Scribblings

Each atom
is a bomb
exploding every inch
into a cosmos -
millions of proton planets
with whizzing electron moons;
the music of the spheres
bursting into symphony.

And here I sit
feeling the immensity of a god
and the smallness of a man
who dreams of stars.

Heartbeat

Bluish static licks through my arm
Bursts of lightning without a sound

Thoughts stray to dreams
          Cosmic prophesies of Joseph
          Mild mutterings of Freud

Thoughts diverge
Like the Nile in my arm

United by the rhythm of a heartbeat

Afternoon Vigil

trees point

            cathedral walls

to a sky

intangible

            fingers stretched

overcome by birds

chirping alleluias

            wordless doxologies

candles lit

            afternoon vigil

by sunlight ethereal

enthralled by

dancing atoms

only a

creator’s eyes

can see

Grace And Beauty Intertwined

In these fleeting hours I chase the sun

Both for heat and light

Before the rosy sheets are pulled for night

The light is flickering across my pages faster than I can read them

So I make my way to a tree where the last covering is the bed of the horizon

A couple is chatting across the way

His neon green sweatshirt offsetting the fresh grass

I whisper a prayer to the wind as it moves my hair

Back and forth

Back and forth

Back and forth

Until its sound is synonymous with the surrounding grass

I turn the page as the last lash of light whips through the horizon and disappears

On A January Evening

Some evenings, as the cool Californian air
licks through my wispy hair,
I see trees cloaked in blue moonlight,
and I have the distinct feeling
-almost dreamlike-
that I am standing atop the beaming sun,
gliding through a silent sea of stars.

Then morning wakes,
and I await the tasks of the day.

Gazing at the Tree

The Christmas lights are singing stars
that lift the proclamations of the
angels toward celestial heaven

And I, a lonely shepherd pressed
against my couch, can only think
of innocent sheep
beneath God's lions of holy light

7 December 2011

The evening sits with me and listens
Listens to the passers by
Immortal gods in conversation
Whistling down the winds of time

The bustle of the trees is hushed
The prophet's mouth is stricken dumb
My breath is stilled in expectation
For the words, words yet to come

Insomnia

Some sleepless nights

          My mind lines up my thoughts

Like dominoes and flicks them down

          To build them up again an hour later

For My Mother

This is a poem that I wrote for my Mom and thought I would share.

Warm hands
Skin and bones
Made full with memories
We four will share

Tears, joy
Wind and rain
Fixed at home
Fluid in time

Breath of my life
Life to my soul
Whispers my name
Name of my ancestors

Laughs through the phone
Smiles heard in silence
Walks down our streets
Flights through the starlight

Burdened with worries
You never deserved
Strength of my family
Lover of virtue

If ever I'm proud
Of who I've become
Your spirit lives on
My reflection of you

Growth

Your smile slashes
Through the layers
Caked around
My heart
And
Soul.
And through it
Slips the sacred
Arrow - word
Unspoken -
Flowers
Full.

An Evening At The Beach

This is the beauty of a thousand stars
singing in harmony
through the ripples
of seawater
that
wrap
around
your
ankles
Coolly licking the fronts of your shins
reaching on it's
tiptoes to touch
your knees
softly
kissing
hands
and
hair
Blue green yellow dresses soaking up
the darker shades
blowing gently
breath, wind
joining
together
in
perfect
rhythm

Smash

Stars burst
Imploding
Beams of light
Cut like glass
Upon your shirt

Pools of light
Reflecting up
Luminous strands
Liquid light
Between your toes

Very light of
Very light
Entangled between
We talk of
Dancing

Fear And Trembling

Then David lifted his eyes and saw the angel of the LORD standing between earth and heaven, having in his hand a drawn sword stretched out over Jerusalem. 

I Chronicles 21:16

Inebriated, the old men stumble

Down the streets where broken bottles

Reflect the rays of moonlight on

The walls of brick and worn down stone.

The sawdust soaks the beer that falls

Out of their mumbling mouths.

Two pairs of graying eyes that turn

From shadow to shadow, looking for nothing.

Lazily they make their way

With bare feet sticking to sawdust and muck.

One says to the other with uneven breath,

“My friend, I’m bored to death.”

 
                            And then the sword struck.

Children of Light

light unfolds like a wrapped candy

budding into color on your shirt

winding,
             dripping
         down
               your
            hair

and curling up around your toes

it washes in your mouth when you smile

(and hides in your eyes)

it glides with us as we dance
       to the rhythm of the night.

we are the children of the light.

Mousie

The pitter-patter paints a picture

Slides along the bedroom door

And works its way into the kitchen

Glides across the granite floor

Onto the darkened wooden counter

Spills the milk set on display

And scurries in the open cupboard

Shrills with fear and runs away

For mother flicks the kitchen lights on

Flips the milk from on its side

And little mousie scurries homeward

Slips into his home inside

A Morning Haiku

Tears fall from a friend,
And this acidic water
Nourishes my roots.

Thanksgiving

**Nota Bene: I had written this poem about a week ago (well...50% of it is Scripture, so I guess I didn't really write it), and didn't think too much of it since. Then, tonight, when discussing Charles Williams' novel War in Heaven, this verse came up repeatedly. Throughout the novel, characters are repeating incantations in order to converse with the supernatural in a demonic sense, but the one pious character uses Psalm 136 almost as an Invocation of the divine, and thus I added to my title a bit.**

Thanksgiving: A Christian Invocation

This body was given me by my mother,

            though it was not hers to give.

O give thanks to the Lord; for He is good:

            because His mercy endureth for ever.

This breath is lent me by the earth,

            though it is not the earth’s to lend.

O give thanks to the Lord; for He is good:

            because His mercy endureth for ever.

These thoughts will be thought by greater intellects,

            though they will not be theirs to think.

O give thanks to the Lord; for He is good:

            because His mercy endureth for ever.

Star Gazing

As we gaze at the blazing of the stars
Engulfed in beauty from our moving cars
They gaze at us and wonder at the mirth
Of sacred weddings and supernatural birth.
Each takes his ancient constellation seat
With care not to destroy us with his heat
And watches as the miracle of life
Upends the tears of momentary strife.
Each sings the joyful song of the creation
Over the birth of every new-found nation.
All saw the fall of man, the rise of Rome
All saw Christ turn a stable to his home.
This world is not a stage, we are not players
Our work is real beneath the gazing suns
We wait with folded hands and fervent prayers
Till Christ return to take us as God's sons.

On A Silent Day at Home

This Present Stillness

“Teach us to sit still

Even among these rocks”

T.S. Eliot, Ash Wednesday

I have lost the stillness.

Did I ever have it?

I think I had it as a child,

when I would sit in my mother’s arms,

never questioning what tomorrow held,

or even today for that matter.

Everything was new, everything wonderful.

Now I act as if the only wonderful

thing is whatever comes next.

I throw out the present with the past,

always waiting for the future,

which of course will never come.

The past is definite, the future infinite,

and both turn to stone in the light of the present.

Teach me to be still in this eternal present.

Trees

Think of the trees.
Not of their violent striving
to kiss the stars at night,
not of their secrets
swished about amidst the breeze,
not even of their age, and generations
dead and gone who also sat
beneath these very branches,
but only think of them as of a profile.
See the dark outline against
the bright white of the sun.
See all the shapes that work their way
up from roots to the tips of leaves.
Then see the whole of the
ancient vertical trunk.
See it's constancy, never shaken: a paragon
               of straightness.
Think of the trees.