Becoming Bald
Light shines off my scalp.
It glows off my forehead.
The hairs of my head
are thinning out,
like
a pioneer forest being cleared
patiently by the foreign farmer,
who came to the woods
to carve a plot
from what once was a forest,
rich with dense undergrowth.
In former times,
the thicket would break the wailing winds,
accosting the house and barn.
Now the gales flow freely
throughout the rifled trees.
Peace shone through the branches.
Calm, as the roaring gusts
burst upon the stripped land
and coursed across the barren plain.
As the stiff breeze blew endless,
shingles tumbled off,
siding was lifted and bantered away,
studs creaked and collapsed,
drywall rolled off,
everything scattered,
like all the forest critters
running from a smoky fire.
When the ashes settled,
I saw the whole curve of the earth,
the land shimmering
like
a lake of glass with driven snow,
skating along the frozen pond.
Sep 4, 2015
Sep 4, 2015 at 7:40 AM UTC
The Poetry Trial
Years were passing
Beginning with a full head of brown hair
Bald now scant gray hairs over his ears
Sitting afront the screen
Tirelessly typing in poems
All this time thinking that he communicated with other people
Little did he know
The whole operation was a scam
Run by the leprechauns
That's right The little folk
All the feedback he thought was real
Was just a ruse set up by the faeries
A hyper-sensitive software system
Serving up canned responses from
Pre-programmed poets
Digital and centuries old.
Aug 20, 2015
Aug 20, 2015 at 5:20 PM UTC
As a young man,
His father bound and persecuted him.
So he ran away.
Dad looked for him every day,
Found him and was disturbed and sad,
Yet threatened him.
So the saint hid away,
Gave enemies anger room,
hid for a month.
prayed to be free of persecutors.
Fasted and wept,
Happy though in the dark.
Came out accusing himself of laziness.
Folks saw his poverty and thought him insane.
He'd starved changed and they ****** him.
The saint thanked God for enemies.
"Disgrace makes a noble stronger."
Dad heard of the saint's disgrace and tried to destroy him.
At home, locked in the dark, beat by dad.
The saint grew fit by exhaustion and reproach,
Patience unaffected.
He rejoiced in suffering.
Kept upright intentions and way of life.
Without fear, he clung to Christ.
He took refuge in Jesus.
Whose sufferings are always greater than ours.
Aug 13, 2015
Aug 13, 2015 at 2:42 PM UTC
To Become Younger
Simply begin,
by reversing
the rotation of the earth.
Next,
reverse the revolution
of the earth around
the sun.
Finally,
Have the Milky Way
wind up like a clock
instead of
spinning outward
like a whirling dervish.
Because with all this spinning
we’ve grown quite dizzy,
and we’ve all grown old,
with this vertigo.
But,
if we were to **** it in,
rather than blowing it out,
surely,
we could begin taking off the years.
If only we would just begin
doing these things,
because what we have been doing,
is not working for us.
Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 10:55 PM UTC
As I pray this even time
sparkling risen boughs of silver maple
wave and nod in the gusty breeze
between them is a patch of blue sky
I read Psalms of merciful forgiveness
while tears bedew my eyes unworthy
The dove flies over my house and away
out she goes into the endless blue distance
all of my dust applied to her tail
my sins all carried aloft and quickly passing
disappear forever with the fading silouhette
as onward she goes winging away
between the leaning branches of the elms
which ever bow to these prevailing winds
of my earth bound life
Jul 30, 2015
Jul 30, 2015 at 7:04 PM UTC
Swirling
Gusts out of the west
Burst through our open window
Blowing books, pictures, tapes, and papers
clear off the top of the bookshelf.
It's nearly August and the dry leaves sigh
as the wavy winds rise and fall.
the shadows freckle and sparkle
on the floors and furniture of this room.
the doors of the house open and close
with minds of their own, attuned to the moving air.
at first faraway then near, nature's breath
marches incessantly through the treetops.
this sunny day itself is excited about being.
irrepressible is the goodness of earth.
on Wednesdays like this the hues of the blues
of the skies themselves move lovingly among us.
a house sparrow anchors herself in the chain link fence.
the yellow swallowtail butterfly takes a low flight path
just above the heads of the flowers.
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 7:00 PM UTC
More loose Ends
The dusty, ***** floor needs sweeping.
How hard am I willing to work?
I’m like a running back trying to move forward,
but my way is all blocked by big defensemen.
Will I keep my eyes open and moving?
Will I keep my body turned up field?
Will I keep my legs a-churning?
Will I run and pick my way,
through the maze that lies before me,
dodging the opposition, and gaining their turf?
Or:
Will I be a loner and run from everyone,
trying to make an end run all by myself,
and getting flattened by a swarming defense
that bridges me no gap?
What do I really want?
Do I really want Christ?
or
Do I want all the distractions of the world?
It seems I want them both.
Yet the Psalms say
there are only two ways
that a man may choose,
either God or the world.
So can I look into my own face and eyes
with enough seriousness
to cut through
all that is in me that is not true?
I could weep,
for I have been at this quest for as long as I can remember
and it’s always two steps forward and two steps back.
Yet here I am standing again,
ready to take the handoff from the quarterback
and try to outrace the opponents.
Lord please give me the faith and perseverance
to keep standing in here
in the backfield ready to run,
ready to always and ever keep trying again
regardless of past results
and unknown futures.
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 3:18 PM UTC
Gifts of love in Winter
My son with long dark hair plays
arpeggios on our piano
and glides across the living room
in a tee shirt and jeans.
This old man scrawls
with cold hands as the April snows
freeze solid and the window frame sways
in the gusty winds.
He takes hot showers to remove
the chill from his joints.
Jul 24, 2015
Jul 24, 2015 at 5:24 PM UTC
Dawn, and just me and a lonely cardinal
Play out our songs for God to hear
In the spare air the bird twitters
I, in my chair stretch my wits
We each sit, the bird on a branch
And I, leaning in the Lazy Boy
The day lies before us like an unwritten score
or a scroll unaccustomed to ink
We will fly across this unknown expanse
and cherish our freedom to fly where we will
The white clouds and clear blue skies
will be the ears for our stories
And nightfall will draw our tales to an end.
Jul 22, 2015
Jul 22, 2015 at 10:36 AM UTC
Anxious
Getting ready for a trip,
our traveling papers
take on importance.
Like Schindler’s list,
if we drop one
we could end up lost
or stranded
in some out of the way airport
far from the crowd,
or wandering about
looking for ticket counters somewhere
to get our reservations confirmed.
I call to make sure we are on track
with the planes and cars
homes and roads and timetables,
but the recording says:
our arrangement for a sedan is invalid.
So I wait on the phone for hours.
Finally,
I think maybe my sister can get us out of this jam.
One well-placed call
and she had us on the way.
So nice for an old man,
to still have a big sister.
Jul 21, 2015
Jul 21, 2015 at 8:36 AM UTC