"Progress"

(Pounded out on the evening
Of October 1, 2010).

Melding the ancient with the modern
Creating a new work, a fresh perspective
The ancient stones arranged in a linear grid
The craft of antiquity, sculptures of marble
And bronze, now portraying in ways anew
Universal human truths newfangled
Contemporary issues and obsessions
Techniques, materials, myths of old
Recombined, rethought, reimagined

Refusing to simply duplicate
Nor desiring to merely replicate
But seeking to uniquely create
A personal interpretation, expression
Seemingly slow
Still, serene past
Juxtaposed with the rushing, dashing,
Moving, jolting, hustling, steam engine
Drive of the future—or rather the present—

Desiring a slower time
A time of refreshment
Still constantly pressing forward
Relaxation
Continually pushing onward
A quieter time
Barreling ahead into the unknown
A return to the garden
Ever enticed by the siren call of “Progress”

"Filled"

(Upon purchasing a new journal
On September 18, 2010).

Lovely leather binding pages
Sparkling with their silver edge,
Blank lines awaiting fulfillment.
Space for thought, room for
Expression; quiet moments to share
Beneath a blossoming cherry tree,
Beside the glittering open sea,
Amongst a pile of golden leaves,
Amidst the blustery winter winds
Pages fluttering and drops of rain.

Pristine now, crisp and clean,
Coffee stained soon to be, crinkled
Corners bent and shimmer dimmed.
Not worth a dime, yet treasured book;
Silent confidant for secrets shared,
Archive of fears, some joyful years,
Vial of tears and chocolate smears.
My life sketched with ink, not lead,
Encapsulation of my soul,
When the pages will be filled.

"A quiet evening"

(Composed in the stillness
Of July 24, 2010).

The sounds of the night
Sprinkler's mist descends
Distant honk of a passing car
The bark of a neighbor's dog
The muffled rumble of voices
Float from a television set
Palm fronds rustled by the breeze

Candle flickers, lamp is dimmed
Smooth jazz pianist on my iPod plays
While my pen glides across the page

A bit of the city's bustling remains
A few street lights turning yellow
Yet most families are now relaxing
In their homes for a quiet evening
Snuggled in their living rooms
Eating popcorn and watching a film
Perhaps laughing over a hand of cards

On the sofa I recline, journal open
Pondering the water softly trickling
Its gentle whisper in my window

"Opernplatz"

(Upon visiting the square,
Composed in April 2010).


Dort, wo man Bucher verbrennt,
Verbrennt man am Ende auch Menschen
Thousands of leaves flutter in the wind,
Volumes ceremoniously heaped high;
Unacceptable, Vile, Degenerate,
The works, the words, thoughts rejected,
Condemned, consigned to the flames;
Dark smoke billows in Opernplatz.

Such burning, frenzied censorship,
Fear hid in the smoldering embers,
Now fully ablaze with irrational zeal.

Seeking to protect themselves,
Future generations from dangerous tomes,
Exterminating decadence and corruption;
Instead, ignorant masses would create;
The fires of inquisition consume;
This raging inferno destroys.

Annihilating all seeming dissent,
And as the wise man said of old,
It would not end there.

For burning books would not uproot
Seed of difference, diversity of thought.
This conflagration of text would not suffice;
For fragrant forests up in flame
Would but the tinder be to burning flesh
Until all color, all beauty is razed.

Empty bookshelves, empty beds,
No phoenix would be found
Amongst this pyre of ash.

"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.

"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

"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!

"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.

"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.