American Spring

A nation may be reborn
out of flame and darkness,
broken glass, death, ignorance,
blood, beaten and broken bones.
The trial and terror of birth –
its unknown face
weak and trembling
shouts in the corridor.

Birth tears an opening
out of which it comes.
It wounds forever
what came before –
history, tradition, belief.
What comes cannot return
from whence it came.

The child of birth cries
comes, cresting before our eyes.
Scream if you must.
Healing, salve, balm –
chrism poured over a living being
beginning to stand, flex, stretch.
Let it come. Let it be.


Portland, Oregon – June 9, 2020

As I write, America is in a raging and justifiable turmoil. We do not know what will come of it. I have hope. I am given hope by what I see on the streets of America.

The Spirit

The Spirit blows where she wills.
I believe I hear her voice…

I cannot see her.

I turn in circles, round and round,
waiting on whispers in the wind
wisdom seeking, beseeching…

her warm breath.

This is the how it is for us
who wake with wind in our ears –
born of the Spirit.

She called us then.

She will call us again.


Portland, Oregon – Feast of Pentecost, May 31, 2020

The Gospel of John, 3:8, the “original” version: “The Spirit blows where it wills, and you hear the sound of it, and you do not know whence it comes or whither it goes; so it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit.”

Black Lives Matter

I watch as the sun sets –
western Oregon in the fulness of spring.
I sit in my back yard
with flowers, fountain, and bees.
I would be a contented man
for, in all the world I,
a white man, with my own worries
have not the worries of men
whose skin is not like mine.

A man in Minnesota is dead
days dead and the face of justice
is hidden there, hiding
for fear – the fear that killed
the man in Minnesota. He
has a name – George Floyd.
I did not know George Floyd but
as another man said so true:
“Any man’s death diminishes me.
Therefore, never send to know
for whom the bell tolls.
It tolls for thee.”


Portland, Oregon – May 28, 2020

Mr. George Floyd was murdered by a Minneapolis Police Officer.  Brothers and sisters in Minneapolis and around the country are righteously protesting/rebelling at this unjust and prejudicial act of racially motivated murder and terrorism.

Of course, the poet and poem referenced above is from the Rev. John Donne in his poem, “For Whom the Bell Tolls.”

Evening

Evening bestows it’s benediction.
The tired land bows to receive.

Under a gray and faltering light
sensations of calm surcease
send serene sensuous waves out
into the deep pools of night.

Segments of deepening shadow form
between woven branch threads –
the entwining interstices reveal
time caught, for a moment,
then released to swim again.


Portland, Oregon – May 18, 2020

Viral Morning

Morning rises in day speckles
multifaceted green hue and blend.
Trees tall of evergreen break
the blue sky into silhouettes –
pointy pine needle etchings
carved into patches of bright sky
still cold from the chill night.

All in a spring morning –
bird call, little girl scream
delighted bike riding fast
leaving parents behind on the road.
Verdant vegetative bursting, virus
spreading, water seeping down
to seas and shadowy depths.

Morning and the green filtered
sky cannot hold the silence –
waiting and fear falling as rain.
I hold these in my own green life
through this lovely and cold
viral spring morning.


Portland, Oregon – May 6, 2020

 

The Waiting Heart

The last golden light of the sun
sets through the western thicket.
The hallowed gloam of evening races
to meet the hidden horizon.

Since I was a boy lost in the pews –
a small town church, St. Joe’s –
I’ve been taught about faith, hope, and love.
Now these, as a man, seem to be falling
into an autumn of the fallow field
when the greater virtue, the needed one,
the long season of the waiting heart,
fades across sunset into night.

I wonder what the morning will bring
when the sun breaks its way
through the last shreds of night?


Portland, Oregon – April 29, 2020

Earth Day

It is time to know
our place in the world.
We can see it now as it is,
as it has always been.
We hid it from our eyes –
it’s wild and stormy reaches,
it’s  vast and empty spaces
the land, fertile and  deep
in eons of undisturbed soil.

We held up a mirror to our faces
and saw a world filled with us
and it seemed good.
Now it is the eighth day
and the world is calling
us back to what it was
and has never been other.
It is closing it’s green
enfolding arms around us
and we will empty ourselves
in the roots of the world
that is being born again.


Portland, Oregon – April 22, 2020.  Earth Day

Shifting World

When the world shifts
I must shift
or walk along the road
where time has gone.

My tasks and the world
shift under pressure –
when a small thing,
a stone in a shoe,
stops the big things.

Tasks remain to do
when the sun rises.
When night comes
I lay them down
to sleep and dream.


Portland, Oregon – April 8, 2020

The Lost Seed

I lost a seed that was given me
to plant in my springtime garden.
I let it fall through thin space
onto a dark and ordinary place
away from light or the need to find.

I did not plant it straightaway
when bright was the sun
and fertile the ground.
Only in hasty scribble penned:
“Write about a lost seed.”

Today I found my hasty scribble
had turned to dry husk
bearing neither flower nor fruit
from that moment it came to me:
“Write about a lost seed.”


Portland, Oregon – March 30, 2020

We Bloom

In cold springtime
we poke up sun reaching
drink frosty rain
bloom with flowers.

Other live things bloom
grow across the world
become part of vibrant life
cause sickness and death.

Little different we
from viral living beings.
We infect the world
cause sickness and death.

Before me the horizon blooms
with life never imagined.
Oh, to bask in the light
before sickness and death.


Portland, Oregon – March 24, 2020

The worldwide pandemic (Coronavirus, Covid 19) is currently ravishing the world.