Here am I
Amongst thousands
And thousands
Of voices -
Poets and journalists,
Novelists and singers -
Clanging the cymbal
Of earth's groaning cry.
There you are,
Hosts of angels
Singing, your voice
Together sounding
The praises of our God.

Under your wings,
You look at me
So intently.
I return your gaze,
And I see my
Reflection
In your eyes.

This morning, I went into your home
And hung up all the cobwebs
That I had collected.
I dumped a bucket of dust
All over the floors and kicked it
Into the air, making it hard to breathe.
I smeared the mud from my shoes
All over your brand-new carpet, thinking,
"I've done this before, and I wonder
If he will still forgive me;"
That's when you came walking
Through the door with a broom in hand,
And open arms for this vandal.

When you love someone for long enough,
You begin speaking their language.
You find yourself saying the same things,
Even stumbling over the same words;
I used to think it was silly the way she'd
Say "Spiracha" instead of "Sriracha,"
But love has a way of changing
The way you think,
Translating your old ways of
Thinking into something new.  
Intercultural.  Bilingual.

Meeting with God
Is not like
Taking a trip to
The Principal's office.
It's like eating a meal
With an old friend,
One who can melt
All of your anxiety
With the simple
Pleasantness
Of his company.

Don't let life crush you
Like a buzzing fly
Beneath its shoe.
Buzz a little louder,
Fly a little closer,
Land a little softer,
Just don't get crushed.

When we were mourning
The loss of our friend,
The pain didn't seem so bad
Because you and I went back
To work in the sheepfold.

But when you took that job
In the vineyard last week,
Pruning young vines,
I found myself in the field
Without your ears to listen,
Without your eyes to see
The pain my heart was beating.

Now here I am,
The loss of two friends
Pressing down on me.
Sure, I can still meet you to
Unlatch our metal lunch boxes,
Talking with our mouths half full,
Sandwiches our wives made.
But on most days I am alone.

Here in the grazing-grass
There is no one
To hear my thoughts
But God
And the wind.

Is it an affinity for fine words,
Like those who taste Scotch
To distinguish flavors of
Smoke and earth,
Leather and tobacco?
Or is a poet one who is keen
To his or her surroundings?

For example, would a poet
Notice the old woman
Sitting on a bus from the library
With her hands clasped
On a copy of Hard Times?
Or would a poet simply
Dream up such an occasion
To springboard a write
About the upcoming election?

Sometimes I wonder
How many poets are roaming
The streets where I live.
I'd like to go searching for
A society of underground poets
Who are secretly fashioning
The verse the world needs
For true and lasting change.
They might have a thing or two
To teach an amateur like me.

Midnight as a teenager:
"This is fun!"
Midnight as an adult:
"What have I done?"

On a brisk autumn evening
I became aware of the chorus
Of leaves as I dumped
Another bag of grass
Onto my compost pile.
The changing colors above me
Resounded like waves
Crashing on the ocean shore.
Looking at those branches
Swaying in the breeze
****** my mind to the months ahead.
I will see these same trees
Bare as a skeleton in the frigid air,
Clacking and clicking in the wind.
With that thought I realized:
Even in the dead of winter,
As long as she has breath,
Nature sings her thankful song.

You sure were in the moment
Monday when that opossum
Was laying on the garbage in
Your trash-day trash can, quite
An inconvenience when you're
Trying not to be late for work.

On Tuesday, you had a lot of
Questions for me when, on
Your commute, you saw that
Fawn lifeless on the side of the road.

Why is it that these moments
Make you present to me?
You come with doubting questions,
Ready to put me on trial
When every day I send you
Gifts of love even more
Real than the sting of death:

Did you notice the squirrel
Rushing back to her tree with
An apple the size of her head?
Could you see her there feeding
Her kits - born blind so they
Might learn to trust their maker?

Which reminds me, did you notice
The geese that flew over your head
While you were riding bicycles
With your wife? Were you listening
Carefully enough to translate their
Honking conversation? I remember
They were considering where they
Might stop to rest for the night.
After all, it is a long journey to their
Snowbird mansion - Hole number
Seven at Pinetree Country Club.

Are you present enough to notice
All the beauty, all the glory I've
Squeezed inside your every day life?
Open your eyes for a moment,
Unlock your ears and listen.
I promise you'll see the
Facets of who I really am.

Our love is like the puzzle pieces
We bought when we were dating,
The ones that came without
The guiding box-top picture.

Day after day you hand
Me pieces of emerald green
Or royal blue.  Some days they're
Orange with a streak of white.

For years now I've been
Lining up the edges,
Linking one piece into another,
But the image remains fragmented.

Now here I am at the end
Of my life, pushing the
Final piece into place.
With tears filling my eyes,

I behold a photograph of you and I
Sitting on our front porch.
Our old, wrinkled hands clasped
As we watch the sprinkler

Move back and forth,
Laughing as our grandchildren
Leap through the streams
That shimmer in the sunset.

Be our courage
When life is frightening,

Be our strength
When we are weak.

Be our peace
When everything crumbles,

Be our portion
When we are empty.

Be our fortress
When flood waters rise,

Be our song
When our vision dies,

Be starvation
When life is a feast,

Be our way,
Our truth, and our life.

I rise and fall
As I float on her tides,
Which ebb and flow
From her inner shores.
I am intimate enough
With her seas
To wrestle with the breakers
When tempests rise,
Or to rest, as I do now,
Upon the peaceful waves
As they crash,
In calming measures,
On the white-sand beaches
Her tourists frequent.

It's been a while since I've
Written to you, my reader,
So today I should go searching
For some inspiration.

Maybe I'll drive to Carol Park
And watch the stay-at-home
Mothers pour out their joys
To one another,
And I'll write you a sonnet
About enjoying your life
Rather than taking it for granted.

Or I could walk through
The local antique shop
Where I would tell you about the
Rusty old straight blades,
Or the dusty bookshelves
Where I search for Irish poetry.

Then I could visit my
Local tobacconist where I would
Relate to you the musty aroma
Of thousands of cigars
That have been worked
Into the carpet.
A place where old men
Like to go to talk about
Their wives and the
Upcoming football season.
Meanwhile, I'd watch as
A newborn adult curses,
Burning his fingers as he
Tries to light his very first cigar.

These are all the places
I could go to gather inspiration.
Instead, I'll just sit here
On this old leather sofa,
In the same coffee shop,
Drinking the same espresso
I drink every Friday morning.

Here I'll keep my same routine,
Writing to you, the only person
Who cares enough to read
About all the things I could do
This morning, but don't need to.
All because you, my reader,
Will be perfectly content
With the product of my imagination.

8am-light is bursting through
My shades as I take my shower.
Once I dress myself, I reheat
The coffee my wife left me.
I step outside to be met by
The crisp air of waning summer.
Like every day, I notice the
Vibrant boa scarf of purple wildflowers
That adorn the shoulders of
Wheeler and Monitor.
The sky is not falling, and
It is true what has been said,
'The fear of something happening
Is worse than it actually happening.'

I'm growing my beard now,
And there are certain friends
I surround myself with when I need
Beardly encouragement.

You see, like life,
My beard can be patchy,
Scratchy, ugly, and sometimes
A pain in the ***.

But, I have learned to
Surround myself with those
Who love a good beard
Just as much as I do.

Each year, when summer dies,
I seek their counsel and
Encouragement, my reason
To go on.

When I stare into the mirror
In shear despair,
Wondering if it is worth it,
I remember their kind words.

Whether their compliments
Are true or not,
They give me the courage
To keep growing.

On Friday mornings
You can find me 
At my local coffee shop
Reading, writing, understanding
Myself.
It is how I unpack
All the baggage from
This week's long journey
Along the Camino of life. 

It is the dusty old bunk bed 
I rest my body upon. 
It is where I am free 
To dream and dream again.
Here I understand my limits
And regain my strength.
Although I love the scenic overlooks
And the one I travel with,
I need this time.

I don't quite understand why,
But without this 
Momentary solitude,
Everything I've ever wanted
Does not feel
Quite like
Everything I've ever wanted.

I gaze upon a piece of
Ever-changing scenic art
Hung upon my wall.
My neighbor's beautiful yard -
Wooden fence, tall trees, koi pond -
Divided into perfect squares,
Yet combined into a mosaic
For my admiration.

The Poet's battle:
Making her poetic thoughts
Poetic writings.

Life is a game of perspectives,
Valleys and mountaintops.
Choose to set your feet
Upon the mountaintop.

The old man selling
Sheets in the Outlets'
Visitor's Center
Pounds a Monster
Energy drink.

I close my eyes among the trees,
Hoping that the forest will tell me what
I want to hear.
Inside me is a cesspool of anger 
And wanting-to-stay-this-way.
But the forest is alive with
Joy and jubilation, life and happiness.
I breathe in her song 
And join in the refrain.

Acquainted with the forest,
Dirt between my toes,
Earth exhales a whisper,
I am finally close
Enough to listen.

In our reflections
Time moves backwards and
Words become jumbled. 

In our reflections
We see what others see
But not really.

The thing about reflections 
Is they only give us a glimpse
Into who we really are.

The "man in the mirror"
Is not really who I am.
In fact, I would argue

That looking at that man 
Can bring false pride
And disappointment.

I once heard of a book called,
"No Mirrors in My Nana's House."
I can see why.

Mirrors do not reflect
Who we really are, so
Why get trapped in the glass?

The great enemy to walking
In faith-filled victory
Is letting the power of 
Scripture be masked
By the pride of cliche.

Each morning I look through my drawers
Looking for what outfit would best 
Suit me for the day. 
I see anger, cynicism, pride, and crankiness.
I see sadness, frustration, and entitlement.
Then at the bottom of the drawer
I see humility. 

One of my least favorite pairs of
Tight-fitting pants - ones I've gained 
Too much weight to wear comfortably. 
Yet, after careful deliberation
Something inside me knows I must choose
To wear them, even if they don't fit.

I may not look right,
And passersby may get a good chuckle,
But I know you will reward me with ones
That fit much better:  strength, confirmation,
Restoration, and establishment. 
All of which require a big leather belt.

I'm sitting in a cage
With a wide open door.
I'm contained by my own
Will, and all I need to do
Is take a step out.
If I do, I'll see the world 
For what it really is
Rather than my 
Prison-minded hallucination.

Tonight it was like the pressure
From the entire week crescendoed
Into a single moment.
My emotions have been bottled,
My fires have been quenched,
But tonight I felt as though
All of that careful containment
Was going to be undone.
I was about to unleash
All of that fiery passion,
Until a bucket of ice water
Was poured onto my head,
And fifty pounds of
Compressed-emotions were
Pumped into my soul.
There they will stay
Until you take them away.

His lawn must've held back its lunch
When he drove those signs
Deep into the soil;
Crushing little blades, 
Cutting roots, and displacing 
Perfectly placed earth.
Likewise, I had to hold back 
My breakfast this morning 
When I had dissenting opinions 
Driven into me;
Cutting through my skin into
My heart, making my palms sweat
And my stomach drop.

Wisdom takes careful steps.
She knows that hasty footing 
Leads to harm.  To avoid falling,
Or stepping on something deadly,
Wisdom takes careful steps.

The trick with flaming hot Cheetos
Is to eat all that you want 
Before you drink any water.

If you eat some, and then drink,
And then eat some more,
Your stomach will be an ocean 

With breakers crashing to and fro
On the banks of your inner shores.
It will not feel nice, so make sure

To follow this advice; for I am, when
It comes to Cheetos, an old man who
Has for learned from my many years 

Of eating one way, and eating the other.
And I have found the better of the two,
So heed my authority.

"You did the right thing,"
God said to me on
The Day of Final Judgement,
"You switched the roll
Of toilet paper when
No one was looking."

I can see 
With my eyes
So much more 
Than a camera 
Could ever capture.

I stepped away 
From the busyness
To have a moment alone:

Gentle waves 
Caress the shore
As I stand watching.

Dunes of sand
Lay their heads
Upon the lake's horizon.

Light reflects so 
Carefully upon  
The wake of speedboats

And I thought, "how tasteless;"
But they are enjoying 
Nature just as much 

As I - yet differently.
And that is fine.
I suppose that some

Enjoy standing 
On the shore,
While some enjoy

Riding the waves.
Which is better?
I won't know.

In a house
Near the loch
Awaits a bride
For her wedding day.
Soon her groom
Will take her hand.

Extending his hand,
At his father’s house,
Out reaches the groom
Toward the loch
Saying, “in a handful days
I will have my bride.”

Meanwhile the bride,
With her gentle hand,
Writes the day
On invitations in her house;
Sending thoughts across the loch
Toward her groom.

Simultaneously the groom
Thinks of his bride,
Receiving her thoughts from the loch.
His promise on her hand,
Hers is in his father’s house,
But he won't see it until the day.

In just a few short days
With his friends the groom
Will leave his father’s house
And await the bride
To take her hand
At the ceremony near the loch.

And in the city of the loch
Their lives most historic day
Will be when they take each other’s hands
And the groom
Will have his bride
And will make a home of their house.

But until then… Toward the loch the groom,
Awaiting the appointed day of his bride,
With lovesickness stretches his hand toward her house.

We discovered a master painter
who hand paints intricate flowers
one-by-one to create
a picturesque landscape painting.

In his paintings, a cardinal sits
resting upon a tree branch,
and a monarch butterfly marks
His signature in each painting.

Indian blankets, greenthreads,
brown bitterweed, and Texas thistle -
all vitally important to his paintings.
Therefore, he paints bees to pollinate

the flowers, transferring life-giving
pollen from anther to stigma.
Yes, the master painter places
all of this in his painting with
beautiful intention.

The church we visited
Today for pastor's round table
Was set like the scene
Of a Grant Wood painting.

The fields were stretched 
For miles upon miles,
The view enhanced 
By gently rolling hills.

The tin-roofed-and-sided church,
Once a barn, now renovated,
Sits in the middle of a farmers field.
A treasure once hidden, now found.

In that building we discussed
The move of God across
Our nation and our state,
Building unity amongst us, 

Those who till the earth 
And spread the seed,
Waiting for God to 
Bring the increase.

For as the rain falls
Down from the sky,
It waters the earth
And causes our seed

To sprout and produce fruit.
So we must be patient now,
Being faithful farmers waiting
For the seed we've sown 

To receive the nutrition 
It needs to spring forth
And yield the harvest 
We have always desired.

Burning gases of 
Tens of thousands of
Degrees burn for You.
They shine and spin, 
Swirling, dancing like 
A professional stage artist
Interpreting Your love.
Yes, Your love brings out
The very nature of nebulae - 
Passionate fire-dancing 
That will not cease 
Until the one with burning
Stars for eyes returns.

Your love, oh God, is
The foundation of my life,
Bedrock to my soul.

Why is it that every night
I change into my pajamas
Only to remove them
Ten minutes later
As I climb into bed
In my undergarments?

I reckon it is the routine
That calms me from my day,
Shedding the skin of
One day to embrace another.
It is the preparation
For my seven hour 

Sabbath where I rest 
From my seventeen hours
Of work, play, and relationships -  
Responsibilities that keep me
Too busy to take a moment
And enjoy the skin I live in. 

So each night,
I must shed that skin
In reflection of the day
That is now gone,
And rest as I prepare
Myself for another day.

Another day of busyness,
Another day of striving,
Another day of trying my best
To be the man you have
Created me to be...
To embrace who I am
In every waking moment.

Three times I was tested
out in the wilderness -
the wilderness of waiting.

My accuser said,
"is that really 
what God told you?"

So, I lifted my eyes asking,
"Father, is that voice 
You, me, or my enemy?"

"Do not doubt my word."
my Father replied,
thundering from heaven.

So I will trust
the word of the LORD
and act upon it.

Take away the 
Disease in these branches;
The tares from 
This fertile ground.
Remove the stones
From this heart and 
Plow the earth
Until I am nothing 
But pure, organic soil
Ready for your
Be-fruitful-and-multiply
Seeds.

When you're young,
You may write to
Your latest infatuation.
Or, maybe out of
Teenage angst, you'll
Write to yourself -
Catharsis for your built up
Anger and frustration.

When you're a little older,
You might write about your
Wedding day,
The vows to your bride.
Or maybe when you bring
Children into this world,
You'll write about
The fear that comes
From becoming a father.

In your thirties
Disappointment may come,
And you may find
Yourself writing to
The man you were 10 years ago -
Wishing you had taken the
Other path in that yellow-leafed forest.

When you hit your midlife crisis
You might write about the things
You have or have not done...
Or maybe you'll write about
Your newly found passion:
Harley Davidson Motorcycles,
The rumble between your toes.

Retirement brings the turn of the line
As "every season has its sign".

In your older age,
You may cease to write
For the muse of your youth.
More and more,
Your poems will end
With the words,
"In memory of..."

Each one reminding you
To be thankful
For the sock that helped you
Find the book that was loaned
To you months ago,

And you will notice things like
Those naked-spring-branches
So harmoniously intertwined -  
A piece of art that
No painter would be able to emulate
With a thousand brushstrokes.

And as you sit down to reflect
On the typed documents
Of your life's work,
You have a friendly conversation
With a long-distance friend,
Reflecting on it all.

When you are a female dog
It is completely acceptable
For you to have a beard.

At my local used-book store
There is a small poetry section
Filled with dusty old volumes
Of Whitman, Eliot, and Dickenson.
There are newer poets too,
Regardless, they are barely touched.

Each time I visit
The selection has not changed.
In fact, the spaces from where
I pulled my last purchases,
Nearly a month ago,
Are still there.

So is the hard-covered Frost
And the book of Yeats
I thought was a Pocket-Poets Collection.
Normally, I am searching for new-to-me poetry,
Variety to whet my palate with,
Finding various poets I have not read.

Yet this time I searched the shelves
For my new friend Carl Dennis
Who's poetry has been like Rooibos
On a cold spring day,
Warming my soul
And awakening my senses.

Yet near the spaces I left
Nearly a month ago from today,
Mr. Dennis cannot be found,
And I am faced with the same volumes
I faced a month ago, variety that
I normally look for, just not today.

I'm an American
And everything is clean.
My water is clean.
My streets are clean.
My school is clean.
Even my trash is clean.

Yes, I'm an American.
And everything I see is clean.
From my water to my trash,
Everything has been systematically washed and tucked away
So that nothing smells, nothing stings or poisons
So no one takes offense.

But I long for the dirt beneath my fingernails.
To smell the sweat after a hard day's work
Or the hike up a mountain, in hope of seeing
Reality from a different perspective.
Yes, it may take getting a little *****,
But I'd rather have the world a little ***** and true

Than to have everything clean.

I saw God handing me
His entire heart.  
After I took it, I saw
What could be done with it.  
I feared as I realized
I could stomp it on the ground,
And feel its flesh between my toes.  
I saw it on a shelf collecting dust.  
I feared the pain
I could cause his heart.  
So I prayed he would teach me
To treasure the priceless gift
He has given me -
His entire heart.

Becoming human does not require
Writing sad or dark poetry.
Rather, it requires rejoicing
Amongst the darkness
That can so easily
Encapsulate us all.

Somehow I manage to criticize 
The dust I see in your eye
While I am suffocating under
A pile of crushing beams.