Psalm 15

Oh God of the blackbird,

punctuate the sky.

End this sentence

of blank stares

and pursed lips.


Swoop down redemption,

dark and swift,

dark upon dark.

Take us up to

the let there be light.


Oh God of the blackbird,

punctuate me.

Let this end be

the beginning

of freedom never flown.


Swoop down forgiveness;

A feather light updraft

of your love.

Us with you

gliding on perspective.

Saturday Psalm

Oh Lord, let me not forget you

In my mid-life daze.


When the swirling dervish

pulls on me


and voices of all ages

fall on my ears.


When plans increase

and you watch


and wonder what I am



Oh God, increase my awareness

of you on a Saturday morning.


I see the goldfinch on the feeder

and the diminishing seeds.

Psalm 12

Is it possible to see only you?

Is there a way to hear only your voice

under all the clamor and cymbals?


When will the solid things give way?

How will five senses be divided evenly?

Will a hug be the last thing to feel?


For now, O Lord, I long for your embrace,

better yet, your arm around my shoulder.

I yearn for the intimacy of first things,


before I dabbled in the impossible,

before I considered everyone’s

motivations but my own.


I lived beside myself, then by myself,

and you, without saying a word,

spoke to me above the din.


I have ears. Let me hear.


I started writing a psalm almost every day before I write about this, that, and the other thing. I am inspired by Nicholas Samaras’ book of poetry American Psalm, World Psalm. I read one of his personal psalms every morning.

Dad. Father. Good to hear from you.

I talked to God the other day. Seems weird to admit. I mean, shouldn’t people of faith be talking to God every day? What about praying without ceasing and all that?

I’ve got a confession to make. (as if I haven’t made one already) I function like a closet agnostic. I struggle with the earthly father, heavenly Father connection. The string theory which ties our experience of our child/father relationship and projects those belief systems onto God. You know, like the child who grows up with an angry dad and only receives the Bible verses of the vengeance of God. Or the girl who grew up being sexually abused by dear ole dad and sees God as a God of conditional love.

My story involves a man who was a middle child, a poster middle child. He had an older brother who became a priest in a strong Catholic family, and a baby sister who went into nursing. My dad was just a fireman. Today that would be a distinction par hero, but then not so much. He grew up scrunched between two bookends that held their parents esteem.

I don’t remember much connection with my dad. He was busy providing in an era when bringing home the bacon was the only requirement. I struggle with the same tendencies. In the area of work ethic, my dad’s example was impossible to miss.

Anyway, last week I caught myself praying for connection with God, so I could be more connected with my family. In a big family like ours it seems I would trip over connection by simply walking in the door. Connection takes effort, awareness, and intention.

Last week in a tense portion of my work day a Micheal W. Smith song popped into my brain and looped for an hour or so. I hadn’t heard the tune in quite a while. The refrain kept circling. “Your grace. Your grace. I’m nothing without you.”

I texted my wife the words. We both love Smitty. Her response was “Love him!!!!” I texted back “I wasn’t even listening to anything and this song just popped into my head and dad’s talking to me.” I had meant to write “God’s talking to me” but autocorrect put dad in there.

Sometimes it’s the little things eh?

Have you ever heard from God in a personal way?



Monday Monday

I ask someone about their mental state of Monday. I projected and expected some grumpy response, but instead…

“Mondays are a fresh start. A new beginning. I like Mondays.”

I raise my coffee mug. Here’s to Monday!



White Space