White Russian

I sit somewhere.

Between joy and sorrow

Mixing White Russians in my mind,

I’m never sure where that is






It’s like tipping one back

At church.






She sits beside me.

Stirring her own

Fancy Umbrella drink

She says,






Icarus, Juggernaut and the Rock


My God, My God?…                                                                                                                                                                              We, Called Out, wrapped in red, white and blue                                                                Why have you forsaken?…                                                                                   We plunge from a precipice into the orange sun. His waves burn.                                                                       Amber grain, Why are you so far away?…                                                         We are upside down Icarus. So few remember the story now that liturgy has been Pushed aside.                                                          Everyday I call…                                                     A juggernaut breaks down three houses.                                                                                         Every night I lift my voice…                                                      The fourth estate is Poisoned.                                                                                                                              Is this the One who relies on the Lord?…                                                                                                                                                                           Icarus tumbles.                                                                                                                                       It is better than good.                                                                                                                             We crash.                                                                                                                                                  We die on that Solid Rock.                                                   Let the Lord save him…                                                                                                                     The Juggernaut comes at The Rock…The Rock that crushes….the Rock that cannot be moved.

Let the Lord rescue him….


Jet Lagged

img_0910Heat warms Pacific

Breezes blowing through jungles;

Equator’s winter.

I am jumping timelines in a tuna can: Boston to New York, New York to Seoul, Seoul to Manila, Manila to Ilo Ilo.

“What day is it?” I ask for days.

I am tomorrow’s yesterday even though today is the day I live in all the time. I feel bigger on the inside than on the outside and there’s no room even to pray as the seasons pass away along with my schedule and my knowledge of routine. What am I supposed to do?


Now the cold returns.

Sharp intake of frigid air.

New England winter.

I return to yesterday in a sardine can: Ilo Ilo to Manila, Manila to Seoul, Seoul to Boston.

“Why am I going back?” I ask.

I am fatter from the salt I ate in tomorrow. The worst is yet to come. In yesterday day is night and night is day and for days upon days I wrestle to sleep. Even now, week’s out, I wake up and forget when I am. Somehow in the third Heaven that seems OK. What am I supposed to do?

Then, time remains still.

I  breathe, “bali bali” has

Passed at last away.


All the Words We Can Never Say

Our decadent liturgy is dribbling decencies:

Debussy’s  Prelude all modern and dissonant:

“Of course that doesn’t make you look fat!”;

Dan Gibson’s Introit, all daylight and desire:

“Mmmm! This is so good I must have the recipe!”;

Dawn’s invocation:

“I am really good. You?”;

The laud at the door:

“Such a sweet child.”;

Second song:

“I sing because I’m happy.”;

Canticle of alms and gifts:

“Of course I can buy one. I’ve always wanted one of these!”;


“You sing beautifully!”;

Hymn of response:

“Well of course. That makes perfect sense.”;


” Come back anytime. Just call first.”;

In our service will we ever speak all the words we can never say?


The Romans 12 Cycle: Encourager

I sing the summer boys

Home. The clamoring crowds

With strong drink letter

Affirmations that at last

The series is in the bag.



I’ll never say die.

Even when my heroes fall.

I’ll scale the mountains.

I’ll take the skies of midnight

Home in buckets made of clay.



Shovel the neighbor’s 

Drive. Speaking life to the

Winter wind. In the 

Dark journey the truth now brings

A needle’s golden thread.



I call forth the Spring.

A three-strand string binds the shards

Of broken mirrors. 

It makes sense of the damaged homes in

Reality’s tapestry.



I am not a year

Nor a season, month or day

I am but minutes,

An eye for the thread leading

To the finished work, God’s hand.



The Romans 12 Cycle: Teacher


In the lavender

By the lake I write the

Stories. Very few will ever read. Too busy

With the summer sun to learn.


Autumn annotates

The footnotes of falling leaves.

The mountains are my 

Tablet. I write with the ink

Bottled in the midnight skies.wp-image-249808474jpg.jpg

I sip hot coffee

By the fire, a book in hand.

I thread the needle

With my  tinder thoughts in the

Winter land’s cold hard facts.


Speak forth the gentle

Green of reason threaded through

The broken mirrors.

Pieces make sense reflected in

Reality’s tapestry.


I am not the year

Nor a season, month or day.

I am but minutes

Unmasking the threads

To the finished work, God’s hand



The Romans 12 Cycle: Servant

I stir lemonade,

Sigh and wipe my weary brow.

I wax thankful then

As summer solicits for

The seasons’ warrant.

Rake the leaves. I’ll burn

This body to dust, if that

Is what it takes. I’ll

Do it gladly. My heart is

Woven in the mountain skies.

I am winter’s snow.

You will find me in the work.

No matter how dark it

Gets, I will be the finger

Which pulls the thread no one sees.

In Secret Spring’s green

I snip the weak threads. I break

The mirror. I sweep 

The pieces into place. Glimpse

Reality’s tapestry.

I am not the year

Nor a season, month or day.

I am but minutes

Who work the threads leading

To the finished work, God’s hand.

The Romans 12 Cycle: Prophet


A hot summer day,

Once again I read someone

Else’s mail. Sipping

Lemonade as I crochet

Edges of reality.


The leaves fall. As I

Count the dry bones, I breathe forth

The silence of death

Woven from mountains and skies

Which hem in the Beloved.


My breath twines with snow

Yet to come. They rebuke me

For seeing the dark,

But what choice was I given?

The winter is my needle.


Spring’s my thread of green.

New like the shards of broken

Mirrors. Pieces placed

Like manifold wisdom, glimpse

Reality’s tapestry


I am not the year

Nor a season, month or day.

I am but minutes

Who count the threads leading

To the finished work, God’s hand.

That Last Beautiful Day


My Daddy sings over me

At Midnight,

A Lullabye

Of that last beautiful day,

To calm my quaking 

At the coming of Samhain

“When leaves

Fall like snow,

Dawdle of Autumn,

Come too late

To sip the dynamite

Of a summer day.

Daughters of Destiny

And Sons of the Way

Lip sync

The song of the Equinox

With lips lusting for

The laryngitis

Of that solstice

Where silence settles the lagging light

Laid in the lap of love.

Listen for the lyric

That links the winter’s night

With the Fire Children

Born of Light and

More than a night of passion,

But three days of sorrowful celebration

Bringing life longer

At the back than at the front

Singing, ‘Dive further in and deeper back.’

The longitude of faith

Makes the loop

Around the globe

In dulcet tones

Until all have heard

In equidistance.

So Then

That last beautiful day

Is still to come.”