekend
Filled with lovely ladies to meet,
Many new friends to discover.
Monday, October 19, 2009
"Lounging at Laguna Beach"
(Composed amidst the fog
of October 18, 2009).
Lounging at Laguna Beach,
A lovely, foggy autumn day,
The mist floated in the air,
The gentle crashing of the rolling wave.
I was enjoying the peaceful beauty of the scene,
Delighting in the refreshing sea breeze,
When a flock of birds descended,
Surrounding me as I huddled on my towel.
Squawking and fighting over a piece of trash,
They nipped at a moldy slice of bread.
Nervously I glanced around.
They all seemed to be staring at me.
'I hate sea gulls, ugly diseased creatures.
What if they start pecking me?
So this is what Hitchcock meant;
And I was having such a nice time!'
Up the shore a little girl came running,
Maybe two or three years old,
Stumbling through the moist sand
In her little blue wetsuit with braided hair.
Joyfully she hobbled toward the birds.
They skipped and hopped ahead,
Then in one big rush, away they flew--
A thin white streak in the grey sky.
of October 18, 2009).
Lounging at Laguna Beach,
A lovely, foggy autumn day,
The mist floated in the air,
The gentle crashing of the rolling wave.
I was enjoying the peaceful beauty of the scene,
Delighting in the refreshing sea breeze,
When a flock of birds descended,
Surrounding me as I huddled on my towel.
Squawking and fighting over a piece of trash,
They nipped at a moldy slice of bread.
Nervously I glanced around.
They all seemed to be staring at me.
'I hate sea gulls, ugly diseased creatures.
What if they start pecking me?
So this is what Hitchcock meant;
And I was having such a nice time!'
Up the shore a little girl came running,
Maybe two or three years old,
Stumbling through the moist sand
In her little blue wetsuit with braided hair.
Joyfully she hobbled toward the birds.
They skipped and hopped ahead,
Then in one big rush, away they flew--
A thin white streak in the grey sky.
Monday, October 12, 2009
"What is in your hand?"
(Composed in reflection after a
retreat on October 12, 2009).
What is in your hand?
A pen.
A passion.
A love for my God.
A pain.
A heartache.
A longing.
I give it to Your service.
An eagerness.
A frustration.
A beloved friend.
A ruthless enemy.
I entrust these to You, O Lord.
A warmth.
A zeal.
A chill.
A fear.
A strength.
A wound.
A distress.
A delight.
In it all I will praise You
that they may believe that the Lord
has appeared to you
retreat on October 12, 2009).
What is in your hand?
A pen.
A passion.
A love for my God.
A pain.
A heartache.
A longing.
I give it to Your service.
An eagerness.
A frustration.
A beloved friend.
A ruthless enemy.
I entrust these to You, O Lord.
A warmth.
A zeal.
A chill.
A fear.
A strength.
A wound.
A distress.
A delight.
In it all I will praise You
that they may believe that the Lord
has appeared to you
Friday, October 9, 2009
"Sparked"
(Candle ignited October 9, 2009).
The wind howls, whipping through the trees,
Thrashing leaves and scrawled branches pound,
As I falter in the darkness of the wood.
My thin coat is soaked and shredded.
Alone, cold, and vulnerable, I cower.
Dizzying torrents fill my mind,
Floods of doubt and terrors pummel.
'Is that a building up ahead?'
Leaping, a gnarled tree root catches my foot,
I flounder and fall in the mud.
Dazed I struggle to regain my focus,
While the rain continually pelts my face.
The ache in the pit of my stomach,
Drenched deeply to the very core,
I cry out in pain.
I cannot move any farther.
Muscles aching, worries overwhelming,
The throbbing is too much to bear.
A soft word I hear, yet I see no one,
As though a faint whisper floated on the wind.
Breathing deeply, I struggle forward,
Crawling toward the wooden structure
On my hands and knees on the forest floor.
One hand after the other I push on,
'Til I finally reach the rugged cedar planks.
Cold and shivering, I crouch,
Seeking warmth, shelter from the storm.
My vision blurred, I wipe the glass,
Desperate for hope, a ray of light,
On the other side of the window.
A tiny flame flickers in the frame.
Raindrops enshroud the surface.
Squinting I peer into the foggy pane.
Earnestly I pull on the metal ledge.
It does not budge.
Too dark to see, I stumble around the perimeter,
Tripping over stones and fallen branches,
Water pouring over my head,
My hands probing up and down the walls,
Fingers groping, searching for a knob.
At last I find the edge of the door,
As a cloaked and aged man appears before me,
Extends his hand, beckoning me to enter.
He pulls the door open, warmth sweeps over me,
Yet trembling, I feel my legs giving way.
Blinking, I slowly open my eyes, peering up.
Hazy at first, gradually my vision grows clearer.
His tender, shining eyes greet mine.
Deeply I breathe in the glowing air,
As he gently lifts me to my feet once more.
Surveying the room, I see not only a single flame,
But little lights scattered among the pews,
Each candle held by a weary traveler of varying ages;
Some are soggy and still dripping,
Others radiant and almost completely dry.
In his hand he holds my candle.
I had carried it in my pocket, merely frozen wax.
Ashamed, I bow my head before him,
And in his presence, it softens and ignites,
Sparked by the beatific twinkling of his eye.
The wind howls, whipping through the trees,
Thrashing leaves and scrawled branches pound,
As I falter in the darkness of the wood.
My thin coat is soaked and shredded.
Alone, cold, and vulnerable, I cower.
Dizzying torrents fill my mind,
Floods of doubt and terrors pummel.
'Is that a building up ahead?'
Leaping, a gnarled tree root catches my foot,
I flounder and fall in the mud.
Dazed I struggle to regain my focus,
While the rain continually pelts my face.
The ache in the pit of my stomach,
Drenched deeply to the very core,
I cry out in pain.
I cannot move any farther.
Muscles aching, worries overwhelming,
The throbbing is too much to bear.
A soft word I hear, yet I see no one,
As though a faint whisper floated on the wind.
Breathing deeply, I struggle forward,
Crawling toward the wooden structure
On my hands and knees on the forest floor.
One hand after the other I push on,
'Til I finally reach the rugged cedar planks.
Cold and shivering, I crouch,
Seeking warmth, shelter from the storm.
My vision blurred, I wipe the glass,
Desperate for hope, a ray of light,
On the other side of the window.
A tiny flame flickers in the frame.
Raindrops enshroud the surface.
Squinting I peer into the foggy pane.
Earnestly I pull on the metal ledge.
It does not budge.
Too dark to see, I stumble around the perimeter,
Tripping over stones and fallen branches,
Water pouring over my head,
My hands probing up and down the walls,
Fingers groping, searching for a knob.
At last I find the edge of the door,
As a cloaked and aged man appears before me,
Extends his hand, beckoning me to enter.
He pulls the door open, warmth sweeps over me,
Yet trembling, I feel my legs giving way.
Blinking, I slowly open my eyes, peering up.
Hazy at first, gradually my vision grows clearer.
His tender, shining eyes greet mine.
Deeply I breathe in the glowing air,
As he gently lifts me to my feet once more.
Surveying the room, I see not only a single flame,
But little lights scattered among the pews,
Each candle held by a weary traveler of varying ages;
Some are soggy and still dripping,
Others radiant and almost completely dry.
In his hand he holds my candle.
I had carried it in my pocket, merely frozen wax.
Ashamed, I bow my head before him,
And in his presence, it softens and ignites,
Sparked by the beatific twinkling of his eye.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
"Hostages no more"
(Recounted October 3, 2009).
I had a dream this week that a man put a gun to my head.
Barrel pressing under my chin, I was instructed to walk;
Obviously running was not a viable option.
"Your life is worth more than all the money in the bank"
We have been told on more than one occasion.
Working for a financial institution, there is always the chance
That a crazy bank robber might take you hostage,
Attempting to break into the secured cash vault.
We've seen the training videos, but what can truly prepare
For the sensation of cold metal on your skin?
Fear so easily sneaks into the soul when you lie down to sleep.
I have not been up late at night worrying and counting sheep,
For it is not a rational, waking hour's fear.
The farfetched, terrifying scenarios that just might come true:
This is the stuff of which nightmares are made.
Yet we have been saved from much greater horror than this:
Christ has rescued us from life's supreme robber: Death!
We are hostages no more! So where is our great rejoicing?
It simply comes and goes, as our mood flows up and down
Like the crashing waves on the beach.
I had a dream this week that a man put a gun to my head.
Barrel pressing under my chin, I was instructed to walk;
Obviously running was not a viable option.
"Your life is worth more than all the money in the bank"
We have been told on more than one occasion.
Working for a financial institution, there is always the chance
That a crazy bank robber might take you hostage,
Attempting to break into the secured cash vault.
We've seen the training videos, but what can truly prepare
For the sensation of cold metal on your skin?
Fear so easily sneaks into the soul when you lie down to sleep.
I have not been up late at night worrying and counting sheep,
For it is not a rational, waking hour's fear.
The farfetched, terrifying scenarios that just might come true:
This is the stuff of which nightmares are made.
Yet we have been saved from much greater horror than this:
Christ has rescued us from life's supreme robber: Death!
We are hostages no more! So where is our great rejoicing?
It simply comes and goes, as our mood flows up and down
Like the crashing waves on the beach.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
"The baby's cry"
(Composed September 29, 2009).
In the somber chapel, the parson spoke,
His words gently lulling the congregation,
A beam of sunlight in the stained glass shone,
Casting a warm glow throughout the room,
Dripping of rich honey and liquid gold.
WAAAAAHHHH!
The baby’s cry shook the sleepy crowd
Like the trumpet-led blast of Jericho.
The little stentatorian could have drowned out
The resounding hooves of a stampeding herd
Or the thunder of a charging cavalry unit.
A couple older gentlemen cleared their throats,
As some of the teens began to whisper.
Blushing, the mother leapt to her feet,
Drew the infant into her arms and ran out.
The preacher shook his head and continued reading.
In the temple of Jerusalem they grew angry,
Disgusted and filled with hot disdain,
The arrogant priests and scribes dismissed the youth.
From the ‘naïve little ones’ who cried, “Hosanna!”
They turned their faces and walked away.
From the lips of children and infants
You have ordained praise
Jesus rejoiced to hear their song,
Their eager squeals of joy and glee.
The jumping, running, dancing whirl,
Tender smiles on their little faces,
Sweet enthusiasm for their King.
The disciples dusty and weary from the journey,
Crowds pushing in on every side,
Herded the little rambunctious rascals,
Isolating and shoving them away.
The rabbi was surely too busy for these.
Let the little ones come to me
And do not keep them away
Jesus stood with arms wide open,
Calling little ones to His embrace.
Those overlooked, ignored, and weak,
In these He placed fervent delight,
Rejoicing in His dearly loved children.
In the somber chapel, the parson spoke,
His words gently lulling the congregation,
A beam of sunlight in the stained glass shone,
Casting a warm glow throughout the room,
Dripping of rich honey and liquid gold.
WAAAAAHHHH!
The baby’s cry shook the sleepy crowd
Like the trumpet-led blast of Jericho.
The little stentatorian could have drowned out
The resounding hooves of a stampeding herd
Or the thunder of a charging cavalry unit.
A couple older gentlemen cleared their throats,
As some of the teens began to whisper.
Blushing, the mother leapt to her feet,
Drew the infant into her arms and ran out.
The preacher shook his head and continued reading.
In the temple of Jerusalem they grew angry,
Disgusted and filled with hot disdain,
The arrogant priests and scribes dismissed the youth.
From the ‘naïve little ones’ who cried, “Hosanna!”
They turned their faces and walked away.
From the lips of children and infants
You have ordained praise
Jesus rejoiced to hear their song,
Their eager squeals of joy and glee.
The jumping, running, dancing whirl,
Tender smiles on their little faces,
Sweet enthusiasm for their King.
The disciples dusty and weary from the journey,
Crowds pushing in on every side,
Herded the little rambunctious rascals,
Isolating and shoving them away.
The rabbi was surely too busy for these.
Let the little ones come to me
And do not keep them away
Jesus stood with arms wide open,
Calling little ones to His embrace.
Those overlooked, ignored, and weak,
In these He placed fervent delight,
Rejoicing in His dearly loved children.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
"I went for a long run today"
(An autobiographical account
of September 22, 2009).
I went for a long run today.
I love to run around the park,
The breeze blowing in my face.
I ran by families going fishing,
Clusters of friends playing frisbee,
Little girls feeding a flock of geese.
That's when I got a blister on my foot.
I tried limping for a little while,
But that was not very effective in
Stopping the rubbing, the hurting.
I was struggling on the cement path,
When I had a brilliant idea--
I took off my shoes and walked in the grass,
Down the green slope, among the trees,
And to the little rippling pond below.
When is the last time you untied your feet,
Toes hidden among the silky blades of grass?
Why do they call them "blades" anyway
When they are so soft and soothing?
The strands of grass? No, that wouldn't work--
It sounds like the earth is unraveling.
Well, you should try it sometime soon.
The freedom of your toes to wiggle,
The refreshing tickle of nature's fingers.
Most days my feet seem to be numb.
I don't even think about them
Housed in their little leather soles.
What a joy to feel my feet again!
of September 22, 2009).
I went for a long run today.
I love to run around the park,
The breeze blowing in my face.
I ran by families going fishing,
Clusters of friends playing frisbee,
Little girls feeding a flock of geese.
That's when I got a blister on my foot.
I tried limping for a little while,
But that was not very effective in
Stopping the rubbing, the hurting.
I was struggling on the cement path,
When I had a brilliant idea--
I took off my shoes and walked in the grass,
Down the green slope, among the trees,
And to the little rippling pond below.
When is the last time you untied your feet,
Toes hidden among the silky blades of grass?
Why do they call them "blades" anyway
When they are so soft and soothing?
The strands of grass? No, that wouldn't work--
It sounds like the earth is unraveling.
Well, you should try it sometime soon.
The freedom of your toes to wiggle,
The refreshing tickle of nature's fingers.
Most days my feet seem to be numb.
I don't even think about them
Housed in their little leather soles.
What a joy to feel my feet again!
Monday, September 21, 2009
"Monday morning"
(Eagerly typed on
September 21, 2009).
Monday morning--
So many possibilities,
Opportunities yet to be had.
Although you plan ahead,
There's always a surprise.
You never know exactly
How the week will go.
Sleepy from the night before--
Homework, a feature film,
A long talk with a friend--
I never seem to make it to bed
As early as I planned.
Still, when eyelids split,
Anticipation swells for the week.
Some drag themselves out of bed,
Coffee is a must in the darkness.
I have those days myself too,
But more often than not I find
Monday mornings are refreshing,
Filled with the unexpected joys,
The promise of a new beginning.
Like the glorious dawn,
The first warm glow on the rim,
A hint of light in the black,
Greeting the crisp morning air.
Not completely illuminated,
Yet overflowing with delight,
Eyes fixed on the horizon.
No one knows the time,
TBA's on the invitation,
When we'll hear the trump,
Angel's shout resound,
Transfigured by His brilliance,
When the Lord calls us home,
And it could be today!
September 21, 2009).
Monday morning--
So many possibilities,
Opportunities yet to be had.
Although you plan ahead,
There's always a surprise.
You never know exactly
How the week will go.
Sleepy from the night before--
Homework, a feature film,
A long talk with a friend--
I never seem to make it to bed
As early as I planned.
Still, when eyelids split,
Anticipation swells for the week.
Some drag themselves out of bed,
Coffee is a must in the darkness.
I have those days myself too,
But more often than not I find
Monday mornings are refreshing,
Filled with the unexpected joys,
The promise of a new beginning.
Like the glorious dawn,
The first warm glow on the rim,
A hint of light in the black,
Greeting the crisp morning air.
Not completely illuminated,
Yet overflowing with delight,
Eyes fixed on the horizon.
No one knows the time,
TBA's on the invitation,
When we'll hear the trump,
Angel's shout resound,
Transfigured by His brilliance,
When the Lord calls us home,
And it could be today!
Sunday, September 20, 2009
"Sunday Afternoon"
(Inscribed by the magical beauty
of August 23, 2009).
Fanciful Summer's breath beacons unto me.
My iPod's soothing piano solo,
Fingers delicately stroking the keys,
I stroll to the park, meandering down my block,
Weaving through houses and winding streets,
Like bounteous rows of the blossoming rose.
Jingling bicycle bells and dog collars,
Quacking ducks and honking geese,
Whirl of skateboards and rustling leaves,
Frisbees soaring into the blue,
Each a soloist accompanied
By the gentle, flowing melody.
The pages of my journal flutter,
My sun-kissed hair joins the dance,
Flitting and glittering in the breeze.
Giggles and squeals float across the pond,
As children skip and prance,
Dodging water balloons midflight.
Bobbing his emerald head,
Then tipping completely over,
A duck tumbles in the waters
Perusing the depths for a snack,
And a gentle rumble of a plane overhead,
An afternoon twirl through the clouds.
A flock of geese clumped beneath
The welcoming shade of a tree,
Moseying across the grassy slope
Just out of the pages of a storybook.
I half expect to see the crook extending,
From behind a tree Little Bo Peep to appear.
No swans today, yet on such a pond
The ugly duckling once discovered his beauty,
And among such trees a little hooded girl,
Skipped with sweets for her grandmother,
And a young blonde discovered a house,
Tasted porridge and slept in the baby bear's bed.
With the shimmering golden rays and sparkling pond,
Grassy rolling hills and shady trees,
How can some so easily dismiss fairy tales?
"Mere rubbish and poppycock," they say.
Modern adults too busy for childhood fables,
Too mature for talking animals,
Too advanced for simply moral tales.
May God have mercy upon us all!
My soul, soak in the warmth and tranquility
Infused in every golden ray!
O breathe deeply of the magical air,
The beauteous dancing of the breeze!
Praise Him who formed the heavens,
Who fashioned the earth with His Word,
Who walked beside Galilee's sea,
Who climbed Golgotha's solitary tree!
of August 23, 2009).
Fanciful Summer's breath beacons unto me.
My iPod's soothing piano solo,
Fingers delicately stroking the keys,
I stroll to the park, meandering down my block,
Weaving through houses and winding streets,
Like bounteous rows of the blossoming rose.
Jingling bicycle bells and dog collars,
Quacking ducks and honking geese,
Whirl of skateboards and rustling leaves,
Frisbees soaring into the blue,
Each a soloist accompanied
By the gentle, flowing melody.
The pages of my journal flutter,
My sun-kissed hair joins the dance,
Flitting and glittering in the breeze.
Giggles and squeals float across the pond,
As children skip and prance,
Dodging water balloons midflight.
Bobbing his emerald head,
Then tipping completely over,
A duck tumbles in the waters
Perusing the depths for a snack,
And a gentle rumble of a plane overhead,
An afternoon twirl through the clouds.
A flock of geese clumped beneath
The welcoming shade of a tree,
Moseying across the grassy slope
Just out of the pages of a storybook.
I half expect to see the crook extending,
From behind a tree Little Bo Peep to appear.
No swans today, yet on such a pond
The ugly duckling once discovered his beauty,
And among such trees a little hooded girl,
Skipped with sweets for her grandmother,
And a young blonde discovered a house,
Tasted porridge and slept in the baby bear's bed.
With the shimmering golden rays and sparkling pond,
Grassy rolling hills and shady trees,
How can some so easily dismiss fairy tales?
"Mere rubbish and poppycock," they say.
Modern adults too busy for childhood fables,
Too mature for talking animals,
Too advanced for simply moral tales.
May God have mercy upon us all!
My soul, soak in the warmth and tranquility
Infused in every golden ray!
O breathe deeply of the magical air,
The beauteous dancing of the breeze!
Praise Him who formed the heavens,
Who fashioned the earth with His Word,
Who walked beside Galilee's sea,
Who climbed Golgotha's solitary tree!
"By his stripes"
(In reflection after taking
the Lord's Supper in August 2009).
"Nothing but the blood," the pastor sings,
As I make my way down the aisle.
Dipping the bread in the cup, I say, "Amen,"
And return to my seat with morsel in hand.
Permeated pinch of bread, lifting to my lips,
I squeeze too hard and it drips on my hand.
'Clumsy, irreverent fool!' I shriek.
The crimson trickles down my skin,
As a trail of blood on my palm.
Startled my fingers curl.
My other hand flies to the spot,
Cupping my hand, as though
Protecting a bloody wound,
Covering an exposed gash.
I gaze at the scarlet.
Such were his stripes that day
When his hands they pierced
And his flesh they flayed.
Sweating tears of blood,
So flowed the cleansing flood.
Like the coal-purged lips of Isaiah,
Once leprous, Naaman's childlike flesh,
Hemorrhaging woman or epileptic boy,
The sinful, withered hand of my soul.
Broken, shriveled, rotting
Now redeemed, renewed!
By his stripes we are healed
the Lord's Supper in August 2009).
"Nothing but the blood," the pastor sings,
As I make my way down the aisle.
Dipping the bread in the cup, I say, "Amen,"
And return to my seat with morsel in hand.
Permeated pinch of bread, lifting to my lips,
I squeeze too hard and it drips on my hand.
'Clumsy, irreverent fool!' I shriek.
The crimson trickles down my skin,
As a trail of blood on my palm.
Startled my fingers curl.
My other hand flies to the spot,
Cupping my hand, as though
Protecting a bloody wound,
Covering an exposed gash.
I gaze at the scarlet.
Such were his stripes that day
When his hands they pierced
And his flesh they flayed.
Sweating tears of blood,
So flowed the cleansing flood.
Like the coal-purged lips of Isaiah,
Once leprous, Naaman's childlike flesh,
Hemorrhaging woman or epileptic boy,
The sinful, withered hand of my soul.
Broken, shriveled, rotting
Now redeemed, renewed!
By his stripes we are healed
"Friday Afternoon"
(At my computer on the sunny
afternoon of July 24, 2009).
Oh to go for a long walk in the park,
To see the leafy trees, the silky grass,
The clouds swirling overhead.
To hike to a hidden waterfall,
To feel the warm sunshine, the rugged path,
The cascading roll of mist.
To stroll along the beach,
To hear the squishing sand, the soaring birds,
The swell of the ancient ocean.
I long to gaze upon a painting,
To dance and twirl in another's arms,
To behold a glorious symphony beneath the stars.
Alas, I sit at my desk,
Sorting through research requests and projects,
But this weekend...
afternoon of July 24, 2009).
Oh to go for a long walk in the park,
To see the leafy trees, the silky grass,
The clouds swirling overhead.
To hike to a hidden waterfall,
To feel the warm sunshine, the rugged path,
The cascading roll of mist.
To stroll along the beach,
To hear the squishing sand, the soaring birds,
The swell of the ancient ocean.
I long to gaze upon a painting,
To dance and twirl in another's arms,
To behold a glorious symphony beneath the stars.
Alas, I sit at my desk,
Sorting through research requests and projects,
But this weekend...
"Veneer"
(Punctiliously typed
on July 24, 2009).
I am tired of sitting here
In silence,
Immersed in silence,
Drowning in silence,
The white walls of silence.
Still and sitting in our chairs,
All humanity, breathless
From the racing numbers
011001100111010101110100
011010010110110001100101
The never-ending sprint
To reach the next peak,
To be the next big thing,
To make the next buck.
Complacent in our cushioned chairs,
Enclosed by these walls, built to house us,
Protect from weather and vermin.
These walls have become our plastic tombs,
A faded and peeling veneer of reality.
on July 24, 2009).
I am tired of sitting here
In silence,
Immersed in silence,
Drowning in silence,
The white walls of silence.
Still and sitting in our chairs,
All humanity, breathless
From the racing numbers
011001100111010101110100
011010010110110001100101
The never-ending sprint
To reach the next peak,
To be the next big thing,
To make the next buck.
Complacent in our cushioned chairs,
Enclosed by these walls, built to house us,
Protect from weather and vermin.
These walls have become our plastic tombs,
A faded and peeling veneer of reality.
"Jesus saves!"
(Heard the song, voice resonating
on July 12, 2009).
Cheerful smiles, giggling eyes,
Bouncing golden curls and clapping hands,
Little Nicholas jumps and plays.
The happy tune fills his soul.
In jubilant innocence, infant delight
He shouts, "Jesus saves!"
"Times are tough.
We are going to have to let you go."
The words echo in his head,
As he trudges to the car.
Hands trembling, mind racing,
He sees the question in their eyes,
His dear wife, even now,
Hungry little faces round the table,
'There's no food in the pantry.
What am I to do?'
That childhood ditty dances in his mind,
In quivering voice, eyes to the sky
The chorus repeats: "Jesus saves!"
"The cancer is back,"
The doctor in his starched white coat
Walks out of the room.
Their eyes meet in silence
Gently looking into the depth.
His brown eyes water as he looks into hers.
He leans in to kiss her cheek.
"Jesus saves!" she whispers in his ear.
He reaches out and draws her into his arms.
Hobbling up the church steps
He makes his way to the pew.
No hand in his this week
For she is with her Maker now.
Over these many years
The strength of his voice has faded,
Yet like the steady,
Deep roar of the ocean,
He rumbles on, "Jesus saves!"
on July 12, 2009).
Cheerful smiles, giggling eyes,
Bouncing golden curls and clapping hands,
Little Nicholas jumps and plays.
The happy tune fills his soul.
In jubilant innocence, infant delight
He shouts, "Jesus saves!"
"Times are tough.
We are going to have to let you go."
The words echo in his head,
As he trudges to the car.
Hands trembling, mind racing,
He sees the question in their eyes,
His dear wife, even now,
Hungry little faces round the table,
'There's no food in the pantry.
What am I to do?'
That childhood ditty dances in his mind,
In quivering voice, eyes to the sky
The chorus repeats: "Jesus saves!"
"The cancer is back,"
The doctor in his starched white coat
Walks out of the room.
Their eyes meet in silence
Gently looking into the depth.
His brown eyes water as he looks into hers.
He leans in to kiss her cheek.
"Jesus saves!" she whispers in his ear.
He reaches out and draws her into his arms.
Hobbling up the church steps
He makes his way to the pew.
No hand in his this week
For she is with her Maker now.
Over these many years
The strength of his voice has faded,
Yet like the steady,
Deep roar of the ocean,
He rumbles on, "Jesus saves!"
Saturday, September 19, 2009
"Laser beams"
(Upon returning home from
a drive on August 2, 2009).
Red and blue lights flashing ahead,
A cluster of police cars on the curb.
"Rubbernecks" they call us,
Our eyes sprint to the scene,
Fixating on the 'cuffed.
A man stands with hands raised,
Legs apart for the frisking.
The policeman barks at him
While we stare intensely.
Fire shoots from the eyes,
Watching, glaring, judging--
Condemnation without a trial.
Strike of the rod
Crack of the whip
Agonizing pain
None to comfort
"Crucify him!" they shout
At whom they cheered "Hosanna!"
Once with joy and smiles for the king,
Now their radiant eyes are turned,
Morphed into laser beams,
Not simply to pierce his hands and feet,
But red-hot and sharp as iron,
Seeking to impale his heart.
Wincing from the shame,
Denied and rejected,
Dishonored and disgraced.
Stumbling beneath the weight,
Crushed by the cross,
He collapses on the dusty road.
Jeering crowds surround,
Yet humiliated he could not be,
For he humbled himself,
Sacrificing for his accusers,
Crushed for our iniquities,
Laid down his life for his enemies.
a drive on August 2, 2009).
Red and blue lights flashing ahead,
A cluster of police cars on the curb.
"Rubbernecks" they call us,
Our eyes sprint to the scene,
Fixating on the 'cuffed.
A man stands with hands raised,
Legs apart for the frisking.
The policeman barks at him
While we stare intensely.
Fire shoots from the eyes,
Watching, glaring, judging--
Condemnation without a trial.
Strike of the rod
Crack of the whip
Agonizing pain
None to comfort
"Crucify him!" they shout
At whom they cheered "Hosanna!"
Once with joy and smiles for the king,
Now their radiant eyes are turned,
Morphed into laser beams,
Not simply to pierce his hands and feet,
But red-hot and sharp as iron,
Seeking to impale his heart.
Wincing from the shame,
Denied and rejected,
Dishonored and disgraced.
Stumbling beneath the weight,
Crushed by the cross,
He collapses on the dusty road.
Jeering crowds surround,
Yet humiliated he could not be,
For he humbled himself,
Sacrificing for his accusers,
Crushed for our iniquities,
Laid down his life for his enemies.
"A Moving Day Reflection"
(In the last days of
the month of July 2009).
Dust hangs in the air.
Cardboard boxes stacked high
Fill the empty room.
Dingy walls exposed.
Every object touched, examined,
Appraised by light.
Lay aside every encumbrance
The sin which so easily entangles us
Let us run with endurance
Hidden corners now revealed,
Embellished rugs pulled out,
Closets emptied.
The stains and cracks,
Peeling paint, chipped tile,
Illuminated lie bare.
Spider webs and bobby pins,
Popcorn kernels, bottle caps,
Pennies on the floor.
The lost are found,
Forgotten remembered,
Fallen uplifted.
Pilgrims on the earth
Seeking a homeland
A heavenly one
All temporal is shed,
Unburdened and released,
Lightened so to soar.
the month of July 2009).
Dust hangs in the air.
Cardboard boxes stacked high
Fill the empty room.
Dingy walls exposed.
Every object touched, examined,
Appraised by light.
Lay aside every encumbrance
The sin which so easily entangles us
Let us run with endurance
Hidden corners now revealed,
Embellished rugs pulled out,
Closets emptied.
The stains and cracks,
Peeling paint, chipped tile,
Illuminated lie bare.
Spider webs and bobby pins,
Popcorn kernels, bottle caps,
Pennies on the floor.
The lost are found,
Forgotten remembered,
Fallen uplifted.
Pilgrims on the earth
Seeking a homeland
A heavenly one
All temporal is shed,
Unburdened and released,
Lightened so to soar.
"The way unveiled"
(Brought to light on June 28, 2009).
Rickety fence, ashen from searing heat,
Thrashed by wind, drowned by rain,
Buried 'neath spiders and web,
Helpless prey trapped within
Sickly, silken tomb.
Snarled branches, nettle, and brier
Veil the way, choking out life.
Boarded up windows,
Putrid stench seeps.
Sharp nails protrude,
Spikes stabbed through plank.
Gaunt and grey, door barred shut.
Earth shakes.
Foundations crack.
The way unveiled.
Fingers uproot thorns,
Gently trickling crimson.
Drops of sweat, cascading brow,
Soothing dry, cracked clay.
Hands pry rugged boards,
Pierced by the nails.
Smiling eyes, doors bow,
Sparkling bright, gentle radiance.
He exhales, stone melts,
Peaceful zephyr, breath of life.
Through its wall his feet step,
Life and light herein dwell.
Rickety fence, ashen from searing heat,
Thrashed by wind, drowned by rain,
Buried 'neath spiders and web,
Helpless prey trapped within
Sickly, silken tomb.
Snarled branches, nettle, and brier
Veil the way, choking out life.
Boarded up windows,
Putrid stench seeps.
Sharp nails protrude,
Spikes stabbed through plank.
Gaunt and grey, door barred shut.
Earth shakes.
Foundations crack.
The way unveiled.
Fingers uproot thorns,
Gently trickling crimson.
Drops of sweat, cascading brow,
Soothing dry, cracked clay.
Hands pry rugged boards,
Pierced by the nails.
Smiling eyes, doors bow,
Sparkling bright, gentle radiance.
He exhales, stone melts,
Peaceful zephyr, breath of life.
Through its wall his feet step,
Life and light herein dwell.
"Afraid to fight?"
(Pondered at Panera,
Shining knights on armoured steeds,
Banners raised with swords ablaze,
Battling for king and country bright,
These brave few face the field.
A clan of humble farmers joined,
Standing against oppressors' night.
Pitchforks in hand or stone in sling,
United to fight, free family.
Colonists in a strange new land,
Filled with hopes and Jefferson's dream,
Bayonet at the ready, enemy draws near,
These common folk defend fair liberty.
Noble deeds of our fathers past,
Epic battles, our history shaped,
Against the odds, seemingly doomed,
The stuff of folklore and fantasy.
Safe in the suburbs live I,
No nearing front or arrows o'rhead.
Pen in hand, at a cafe I sit,
Far from fear or peril's fright.
What is my part to play?
Where will I take my stand?
What grand victory to seek?
What frightful fiend to fell?
What of those days of old?
Grown comfy, lazy, self-absorbed,
Blind to pain and other's distress?
Feeble, faint, afraid to fight?
June 20, 2009).
Shining knights on armoured steeds,
Banners raised with swords ablaze,
Battling for king and country bright,
These brave few face the field.
A clan of humble farmers joined,
Standing against oppressors' night.
Pitchforks in hand or stone in sling,
United to fight, free family.
Colonists in a strange new land,
Filled with hopes and Jefferson's dream,
Bayonet at the ready, enemy draws near,
These common folk defend fair liberty.
Noble deeds of our fathers past,
Epic battles, our history shaped,
Against the odds, seemingly doomed,
The stuff of folklore and fantasy.
Safe in the suburbs live I,
No nearing front or arrows o'rhead.
Pen in hand, at a cafe I sit,
Far from fear or peril's fright.
What is my part to play?
Where will I take my stand?
What grand victory to seek?
What frightful fiend to fell?
What of those days of old?
Grown comfy, lazy, self-absorbed,
Blind to pain and other's distress?
Feeble, faint, afraid to fight?
"Il Divino"
(Chiseled the morning
of June 16, 2009).
A blank canvas,
Empty, yet full.
Brimming with potential
While bare of design.
What is hidden in this marble?
Who lies beneath your lines?
Will I chisel away the speckles
Or mar with my brushes' stroke?
Grand figures, elegant and strong.
Il Divino fashioned from the dust.
Though the work of his hands they be,
Yet none his own beauty could embody.
Prophets, apostles, our fathers attest,
More lovely, hallowed be his stained hand
Than any graceful illustration by it made,
Lowly, majestic image--beauty in the flesh.
of June 16, 2009).
A blank canvas,
Empty, yet full.
Brimming with potential
While bare of design.
What is hidden in this marble?
Who lies beneath your lines?
Will I chisel away the speckles
Or mar with my brushes' stroke?
Grand figures, elegant and strong.
Il Divino fashioned from the dust.
Though the work of his hands they be,
Yet none his own beauty could embody.
Prophets, apostles, our fathers attest,
More lovely, hallowed be his stained hand
Than any graceful illustration by it made,
Lowly, majestic image--beauty in the flesh.
"I stretch out my hand"
(Penned after reading the First
Epistle of John on June 14, 2009).
Alone, surrounded by blackness.
Offering aid, comfort,
To clasp another,
To unite amidst the darkness,
I stretch out my hand.
Extended, palm exposed,
Reaching...
SLAP!
Stinging my fingers retract.
Wounded I recoil my hand,
Withdrawing back into myself.
Fingers throbbing,
Meditating on the hurt,
Blood pulsating,
Heat radiating,
Drops of sweat begin to form.
Tightening, tension,
My fingers curl...
I thrust my fist into flesh!
Relief of tension,
As muscles relax,
Pent up rage dispelled,
Fingers tingling--
The satisfying sting of justice.
Then my eyes open and I see--
The pain inflicted in return,
Greater than the wound sustained:
The terrible darkness of the eye.
Overwhelmed by my hurting hand
And the hurt inflicted by my hand,
I weep
Over my pain, my brother's pain,
The very existence of pain.
Weak, hand trembling,
I reach out once more.
Hesitant, timid,
Vulnerable, unprotected.
At present, fingers quaking,
Wounds tender at the touch,
But perhaps someday soon,
In brilliant light we shall fully embrace.
Epistle of John on June 14, 2009).
Alone, surrounded by blackness.
Offering aid, comfort,
To clasp another,
To unite amidst the darkness,
I stretch out my hand.
Extended, palm exposed,
Reaching...
SLAP!
Stinging my fingers retract.
Wounded I recoil my hand,
Withdrawing back into myself.
Fingers throbbing,
Meditating on the hurt,
Blood pulsating,
Heat radiating,
Drops of sweat begin to form.
Tightening, tension,
My fingers curl...
I thrust my fist into flesh!
Relief of tension,
As muscles relax,
Pent up rage dispelled,
Fingers tingling--
The satisfying sting of justice.
Then my eyes open and I see--
The pain inflicted in return,
Greater than the wound sustained:
The terrible darkness of the eye.
Overwhelmed by my hurting hand
And the hurt inflicted by my hand,
I weep
Over my pain, my brother's pain,
The very existence of pain.
Weak, hand trembling,
I reach out once more.
Hesitant, timid,
Vulnerable, unprotected.
At present, fingers quaking,
Wounds tender at the touch,
But perhaps someday soon,
In brilliant light we shall fully embrace.
Friday, September 18, 2009
"Your rod"
(Composed on May 18,
Victoria Day 2009).
Swinging his stick back and forth
Over the line 'tween grass and cement,
Clicking his cane in a series of taps,
Testing the surface, measuring its expanse.
His eyes do not assist in his journey,
Nevertheless able to see the way,
With his trusted rod at his side,
Observing the distinct textures, he remains
On the constant and unchanging path.
With his staff ever-moving,
Searching, testing and trying,
Leading the way home,
He need not fear.
A telephone poll ahead,
An electric box grow near,
Yet his rod warms of danger, and,
Though he approaches obstacles,
He is not overcome.
The future, as a dim haze,
Wrong often seems right.
My eyes are unable to see.
Ever-clinging to the Word of life--
Your rod and my staff--
Might I not wholly lose my way!
Victoria Day 2009).
Swinging his stick back and forth
Over the line 'tween grass and cement,
Clicking his cane in a series of taps,
Testing the surface, measuring its expanse.
His eyes do not assist in his journey,
Nevertheless able to see the way,
With his trusted rod at his side,
Observing the distinct textures, he remains
On the constant and unchanging path.
With his staff ever-moving,
Searching, testing and trying,
Leading the way home,
He need not fear.
A telephone poll ahead,
An electric box grow near,
Yet his rod warms of danger, and,
Though he approaches obstacles,
He is not overcome.
The future, as a dim haze,
Wrong often seems right.
My eyes are unable to see.
Ever-clinging to the Word of life--
Your rod and my staff--
Might I not wholly lose my way!
" *sigh* "
(Doodled on May 13, 2009).
People speak of boredom as a feeling,
Others as a state of being.
"Boredom" is not simply the lack of activity,
But the lack of interesting and engaging activity.
Wasted time. Waiting. Without purpose. Wilting.
I may perch on a grassy lawn perfectly contented,
Counting the blades of Kelly-green grass,
Watching the gentle tendrils sway,
While another may shout, "I'm bored!"
Silent in a dimly lit room,
Surrounded by dusty old volumes,
Seated on a hard wooden chair,
Can be paradise for a few like me.
Yet caged in a sterile desk with nothing to do--
No pending items, no projects,
No training or upcoming events--
Is nearly universally acknowledged to qualify as
Legitimate grounds for boredom.
People speak of boredom as a feeling,
Others as a state of being.
"Boredom" is not simply the lack of activity,
But the lack of interesting and engaging activity.
Wasted time. Waiting. Without purpose. Wilting.
I may perch on a grassy lawn perfectly contented,
Counting the blades of Kelly-green grass,
Watching the gentle tendrils sway,
While another may shout, "I'm bored!"
Silent in a dimly lit room,
Surrounded by dusty old volumes,
Seated on a hard wooden chair,
Can be paradise for a few like me.
Yet caged in a sterile desk with nothing to do--
No pending items, no projects,
No training or upcoming events--
Is nearly universally acknowledged to qualify as
Legitimate grounds for boredom.
"Ode to the Q-Tip Tree" or "Fronds to the heavens"
(Composed at a table with friends
at the local Panera, 30 May 2009).
Born to privilege are some,
Robed in gold and precious gem,
As kings and princes these cedars come,
Rising to great heights of majesty.
The mighty oak stands tall,
While others, adorned by exotic fruit,
Display bows of exquisite flower.
Yet as thou, O little Q-tip tree,
Lowly as the shepherd boy or carpenter's son,
Dirty and scraggly, barely a leaf,
Cloaked in rags and burlap sack
(Nothing beautiful to attract the eye),
In such attire was our Savior born--
No jewel-bedecked, sparkling crown
Or marble Roman palace ground.
So lift your voice! Extend your hands!
Fronds to the heavens, as the children raised--
That Sunday morning their Savior praised!
at the local Panera, 30 May 2009).
Born to privilege are some,
Robed in gold and precious gem,
As kings and princes these cedars come,
Rising to great heights of majesty.
The mighty oak stands tall,
While others, adorned by exotic fruit,
Display bows of exquisite flower.
Yet as thou, O little Q-tip tree,
Lowly as the shepherd boy or carpenter's son,
Dirty and scraggly, barely a leaf,
Cloaked in rags and burlap sack
(Nothing beautiful to attract the eye),
In such attire was our Savior born--
No jewel-bedecked, sparkling crown
Or marble Roman palace ground.
So lift your voice! Extend your hands!
Fronds to the heavens, as the children raised--
That Sunday morning their Savior praised!
"Frost on the windshield"
(Composed April 2009).
Steam rises, wafting from my peony tea cup;
PG Tips warms me from the inside out.
The timid lamp glows in the dim room.
Clouds fill the sky outside my window,
And a cool evening breeze creeps through the screen,
As the rhythm of horns and swirling tires floats up
From the racing cars on the boulevard below.
A faded newspaper clipping
And an old leather book
Snuggle at home on my desk.
I scribble this line in my journal,
Running my fingers through my hair,
Wondering what to write next.
I twirl my pen.
I tap my foot.
I shift my weight,
leaning to the side.
What word to write?
What image to describe?
All the letters look the same
Flat on the page.
The gears in my brain grow lethargic,
Like my car Phil on a chilly morning:
Breaks squeaking and frost on the windshield.
Steam rises, wafting from my peony tea cup;
PG Tips warms me from the inside out.
The timid lamp glows in the dim room.
Clouds fill the sky outside my window,
And a cool evening breeze creeps through the screen,
As the rhythm of horns and swirling tires floats up
From the racing cars on the boulevard below.
A faded newspaper clipping
And an old leather book
Snuggle at home on my desk.
I scribble this line in my journal,
Running my fingers through my hair,
Wondering what to write next.
I twirl my pen.
I tap my foot.
I shift my weight,
leaning to the side.
What word to write?
What image to describe?
All the letters look the same
Flat on the page.
The gears in my brain grow lethargic,
Like my car Phil on a chilly morning:
Breaks squeaking and frost on the windshield.
"Rainbow"
(Composed in April of 2009).
Wrapped snuggly in cozy blankets,
Fluffy pillow 'neath my head,
My eyes glide toward the ceiling,
Gazing at shapes in the popcorn sky,
And sunlight peers through the blinds
Casting a warm, buttery pinstripe on the wall.
Saturday morning--
No urgent matters to invade the room, unwelcome guests,
No alarm clock to imprison the silence, locked in chains,
No task sheet to hold me hostage, no ransom to pay--
Simply lovely freedom to lounge and relax all day.
"Ought I rise?" I ask myself with a sigh.
A grey cloud lurks at the door.
Then like an effervescent rainbow emerges in the sky
Following the dark and dreary storm,
On this week's end a sparkling grim sweeps 'cross my face,
And my eyelids slide shut once more.
Wrapped snuggly in cozy blankets,
Fluffy pillow 'neath my head,
My eyes glide toward the ceiling,
Gazing at shapes in the popcorn sky,
And sunlight peers through the blinds
Casting a warm, buttery pinstripe on the wall.
Saturday morning--
No urgent matters to invade the room, unwelcome guests,
No alarm clock to imprison the silence, locked in chains,
No task sheet to hold me hostage, no ransom to pay--
Simply lovely freedom to lounge and relax all day.
"Ought I rise?" I ask myself with a sigh.
A grey cloud lurks at the door.
Then like an effervescent rainbow emerges in the sky
Following the dark and dreary storm,
On this week's end a sparkling grim sweeps 'cross my face,
And my eyelids slide shut once more.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
"No stone"
(Composed on Ash Wednesday 2009, Inspired
by reading the Gospel of John chapter 8).
Face-first I tumble into the dirt,
Hurled by the angry thrust of my accuser.
My clothes are a mere draping of rags,
Ripped as he dragged me from the bed.
Here in the middle of the temple courtyard
I lie alone, exposed for all to see.
A trickle of blood runs down my cheek.
Publicly humiliated, they curse at me,
Shouting disgrace, contempt,
And words of judgment.
Shaking.
Trembling.
The scorching sun is overhead.
A pile of stones surrounds me,
As a mob gathers.
One man draws near.
My husband approaches me,
Bends to the ground,
And lifts a stone.
Anger and rage fill his eyes.
Clenching his fist, his knuckles turn red.
I turn my face, bracing for the impact
Of his bone-crushing justice.
The shouting ceases,
Stones tumble to the ground,
And the mob disperses.
Silence.
Stillness.
Lifting my eyes, I see a man's feet before me.
Slowly my gaze reaches his hand.
He holds no stone.
Instead, he gently extends his hand to me.
Love and compassion warm his eyes,
As a single tear trickles down his face.
by reading the Gospel of John chapter 8).
Face-first I tumble into the dirt,
Hurled by the angry thrust of my accuser.
My clothes are a mere draping of rags,
Ripped as he dragged me from the bed.
Here in the middle of the temple courtyard
I lie alone, exposed for all to see.
A trickle of blood runs down my cheek.
Publicly humiliated, they curse at me,
Shouting disgrace, contempt,
And words of judgment.
Shaking.
Trembling.
The scorching sun is overhead.
A pile of stones surrounds me,
As a mob gathers.
One man draws near.
My husband approaches me,
Bends to the ground,
And lifts a stone.
Anger and rage fill his eyes.
Clenching his fist, his knuckles turn red.
I turn my face, bracing for the impact
Of his bone-crushing justice.
The shouting ceases,
Stones tumble to the ground,
And the mob disperses.
Silence.
Stillness.
Lifting my eyes, I see a man's feet before me.
Slowly my gaze reaches his hand.
He holds no stone.
Instead, he gently extends his hand to me.
Love and compassion warm his eyes,
As a single tear trickles down his face.
"In a child's eyes"
(Composed in a cafe
on February 14, 2009).
Smooth jazz floats from the speakers,
As a family is seated in the cafe for lunch.
The young couple munches their baguettes
As their two toddlers laugh.
The little boy in a red baseball shirt
Sips his milk and stares about
With his big brown eyes,
While the girl in her pink stretch pants,
With a matching top and little pink bow,
Attempts to pull the lid off her mom's cup.
She shakes the plastic cup
And giggles as the ice cubes jump.
Everything becomes a curiosity
For little eyes and fingers.
Every color, texture, and sound,
A new adventure, a hidden treasure,
Uncharted waters to explore.
A menu, a cup, a napkin
Become a fort, a tambourine, and a hat
In the eager hands of a child.
What energy and enthusiasm for life!
What joy they bring,
As the monotony of daily life
Becomes a fascinating excursion
When reflected in a child's eyes.
on February 14, 2009).
Smooth jazz floats from the speakers,
As a family is seated in the cafe for lunch.
The young couple munches their baguettes
As their two toddlers laugh.
The little boy in a red baseball shirt
Sips his milk and stares about
With his big brown eyes,
While the girl in her pink stretch pants,
With a matching top and little pink bow,
Attempts to pull the lid off her mom's cup.
She shakes the plastic cup
And giggles as the ice cubes jump.
Everything becomes a curiosity
For little eyes and fingers.
Every color, texture, and sound,
A new adventure, a hidden treasure,
Uncharted waters to explore.
A menu, a cup, a napkin
Become a fort, a tambourine, and a hat
In the eager hands of a child.
What energy and enthusiasm for life!
What joy they bring,
As the monotony of daily life
Becomes a fascinating excursion
When reflected in a child's eyes.
"Balance Beam"
(Composed February 14, 2009).
A tightrope walker learning to balance,
That perfect equilibrium to establish,
Neither too much to the left or the right,
But lightly stepping in his orange tights,
Careful not to shake the hanging wire
That separates him from the earth below.
A little girl in her blue leotard
Beginning her gymnastics class
Mounts the balance beam,
Then cautiously steps forward.
Unstable, her arms extend,
Attempting to stablize her weight,
As her toes hesitantly reach ahead.
A tickle in the throat, a cough, a sniffle,
Orange juice and vitamins, I swallow
Orange pills in the morning light, blue by night.
The delicate balance of health--to avoid illness,
To maintain some sense of wellness--
I rest, medicate, and attempt to remain lively,
Fighting for health, on the balance beam I flail.
A tightrope walker learning to balance,
That perfect equilibrium to establish,
Neither too much to the left or the right,
But lightly stepping in his orange tights,
Careful not to shake the hanging wire
That separates him from the earth below.
A little girl in her blue leotard
Beginning her gymnastics class
Mounts the balance beam,
Then cautiously steps forward.
Unstable, her arms extend,
Attempting to stablize her weight,
As her toes hesitantly reach ahead.
A tickle in the throat, a cough, a sniffle,
Orange juice and vitamins, I swallow
Orange pills in the morning light, blue by night.
The delicate balance of health--to avoid illness,
To maintain some sense of wellness--
I rest, medicate, and attempt to remain lively,
Fighting for health, on the balance beam I flail.
"Soundtrack"
(Composed to the smooth jazz
in the cafe on February 14, 2009).
Out the window I stare
From the warmth of a cafe table,
Spotting cars drive by and couples stroll,
And a flock of birds in mid-flight.
The hustle and bustle of the city
Becomes a choreographed dance,
As the jazz seems to infuse all in sight.
The flustered shopper seems to float
On the notes of the saxophone,
As the kids in line for the pizza party
Smile and laugh to the beat of the drum.
Calming me into a contemplative state
Or exciting my soul and moving my feet,
This music becomes the soundtrack of my life.
in the cafe on February 14, 2009).
Out the window I stare
From the warmth of a cafe table,
Spotting cars drive by and couples stroll,
And a flock of birds in mid-flight.
The hustle and bustle of the city
Becomes a choreographed dance,
As the jazz seems to infuse all in sight.
The flustered shopper seems to float
On the notes of the saxophone,
As the kids in line for the pizza party
Smile and laugh to the beat of the drum.
Calming me into a contemplative state
Or exciting my soul and moving my feet,
This music becomes the soundtrack of my life.
"Unopened"
(Composed on the crisp
afternoon of January 28, 2009).
A Christmas card was returned to me today.
"Return to Sender," it read
Like the Elvis song I've heard,
Only not nearly so cheerful.
It was stamped and sent back,
Yet the little holly sticker still remains
Clinging to the sealed envelope flap.
Another friend I've somehow lost
Over the many years--
We were best friends once--
Moved without a change of address.
I suppose we rarely sent letters.
From Facebook I know
She is getting married soon,
But it is profoundly sad that
I know her current status,
Yet I do not know where she lays her head,
Where she cooks her meals,
Or laughs with her new friends.
Too late to resend it now, I suppose.
The Christmas joy I wished to give--
Perhaps a mere formality to send--
Now like an undesirable present
Is returned to me
Six weeks later and unopened.
With a sigh, I toss it
In the kitchen trash can,
Soon to be covered in
Moldy tomato sauce
And sour milk.
afternoon of January 28, 2009).
A Christmas card was returned to me today.
"Return to Sender," it read
Like the Elvis song I've heard,
Only not nearly so cheerful.
It was stamped and sent back,
Yet the little holly sticker still remains
Clinging to the sealed envelope flap.
Another friend I've somehow lost
Over the many years--
We were best friends once--
Moved without a change of address.
I suppose we rarely sent letters.
From Facebook I know
She is getting married soon,
But it is profoundly sad that
I know her current status,
Yet I do not know where she lays her head,
Where she cooks her meals,
Or laughs with her new friends.
Too late to resend it now, I suppose.
The Christmas joy I wished to give--
Perhaps a mere formality to send--
Now like an undesirable present
Is returned to me
Six weeks later and unopened.
With a sigh, I toss it
In the kitchen trash can,
Soon to be covered in
Moldy tomato sauce
And sour milk.
"A day of rest"
(Composed in the park on Martin
Luther King Jr.'s Birthday 2009).
Half a dozen young ladies reading,
Lounging in the afternoon sun,
With their picnic blankets spread
And empty Starbucks coffee cups.
A little girl, no more than four,
Skips through the grass in her purple pants,
Giggling at the terrier wrapped in his red sweater,
Trotting on the path, his owner tethered to a leash.
A little boy peddles on his bright yellow tricycle,
Huffing and puffing in his attempt to mount the hill,
And big maple leaves float from their lofty branches,
As birds hop along the edge of the low bushes.
Blurs of color, pink and blue, catch my eye,
As a flock of children descend the grassy slope,
Rolling, toppling, and tumbling into each other,
Laughing at the silly, spinning world.
An ant crawls onto my journal, trying to find his way.
Walking across the words, zigzagging along,
Gently I guide him with my ballpoint pen
Back to the grass from whence he strayed.
The setting sun lends an amber glow
Silhouetting birch trees scattered on the hill,
While families, after a day of rest,
Gather together and start the journey home.
Luther King Jr.'s Birthday 2009).
Half a dozen young ladies reading,
Lounging in the afternoon sun,
With their picnic blankets spread
And empty Starbucks coffee cups.
A little girl, no more than four,
Skips through the grass in her purple pants,
Giggling at the terrier wrapped in his red sweater,
Trotting on the path, his owner tethered to a leash.
A little boy peddles on his bright yellow tricycle,
Huffing and puffing in his attempt to mount the hill,
And big maple leaves float from their lofty branches,
As birds hop along the edge of the low bushes.
Blurs of color, pink and blue, catch my eye,
As a flock of children descend the grassy slope,
Rolling, toppling, and tumbling into each other,
Laughing at the silly, spinning world.
An ant crawls onto my journal, trying to find his way.
Walking across the words, zigzagging along,
Gently I guide him with my ballpoint pen
Back to the grass from whence he strayed.
The setting sun lends an amber glow
Silhouetting birch trees scattered on the hill,
While families, after a day of rest,
Gather together and start the journey home.
"Stars"
(Composed January 14, 2009).
I saw the stars last night
Speckled in the midnight sky.
Rarely does one catch a glimpse
Of what lies beyond the smog.
LA is so commercialized, you know.
There is little time to bother
About the hazy sea
Which separates us from reality.
We have lights, it's true,
So don't let it trouble you.
We'll construct our own stars of tin foil someday,
If we care to.
I saw the stars last night
Speckled in the midnight sky.
Rarely does one catch a glimpse
Of what lies beyond the smog.
LA is so commercialized, you know.
There is little time to bother
About the hazy sea
Which separates us from reality.
We have lights, it's true,
So don't let it trouble you.
We'll construct our own stars of tin foil someday,
If we care to.
"The Gnat"
(Composed at my dining room
table on January 12, 2009).
As I sat sipping a glass of wine,
I turned to the side
To flip the page of poetry
I was reading.
When I glanced back,
A gnat I spied,
Floating on the surface
Of my smooth merlot.
'How sad,' I thought at first,
'To waste a good drink
For an ignorant, dirty bug!'
When all at once, I laughed,
'What a glorious way to die,
A dive bomb into the wine,
Drinking deeply of the vine!'
As should I.
This is my blood which is shed for you
No timid sip to take,
But jumping, leaping,
Diving into the deep.
Unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man
And drink his blood,
You have no life in you
Reckless abandon,
Complete emersion,
Total saturation in Christ.
My blood is true drink
table on January 12, 2009).
As I sat sipping a glass of wine,
I turned to the side
To flip the page of poetry
I was reading.
When I glanced back,
A gnat I spied,
Floating on the surface
Of my smooth merlot.
'How sad,' I thought at first,
'To waste a good drink
For an ignorant, dirty bug!'
When all at once, I laughed,
'What a glorious way to die,
A dive bomb into the wine,
Drinking deeply of the vine!'
As should I.
This is my blood which is shed for you
No timid sip to take,
But jumping, leaping,
Diving into the deep.
Unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man
And drink his blood,
You have no life in you
Reckless abandon,
Complete emersion,
Total saturation in Christ.
My blood is true drink
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
"Hearts Aglow"
(Composed my birthday week
in January of 2009).
Friends gather around a table,
Stories are heard,
Both deeply philosophical
And delightfully absurd.
Tuscan wine makes the rounds
As sparkling laughter abounds
In the candle's flickering light
Like stars shimmering in the night.
Dean Martin serenades
While the creamy sauce marinades
Our tongues with pure delight,
Kindling smiles warm and bright.
Some like a jingle of silver bells
Others, merry horses in a stable,
Uproarious laughter resonates,
Encircling the festive table.
Like the melodious chirping of birds,
A chorus in the sun's brilliant ray,
Cheeping and twittering to one another,
So friends rejoice in this beautiful day.
Or as a lively babbling brook,
Skipping across the chiming stone,
Tinkling as it frolics and plays,
So laughter rings its cheerful tone.
Like a blazing fire on this winter's eve,
Dispelling the darkness and bitter cold,
Golden candlelight and crimson merlot
Warm the soul and sets our hearts aglow.
in January of 2009).
Friends gather around a table,
Stories are heard,
Both deeply philosophical
And delightfully absurd.
Tuscan wine makes the rounds
As sparkling laughter abounds
In the candle's flickering light
Like stars shimmering in the night.
Dean Martin serenades
While the creamy sauce marinades
Our tongues with pure delight,
Kindling smiles warm and bright.
Some like a jingle of silver bells
Others, merry horses in a stable,
Uproarious laughter resonates,
Encircling the festive table.
Like the melodious chirping of birds,
A chorus in the sun's brilliant ray,
Cheeping and twittering to one another,
So friends rejoice in this beautiful day.
Or as a lively babbling brook,
Skipping across the chiming stone,
Tinkling as it frolics and plays,
So laughter rings its cheerful tone.
Like a blazing fire on this winter's eve,
Dispelling the darkness and bitter cold,
Golden candlelight and crimson merlot
Warm the soul and sets our hearts aglow.
"Why often worry we?"
(Composed after Grace Group
on December 21, 2008).
Chirping birds hop around
Gulping worms they have found,
Twittering and flittering about,
No cares, without a doubt,
Satisfying sustenance does abound.
Lovely lilies blossoming
Dazzling in brilliant clothing,
Warmed by the sun's rays,
All men they do amaze
Without a tailor's sewing.
Never does a bird fall,
But Father God sees them all.
Abundant blessings He bestows.
His dear children He truly knows,
And answers those who call.
Why often worry we
When trusting would we be
Could we but understand
The Father's mighty, loving hand,
From anxiety we would be free?
on December 21, 2008).
Chirping birds hop around
Gulping worms they have found,
Twittering and flittering about,
No cares, without a doubt,
Satisfying sustenance does abound.
Lovely lilies blossoming
Dazzling in brilliant clothing,
Warmed by the sun's rays,
All men they do amaze
Without a tailor's sewing.
Never does a bird fall,
But Father God sees them all.
Abundant blessings He bestows.
His dear children He truly knows,
And answers those who call.
Why often worry we
When trusting would we be
Could we but understand
The Father's mighty, loving hand,
From anxiety we would be free?
"Tiny treasure"
(Composed after first meeting Eliana
on December 19, 2008).
Tiny fingers, hands, and toes
Curled into little fists.
Bright eyes blink gently,
Then sleepily squint,
Lips purse--big yawn in little mouth.
Eliana snuggles tenderly,
Cozy in my arms.
Tiny treasure dearly loved.
on December 19, 2008).
Tiny fingers, hands, and toes
Curled into little fists.
Bright eyes blink gently,
Then sleepily squint,
Lips purse--big yawn in little mouth.
Eliana snuggles tenderly,
Cozy in my arms.
Tiny treasure dearly loved.
"A text message!"
(Scrawled after reading it
on December 18, 2008).
Humming a Christmas carol, I drive,
Rush hour traffic, yet I don't mind--
It's Christmastime after all!
Lights twinkle across rooftops,
As the sun peacefully sets--
A lovely winter afternoon!
Da, da, da, da, da, dum.
An envelop appears on the screen
Swooping across Christmas tree wallpaper.
A text message!
Instant delight!
Anticipating a "Hi!" or "Waz up?" I read,
"My mom is in urgent care..."
Eyes darting across the text,
Glancing at the tail lights ahead of me.
"She fell again and can't feel her leg."
"What? No!"
I blink my eyes unconsciously,
Shock...
The muscles in my face instantly tense,
Brows furrowed, grimacing,
'How could this happen?
Oh, not again!
Last time was frightening, but again?
Will she recover?
But her graduation is tomorrow!
The pain she must feel!'
Her concern and worry pierce my soul.
Water fills my eyes.
Sadness, pain, and sorrow well over,
Overflowing my heart,
Flooding my cheek.
Nothing to say,
No words can express.
Just tears to shed
For my dear friend.
on December 18, 2008).
Humming a Christmas carol, I drive,
Rush hour traffic, yet I don't mind--
It's Christmastime after all!
Lights twinkle across rooftops,
As the sun peacefully sets--
A lovely winter afternoon!
Da, da, da, da, da, dum.
An envelop appears on the screen
Swooping across Christmas tree wallpaper.
A text message!
Instant delight!
Anticipating a "Hi!" or "Waz up?" I read,
"My mom is in urgent care..."
Eyes darting across the text,
Glancing at the tail lights ahead of me.
"She fell again and can't feel her leg."
"What? No!"
I blink my eyes unconsciously,
Shock...
The muscles in my face instantly tense,
Brows furrowed, grimacing,
'How could this happen?
Oh, not again!
Last time was frightening, but again?
Will she recover?
But her graduation is tomorrow!
The pain she must feel!'
Her concern and worry pierce my soul.
Water fills my eyes.
Sadness, pain, and sorrow well over,
Overflowing my heart,
Flooding my cheek.
Nothing to say,
No words can express.
Just tears to shed
For my dear friend.
"Tragic Devastation"
(Scribbled amidst the smoke of the Orange
County Fires the evening of November 15
and the dawn of November 16, 2008).
Blood red fire
Sulfur yellow flames
I see them on tv
Burning structures,
Apartments, houses,
Homes consumed
By raging flame.
Heat, smoke, ash
Overwhelming
Damage,
Destruction,
Tragic devastation.
Smoke is in the air,
Driving home to pack,
Scared, anxious, alone
Collecting my treasures
Records, pictures, memories.
It's only a precaution,
Yet just to think,
I lose it all?
Up in smoke?
Gone for good?
Of course, one day all of it will burn
When with my Savior, I am united,
But until that day, O God,
Have mercy; protect us.
Watch over those I love.
Wrap them in Your strong embrace.
...
The destruction of the night
Is woefully brought to light,
As flakes of ash,
Flecks of homes,
Rain from the sky
Like a dingy blanket of snow.
The sun is burning with a fiery glow.
Smoke permeates the air all around,
Oppressive grey haze surrounds.
Have mercy, O my God.
Give grace to the hurting,
Peace to the suffering,
Love to the mourning.
Be near them, O God.
Hold them close.
County Fires the evening of November 15
and the dawn of November 16, 2008).
Blood red fire
Sulfur yellow flames
I see them on tv
Burning structures,
Apartments, houses,
Homes consumed
By raging flame.
Heat, smoke, ash
Overwhelming
Damage,
Destruction,
Tragic devastation.
Smoke is in the air,
Driving home to pack,
Scared, anxious, alone
Collecting my treasures
Records, pictures, memories.
It's only a precaution,
Yet just to think,
I lose it all?
Up in smoke?
Gone for good?
Of course, one day all of it will burn
When with my Savior, I am united,
But until that day, O God,
Have mercy; protect us.
Watch over those I love.
Wrap them in Your strong embrace.
...
The destruction of the night
Is woefully brought to light,
As flakes of ash,
Flecks of homes,
Rain from the sky
Like a dingy blanket of snow.
The sun is burning with a fiery glow.
Smoke permeates the air all around,
Oppressive grey haze surrounds.
Have mercy, O my God.
Give grace to the hurting,
Peace to the suffering,
Love to the mourning.
Be near them, O God.
Hold them close.
"Rest"
(Composed November 2008).
Kick off your shoes
And take a seat.
Recline yourself.
Prop up your feet.
Light a candle.
Smell its scent
Fill the room.
Relax content.
Sip your Zinfandel,
Refreshing vine,
Sweet cordial fruit,
Ambrosial wine.
Read Bronte's Jane Eyre
Enchanted by romance.
Play Strauss' Blue Danube
Charmed by the flowing dance.
Close your eyes.
Let the music unwind
Tightly clenched hands
And worried mind.
Rather, whisper a prayer.
Seek quiet repose,
The Peace in our hearts,
And Rest for our souls.
Kick off your shoes
And take a seat.
Recline yourself.
Prop up your feet.
Light a candle.
Smell its scent
Fill the room.
Relax content.
Sip your Zinfandel,
Refreshing vine,
Sweet cordial fruit,
Ambrosial wine.
Read Bronte's Jane Eyre
Enchanted by romance.
Play Strauss' Blue Danube
Charmed by the flowing dance.
Close your eyes.
Let the music unwind
Tightly clenched hands
And worried mind.
Rather, whisper a prayer.
Seek quiet repose,
The Peace in our hearts,
And Rest for our souls.
"A Stroll through the Park"
(Composed in mid-November,
the week of Veterans' Day 2008).
The beginning of a path
Open and inviting.
The gentle breeze whispers to me
Bids me come for a stroll.
"Open your eyes and see!"
He calls unto me.
"Gaze upon the beauty of this place.
Enter into its warm embrace."
Meandering up the grassy hill, I stroll.
Shady trees outstretch their branches,
Extending outward, upward,
As though reaching toward heaven.
In the rustling leaves birds chirp,
The winged chorus of beautiful harmony,
Accompanied by the hum of insects
Dancing in the breeze.
A squirrel prances
A lizard leaps
A butterfly flutters by
As birds twirl in the sky.
The patter of rabbits' feet
Eager to join the jig
Celebrating the beauty of the day
And proclaiming their Creator's praise.
The breeze caresses the trees
Orchestrating the woodwinds' play.
Leaning against a tree,
I hum along, enraptured by the melody,
Warmed by the sun's enveloping ray,
Swaying in the gentle breeze.
the week of Veterans' Day 2008).
The beginning of a path
Open and inviting.
The gentle breeze whispers to me
Bids me come for a stroll.
"Open your eyes and see!"
He calls unto me.
"Gaze upon the beauty of this place.
Enter into its warm embrace."
Meandering up the grassy hill, I stroll.
Shady trees outstretch their branches,
Extending outward, upward,
As though reaching toward heaven.
In the rustling leaves birds chirp,
The winged chorus of beautiful harmony,
Accompanied by the hum of insects
Dancing in the breeze.
A squirrel prances
A lizard leaps
A butterfly flutters by
As birds twirl in the sky.
The patter of rabbits' feet
Eager to join the jig
Celebrating the beauty of the day
And proclaiming their Creator's praise.
The breeze caresses the trees
Orchestrating the woodwinds' play.
Leaning against a tree,
I hum along, enraptured by the melody,
Warmed by the sun's enveloping ray,
Swaying in the gentle breeze.
"Autumn"
(Composed over a cup of tea in the
early evening of November 3, 2008).
I love autumn!
The cool, brisk air,
Falling golden leaves,
Fluffy gray clouds,
The occasional afternoon drizzle.
Snuggly cashmere sweaters,
Scarves and gloves of rich jewel tones,
Boots, umbrellas, woolen coats.
Harvest festivals and costume parties,
Football season,
The Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade.
Freshly baked turkey and dressing,
A slice of pecan pie,
Hot apple cider.
Glowing candles,
Pine trees and nativities,
Twinkling Christmas lights.
Autumn is a time of laughter and cheer,
Cuddling together, warming by the fire.
It is the season of thankfulness and annual traditions,
Special time spent with family.
People are more generous this time of year:
Intentionally giving gifts to all they love
And remembering those in need.
The fall is both the ending of a year,
Celebrating its joys and grieving its sorrows,
And it is a new beginning,
A reordering of what truly matters.
Autumn is the time to read a great book,
Catch up with an old friend over a pot of steaming tea.
It is the time to sing carols and jingle bells,
To drop a coin in the kettle,
To rake a widow's leaves,
To warm the heart of a stranger,
To remember the lowly manger.
early evening of November 3, 2008).
I love autumn!
The cool, brisk air,
Falling golden leaves,
Fluffy gray clouds,
The occasional afternoon drizzle.
Snuggly cashmere sweaters,
Scarves and gloves of rich jewel tones,
Boots, umbrellas, woolen coats.
Harvest festivals and costume parties,
Football season,
The Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade.
Freshly baked turkey and dressing,
A slice of pecan pie,
Hot apple cider.
Glowing candles,
Pine trees and nativities,
Twinkling Christmas lights.
Autumn is a time of laughter and cheer,
Cuddling together, warming by the fire.
It is the season of thankfulness and annual traditions,
Special time spent with family.
People are more generous this time of year:
Intentionally giving gifts to all they love
And remembering those in need.
The fall is both the ending of a year,
Celebrating its joys and grieving its sorrows,
And it is a new beginning,
A reordering of what truly matters.
Autumn is the time to read a great book,
Catch up with an old friend over a pot of steaming tea.
It is the time to sing carols and jingle bells,
To drop a coin in the kettle,
To rake a widow's leaves,
To warm the heart of a stranger,
To remember the lowly manger.
"Beside the Stream"
(Composed in the quiet afternoon
of October 22, 2008.)
The bubbling brook
Whispering breeze
Chirping birds
Dancing leaves.
Calmly the water flows.
Gentle ripples form
A mosaic of teal and azure
Brushing the tranquil stream.
Sitting in the shade,
I gaze around
Embracing the quiet melody.
The chaos of the city traffic
Hushed by the patter of water 'pon stone.
Time seems to stand still,
Save the natural rhythm of the day.
Just sunlight or moonlight,
Cares simply float away.
The beauty of simplicity
No stress or worries near,
Only quiet moments tucked away
Sweet memories so dear.
of October 22, 2008.)
The bubbling brook
Whispering breeze
Chirping birds
Dancing leaves.
Calmly the water flows.
Gentle ripples form
A mosaic of teal and azure
Brushing the tranquil stream.
Sitting in the shade,
I gaze around
Embracing the quiet melody.
The chaos of the city traffic
Hushed by the patter of water 'pon stone.
Time seems to stand still,
Save the natural rhythm of the day.
Just sunlight or moonlight,
Cares simply float away.
The beauty of simplicity
No stress or worries near,
Only quiet moments tucked away
Sweet memories so dear.
"At My Desk"
(Composed at my desk
on October 21, 2008).
Buzz, the humming lights.
The air conditioner whirls.
Click of the mouse.
Tap of the keys.
Binders snapping shut.
Ring! Ring!
The phone cries out,
Ring! Ring!
It demands.
Another noise, another sound,
Mounting tension
Frazzled banker frowns.
I squeeze my "stress reliever" ball
Like a nurse checking blood pressures rise.
Are these things clinically proven?
I think I might hyperventilate!
Papers everywhere...
My desk looks like a chess board,
Checkered with pages
Awaiting their strategic move
From one pile to the next.
Sipping my soda, I watch the clock,
No ticking or tocking to be heard.
The electronic numbers silently slip by,
As one day spills into the next.
on October 21, 2008).
Buzz, the humming lights.
The air conditioner whirls.
Click of the mouse.
Tap of the keys.
Binders snapping shut.
Ring! Ring!
The phone cries out,
Ring! Ring!
It demands.
Another noise, another sound,
Mounting tension
Frazzled banker frowns.
I squeeze my "stress reliever" ball
Like a nurse checking blood pressures rise.
Are these things clinically proven?
I think I might hyperventilate!
Papers everywhere...
My desk looks like a chess board,
Checkered with pages
Awaiting their strategic move
From one pile to the next.
Sipping my soda, I watch the clock,
No ticking or tocking to be heard.
The electronic numbers silently slip by,
As one day spills into the next.
Monday, September 14, 2009
"Tossed by the Wind"
(Composed in silent mediation
at Soul Care Day, October 13, 2008).
Tossed by the wind,
Thrown this way and that,
Tumultuous storm at hand,
Fearful am I.
Battered and torn,
Ragged, I feel,
Empty, forlorn.
Stop resisting the wind.
Flutter in the breeze.
Release the bonds of propriety.
Dance in the wind.
You are not lost--
I see you.
I am here even now.
I am the Lord of Creation
at all times, yes, even now.
I am in the breeze.
I am in the wind.
I lead you to my feet.
Do not run away.
Be not dismayed.
See the beauty in the rustling leaves.
Hear the water stream over the rocks.
at Soul Care Day, October 13, 2008).
Tossed by the wind,
Thrown this way and that,
Tumultuous storm at hand,
Fearful am I.
Battered and torn,
Ragged, I feel,
Empty, forlorn.
Stop resisting the wind.
Flutter in the breeze.
Release the bonds of propriety.
Dance in the wind.
You are not lost--
I see you.
I am here even now.
I am the Lord of Creation
at all times, yes, even now.
I am in the breeze.
I am in the wind.
I lead you to my feet.
Do not run away.
Be not dismayed.
See the beauty in the rustling leaves.
Hear the water stream over the rocks.
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