Poplars. A Poem.

The poplars lost their voice.
Leaves like vocal chords fell silent.

Still, wind pipes through canopies
and raspy utterances remind of the coming

silence on its way.
words rustle on the field of grass.

White noise of laryngitis
will acquiesce to the evergreen’s

whispered prayer for renewal.
Snow will come and settle us.

Each winter gust vibrates
rebirth through the needles.

The poplars will find their voice again
and I will listen, I will listen.

The Giver. A Poem.

A light breeze through the poplars whispers of a Lake Michigan shore.
Hummingbirds engaged in dog fighting over the feeder.
A lone woodpecker pokes around in the distance.
Flies hurry past sounding like Indy cars.
Crows speak in short sentences.
I breathe thankfulness.
God is a giver.


Painting by Wilfred McOstrich

“Again.” What this child says to his God

One more book,
one more song,
one more walk
of the spirit to see
One who swallows me.

The search continues for
Someone I have already found.
This quest of authenticity
resurrects dead poets,
theologians, and sages.

“The heavens’ embroidered cloths”
lie as dreams under Your feet.
I will tread softly on Your dreams.

You said it was all straw
yet I will gather the stalks
you left lie.

I will see the invisible fecundity
in the visible things
set in the dimmed light.

I shadow
searchers of light.

Neil Diamond was lost
between two shores
to find out who he was.

Bruce Cockburn’s dance
with the everywhere truth
and the grace to lay it bare.

Michael W. Smith points to
the flesh and blood
of the I Am Love.

A book,
a song,
a walk
in the cool of the day
and You show up.