Forsythia

Burn brightly in the rain,

send your rays across the field,

or sit silently, wait, and whisper

on the wandering breeze.

 

Set your golden lips,

the ones mimicking the sun,

and blow her yellow kisses,

lay them golden on her olive skin.

Prayer, Sunday Morning

Touch deep unto deep,

And scour my spirit

Of all derision.

 

Cleanse me of all

Circular thoughts

Of piercing despair.

 

Awaken my soul

To trust beyond reason.

To rest between the lines.

 

Settle me in the crux

Of Your mystery,

Grace and truth.

Stream of Consciousness

“It may be that when we no longer know what to do,

we have come to our real work

and when we no longer know which way to go,

we have begun our real journey.

 

The mind that is not baffled is not employed.

The impeded stream is the one that sings.”

― Wendell Berry

 

Stream of Consciousness

 

Maybe I’ve been sitting by the wrong stream.

Its quiet depth and broad shoulders

have me nodding off.

 

I sought peace away from the paradoxes,

away from the tinkering creek

of arias and punk rap rhythms

 

and water rolling over bands of rocks.

It’s time the sound of the shallows

penetrate the deep space of the soul.

 

I’m heading upstream, above the tributaries,

where water flows over pebbles,

and jigs off the impediments

 

like a singing tap dancer.

 

“To everything there is a season.” Ecclesiastes