Of faith I learned when a boy, 
squinty-eyed, afraid, nick-named,
in the pews of St. Joe's. My father
beside me but I did not know
what he believed of the faith
we were taught and held. 
He took it with him when, 
years ago, he went away.

Of our true selves we were not taught
being little important, not necessary
to the mystery of our learned faith -
dogmas, creeds, ritual formulas,
words upon wearying words -
received, memorized, recited.

Of our true selves we did not know
were not allowed to search and find,
to wander off the path of saints
to travel dark adventurous ways.
It did not matter who we were
mattered not for they did not care
whether we artists were or poets
seeking truth in the stars or our dreams.

It has taken too long to come to this
the road not taken, the unworn path.
It seems I see a light out there
where I have never been before.
Is it, I wonder, a light behind a door
opened now, beckoning, that may close?
Is it a trumpet sound I hear out there
somewhere in the woods, a call?

Perhaps I'll step a foot onto the briared path
then maybe another into the dark wood
where scarcely can I see by the evening light
the way, the open door, the light within.
__________________________________________

Portland, Oregon - October 22, 2021

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