"Wandering through the rain"

(Composed January 3, 2011).

Wandering through the rain
Desperately seeking to find
The way, the path
Seems to have sunk
Beneath my feet, hidden
In the haze.  Sunlight or
Moonlight behind cloud,
I know not whether it is night
Or day.  The dim, grey ambiguity
Disguises what was once clear.

Lost in limbo, the liminal,
Unsettled, uneasy, uneven,
Tottering on the tippy top,
Shaking, swaying side to side,
Unable to stabilize, steady, secure

Eyes in the mud.

No mere flub or flounder,
But failing, falling
Flat.

Yet redemption even here
In the ground is found,
Washing clean.
Black is recognized as black,
White shines purest once more,
And men no longer look as trees.

"Heaven in the hay"

(Composed the second week of Advent 2010).

Heavy is the weight, frigid the air,
Blackest solitude, broken
Are the bonds that would unite.
Hiding, buried deep in earth,
Far from the stars, years since
Last seeing their faint shimmer.

Sinking darker into earth,
Crushing struggle,
Pain of despair,
Deeper pit,
Anchor weighs,
Chains clatter,
Heaviest burden--
Imprisoned by night.

In this night virgin gave birth,
Unto us a child was born,
Into this cave a star arose,
Blessed light of infant eye
In cries of a babe is shone;
Salvation to humanity come,
Divinity in manger lay--
Resplendent heaven in the hay.

"Commuting"

(Composed upon returning home
Wednesday, August 25, 2010).

Commuting...there is always traffic,
Especially now Imperial Highway
Is littered with orange cones and
Seemingly spawning caterpillars.
Slow signs label the lanes and
Road construction ahead forebode
Blinkers and barrage of break lights,
Beeping car horns, and blare of rap.

The car ahead cuts into the right lane
Nearly colliding with my neighbor.
"Crazy driver!" I mutter aloud.

Light turns red and I'm stopped
Diagonally behind the Pontiac;
Its back window quickly lowers,
Expecting flash of a singular digit.
Instead, it simply rolls up again.
Reaching the top, it descends once more,
Then rolling upward, tiny fingers appear
Over the edge, skipping 'cross glass,
Playfully following the window's trek,
Flitting as a butterfly among buds,
Soaring and diving as a seaside pelican
Above the waves at San Pedro harbor.
Chuckling to myself and wiggling my
Fingers, as they rest on the windowsill.

Light turns to green and we once more
Crawl forward, as once annoying cones
Transport to first grade soccer practice,
Dump trucks to hearty preschool play.

"See"

(Inspired by the words of Isaiah
The prophet on July 7, 2010).

Incline your ear, O Lord, and hear
Open your eyes, O Lord, and see

Stumbling through the curtain,
Clothes torn and covered in ash,
Words echoing in my head:
Who are you?
Why would God care?
You are nothing.
You are alone.
No one sees.

Incline your ear, O Lord, and hear
Open your eyes, O Lord, and see

Tears streaming the paper tumbles
Out of my hand and to the floor.
Head bowed low, I bend my knee:
I am a child of the King.
God does care for me.
I am precious in His sight.
I will never be alone.
God sees all.

Incline your ear, O Lord, and hear
Open your eyes, O Lord, and see

Shouting my prayer to the heavens,
Exhausted, now barely whispering,
Slowly the weight begins to lift,
Gentle peace descends as a dove.
The oppressive haze starts to fade,
Evaporating in the presence of
Light eternal and Love divine.

"He offers his hand"

(June 26, 2010).

Exiting the glittering hall
Heatedly I scurry into the cool air
Alone at the last bell's ring

Cobblestones form the path
Slowing, I carefully select each step
So as to protect my treasured shoes
When I notice him across the lawn
He has followed me outside

Ashamed I turn away
Momentarily losing focus
My heel catches in the stones
Wobbling at first
Then hitting the ground

Wiping the dirt from my rags
Raising my head I see
He has rushed to my side
He offers his hand
Mortified I push it away

Jumping to my feet I hurry away
Tripping over once sparkling hem
Now stained and torn
Jogging, he offers his hand
Yet I refuse

Stumbling in one glass slipper
Inebriated by overwhelming disgrace
First slower steps, now faster
Again he offers his hand
I angrily slap it away

Falling, I cling to the railing
Attempting to regain my footing
The metal creeks, then suddenly snaps
Sending me tumbling to the ground
Gashing my leg on a jagged rock

Bloodied, tears streaming
Throbbing with the pain
He runs to my side
Gently touches my shoulder
Soothing my pain

Tenderly, on bended knee
He offers his hand
Embraces me

"Faithful"

(Meditating on the Exodus,
Composed February 18, 2010).

Egyptian masters at their heels,
Nearing the edge of possibility,
The Israelites are critically cornered,
Cowering before the sea,
'Til the Lord parts the waters,
Sets His people free.

True to His promises
His word will endure

Entrenched, enslaved to sin was I,
Chasm 'tween us was so wide,
Nothing I could do to escape,
Chained to my rebellious pride,
'Til the Lord comes to earth,
Rescues and purifies His bride.

The Lord is faithful
His love is sure

In the desert Israel did cry,
No sustenance to be found,
Grumbling against the great I AM,
Raising a rebellious sound,
'Til the Lord opens heaven,
Bestows manna on the ground.

True to His promises
His word will endure

Even now in my great need
Before Your feet I humbly kneel,
Overwhelmed and terrified,
Such pain and fear I feel,
'Til You gently comfort me,
My weary soul You tenderly heal.

The Lord is faithful
His love is sure

Oh true to Your promises
Your word will endure
Lord, You are faithful
Your love is sure

"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.

"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.

"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 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.

"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

"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.

"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.

"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!

"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.