A chanting mourning dove

drives the knees.

A prayer of no words.

Groans prostrate like

shadows at sunrise.

The stasis of loss.

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

Invitation. Please Come In.

Come again, another year,

unfold your days

and leave a crease in each one.


Come again, another love,

lift your eyes

and cut tenderly our space.


Come again, Good God,

comb mercy through

our tangled ways.


Come again, breath stroke,

breathe in grace,

and exhale compassion.


Come again wholeness,

and bend low

in the present tense.


Come again Jesus,

even so come.



Let Us Be

Christ Mas.

More Christ

infant in us,

simple mystery.


Oh, come

let us adore

the center

of the lullaby.


Rock us gently,

lay us down

in the manger

with the Child.


Mother Mary

held His eyes in hers,

and rocked us

gently for a while.


Use the word life

sparingly in a poem.

Too vast an idea.

A subtle cliché.


Its meaning spread

as the dark spaces

between fireballs.


Its poignancy

as constant as

leaky faucet.


Each drop a

beat of the heart,

each beat a part.


But death,

be not proud,

big banging stops.


Drip, drip, drops,

fall like a star,

not far, not far.



So fierce, this grace

furled over the mums.

The white wandered

all around, insulating,

claiming color by the inch.


This grace is still falling,

floating, flake on flake,

like a cataract peeling

from heaven to earth.


Oh, to fall on grace

not from it.


Floor Dance

A friend told me

The Greatful Dead saved his marriage.


He only listens to the Garcia grace now.

All day, every day.


I wonder if our resolve evokes a band,

a genre along the fringes


of what it takes to marathon dance,

to keep our feet shuffling.


When a song interrupts us to the point

of dancing in the kitchen


we experience another salvation.




First Light,

descending over night.


Florescence now lays low

in the field.


Shorter days lengthened

while we walk on flurries.


Dreams descended from heaven,

as we tread softly on them.


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.