"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."

When I was a child,
I fondly remember
eating carrots from 
the dirt of our garden.

My brother, my sister, and I
would pull the carrots,
with great care, from
the dirt of our garden.

We would wash them
sometimes in the sink,
sometimes with the hose,
to remove the dirt of our garden.

But even then
as we chewed those carrots
we could still sometimes taste
the dirt of our garden.

I reflect upon the Father's love -
monoliths in Yosemite.
The eagle screeches far above
a song, "Your love's extremity".

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.

Every Tuesday night
From January to April
The highlight of my night
Was a chocolate croissant.

I would sit and listen
To theories and methods,
Literature and research,
And on break I would have one.

I would order it each night
With salivating anticipation.  
As I handed over my money
They put it in the oven.  

And each night
They would call out
"Chocolate croissant?"
And I would grab the bag.

I would devour that morsel
With joy and elation,
And as I felt it go down
My chest would warm -

Not only from
The warm croissant,
But also from the joy
Warming my heart.

It was the best part
Of those horrible evenings
Of literature and research
Theory and methods.

Sometimes,
If I was feeling spicy,
I would get two -
One on each break...

And sometimes
On Thursdays
I would get two more
For History and PR.

Yes,
Those chocolate croissants
Got me through
My last semester of college.

When I was feeling stressed,
Or feeling down
From the subject matter,
I would eat one,

And I would feel better.
And I bet
As you are reading this
You want one.

Do yourself a favor,
Go buy yourself
A chocolate croissant -
And enjoy it.  

Let it help you escape
From your worries
And your cares
For about 90 seconds

As you devour that
Delicious pastry.
And let it warm your chest
With chocolate and joy.

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.

I
Don't
Have
Enough
Poetry
Books.

I
Don't
Have
Enough
Poetry.

I
Don't
Have
Enough.

I
Don't
Have.

I
Don't.

I.

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.

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.

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.

Do you realize 
the impact you have
on those around you? 

The smile you gave
that waitress filling coffee
changed her perspective.

The young boy
that looks up to you
shapes his life after yours. 

The pastor who watched 
you grow up 
finds purpose.

The friend you met
at summer camp
smiles remembering. 

The song you wrote
alone in your room
is someone's anthem. 

That speech you gave
for extra credit
broke someone's addiction.

The time you prayed
for an impartation
empowered her to speak.

You don't realize
the effect you have
on everyone around you. 

Don't dare 
give up
on them.

Bend down today
in humble submission,
in groveling forgiveness,
and wash the feet
of another.

Partner with your savior,
recognize the filth
of your own sin,
and wash the feet
of another.

Become acquainted
with the essence
of your existence
by washing the feet
of another.

Esteem one higher
than yourself,
meet that lowest place,
and wash the feet
of another.

You will find
how you too will
become clean when
you wash the feet
of another.

So do not tarry,
no, now, today
bend down
and wash the feet
of another.

I waited for an elevator
It was an exceptionally long pause,
And there was a group of three arguing
Over the meaning of a clause.

I knew the answer to their query,
But questioned if I should reply.
Social stigmas can be strange
So I decided to be shy.

They searched their minds,
They racked their brains,
And I just stood there -
The answer boiling on my tongue.

My elevator arrived just then,
And I reluctantly stepped inside.
The doors closed slowly, slowly,
And I heard their voices die...

...So it is with my faith.
Many people are searching
And I have the answer,
But I am too afraid to speak.

So I step inside an elevator,
And lift myself above their problems
Pridefully rejecting the searching
Of those who need an answer.

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.

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

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.

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.'

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.

Papa showed me the way
to the wild blueberries.
We hiked up the tall hill,
and found those sapphire
spheres hanging from
delicate stems.  

He told me stories of
our Native American ancestors
as he taught me how to pick
the berries;

surely a lesson in gathering
like this goes centuries beyond
our two lives combined!

We took
handfuls and filled our
mouths with the sweetest
blueberries I had ever tasted.
Once we had our fill, we
gazed out upon the horizon
and admired the beauty of the
ancient forest, then we returned
down the dusty trail, climbed
into the truck, and drove away.

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.

I long for myself
and for those I love
and for those I lead
to be like the
wild sequoias.

Let our reach
be high and vertical.
Let our roots
be firm and intertwined.
Let us be
strategically planted
in deep reservoirs.
Let our bark
be thick and resilient.
Let our seeds
be released
and germinated
when the fire comes.

Yes, let us be
an enduring grove,
outliving difficult
seasons and enjoying
the plentiful.

The fisherman laughs
Sitting in his old canoe
His grandson's face shines.

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.

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.

Hazards on*
He stepped into
That slushy sheet of snow.
It fell from heav'n
Pelting face
Onto the earth below.

The silence
Creeped in his ears,
His headlights were dull beams,
That lit the snow
Like a lamp
And shone upon the scene.

Damp pavement -
The body laid
Resting upon the street.
He could hardly
Stand the sight
It crushed there at his feet.

He stepped close
To examine
That mangled body there
To see if it
Was his cat
Or simply just a hare.

Difficult
The task it was
To recognize the dead.
The hair was wet,
Hue had changed,
A car had crushed its head.  

Studying
The corpse with care -
The skin had been peeled back.
Torso-Muscle
Was revealed
The leg twitched - he gasped.

He jumped back,
Filled with terror
At what he had just spied,
But in that breath
He re'lized
The creature that had died.

Oh it was
A rabbit there,
Dead upon the cold lane.
Yes, he was sad -
Yet relieved -
From a heart filled with pain.

But, a part
Of him was crushed,
Shivering in the snow.
Like that creature
On the street,
He was there all alone.

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.

Hear the following prayer
in the timbre of gratitude:

I've had enough with all the bags
in which I carry my things,
with bright screens that sting my eyes,
and with the musical strings.

My ears are sore from the machines
that change and amplify the waves;
so bring me the thoughts of poets and
bring me the prayers of saints.

Whisper the wisdom of years gone by,
of life spilled out in the streets.
My heart is weary, the weight of this world
has brought me to my knees.

There's only one thing I ask
for which to dull the pain;
bring me the thoughts of poets and
bring me the prayers of the saints.

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

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

Why can't life be this?
I asked my wife as
we sat underneath our
white polyester blanket,
snowflakes gently striking
the pavement and our
gray-blue mailbox outside.

Why can't every day be Saturday
when you and I awake to
each other's smiles?
We would hold each other
and be thankful that we
have nowhere to be
this quiet afternoon.

We would find purpose
in cleaning the laundry,
in washing the floors,
and we wouldn't need to worry
about any bills or those
leftover to-do lists waiting
at work from the week before.

I'd like to imagine this
is what Heaven is like,
no worries, or cares, or toil;
just relaxing each day
with a chestnut and clove candle
warming our senses
as we sit in silent contentment.

Sometimes I imagine
Sasquatch on my porch;
A watchman
For my home.

Eyes open wide-
-He peers down the road,
Making sure
We are safe.

From the break of dawn
To streetlights turning on
Sasquatch tarries.
Always watching.

He sees the deer;
He sees the neighbors;
He sees the mouse
Running from her car

To beneath our deck
Where he stands;
But Sasquatch
Does not stop him.

He just stands there
Watching,
Waiting,
Staring down the street...

Hoping
-Maybe one day
He will come alive
To stop the mouse.

I stepped outside before the dawn
And in the darkness I stood there;
Looking about my grassy lawn
And through the trees from winter bare.

I stopped because the silence played
Through the trees and upon the lawn;
In that quiet moment I stayed 
In the darkness before the dawn.

I listened for a car to roar,
Yet only heard one on the street.
I longed for silence - there before 
Our world was filled with this concrete. 

I mourn for all the stillness lost, 
I mourn for all our poor eardrums,
That ring and click from what it's cost
To build all these cement kingdoms. 

But whisp'ring through that mournful thought...
The sole car fades into silence...
I reflect on this peace I've sought...
Birds restrain their songs in shyness...
 
And as I look about my lawn
I release a breath I had drawn
In the darkness before the dawn.
In the darkness before the dawn.

entirely empty except
for a few fallen petals
from a red tulip...
entirely empty except
for a wrapper of a piece
of spearmint gum I
just put in my mouth.
Mint usually helps my
stomach when it's upset.

I heard of a man
who never owned a
television.  
Instead he bought
a set of solid oak
bookshelves stained
like mahogany.

With the money
he saved on cable,
he filled them with
classics like Plato,
Aristotle, and Dostoyevsky.
He studied Darwin
and Descartes, and
memorized poems by
Whyte and O'Donohue

Because he never
made the switch to
high definition, he
could afford trips to
Rome and Tuscany.
Walking those ancient
streets and resting
in those heavenly fields,

he learned the art
of attentiveness,
minding the
genius loci
of a place,
and setting
one's cadence to
the breath of the wind.

And in the end,
he had a few books
of his own,
but they taught
nothing new
other than
how to truly live.

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.

Be the wildflower
springing up from the pebbles
on the mountainside.

The great philosopher
Utters things profound.
     Gives the bird her song

The great philosopher 
Utters things profound.
     Cools the shade

The great philosopher
Utters things profound.
     Sweetens ice cream

The great philosopher 
Utters things profound.
     Gives dogs their dreams

The great philosopher 
Utters things profound.
     Makes the child dance

The great philosopher 
Utters things profound.
     Lunch at Wendy's

The great philosopher 
Utters things profound.
     A friend's eccentricity

The great philosopher
     Can utter ordinary things...
     Listen to that lecture too

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.

I'm sitting in the corner
of a cold, empty house.
My eyes glazed over,
I haven't slept.
Memories of Thanksgiving
flash upon the spoon
flipped over before me;
the plaid shirt
I was wearing,
the crummy salad I ate.
I see the look
in your eyes,
you were holding
back tears.
I couldn't contain mine.
Suddenly, flashbacks
of white powder
caked like snow upon
the jail cell bars.
I'm sitting in the corner
of a cold, empty house.
My eyes glazed over,
I haven't slept.

Write the good,
as well as the bad,
on the same page.
Both are equally
important
to the story.

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.

The kingfisher darts
through leafy branches
and between trees,
ringing and bustling
as it gently lands
from one bough
to the next.

I feel the breeze
upon my shoulders,
I smell the cattails
and water lilies,
I see the light of morning
reflecting off the surface
in dazzling ripples.  

This river runs
from Au Train Lake
to Lake Superior,
flowing with
such purity,
allowing nothing
but tranquility of spirit.

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.

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.

I sit here
counting windows;
six, twelve, eighteen,
et cetera.

How much money
could the contractor
have saved
without them?
Easily thousands,
but would it be worth
blotting out the sun?
Workers shivering
at their desks,
wishing for
brighter lives.
Clients choosing
the competitor,
who's employees
shine a little brighter.
The windowless building
closing its doors
because they couldn't
afford the bills,
all because
they saved some
money on the windows.

I sit here
counting windows;
six, twelve, eighteen,
et cetera.

Winter brings the bitter chill,
I shiver standing in the cold;
We warm ourselves near the fire,
We bring a tree into our home.  

A blizzard wraps the wood around us, 
A glistening blanket - snowy white;
Our forest is so silent now;
Stars shine like diamonds in the night.  

In spring, the birds join in a choir,
Hundreds of songs in harmony, 
I look around and hear them sing;
Flowers bloom so gloriously.

I smell the scent of fragrant rain;
Showers drench the fertile ground.
I see the trees begin to leaf,
Rustling rain comes pouring down.

In summer the sun radiates,
Filling the forest with all that's green.
Oak and pine fill my nose,
I walk beside the crystal stream.

The grass it grows higher, higher,
I feel it soft between my toes;
From time to time a storm arrives,
Clapping thunder, wind that blows.

Autumn brings a change in palette;
Squirrels hide their treasured 'corns;
The taste of nutmeg - pumpkin pie,
Jack-o'-lanterns at our doors.

Mouths are filled with apple cider;
Leaves piled upon the ground;
Children jump into them laughing, 
Hidden in orange, maroon, and brown.

A thousand faces of the forest.
Winter; spring; summer; fall - 
And yet the face of my beloved
Is more beautiful than them all.

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.

How often
Do you
Search
Yourself?

I have searched you,
And I know you,
And I have yet
To turn away.

White Converse shoes,
Pants pulled up like
You came straight
From the 50s.
McFly! McFly!
You were reading
The paper when
You got up to ask me
To borrow a chair.
After all, it was dark
Where you were sitting,
And it takes a healthy
Amount of natural light
To read the paper.
At least that's what you told me.  
Of course I obliged because  
It does make it easier
For me to write about you when
You're sitting right across
From me. Mr. Plaid Shirt with
A Pilot G-2 Gel Ballpoint Pen.
Maybe if you're lucky,
Your coffee won't be cold
By the time you read,
"Animal Cuisine, for Animals,"
Or, "This Sushi Waits for No One."
What does it say about me
That I would sit here
And describe you as you read?
I could interrupt you,
Asking you a few questions
To really get to know you.
I assume you're a kind person
Based on the laughter-lines
Surrounding your eyes;
Based on the way you smiled
At that young woman as
She walked by.

When your thoughts
Break the law
Of your heart,
Chase them down.
Then, with a
Pummeling blow
Knock those thoughts
To the ground.
Handcuff them,
And lock them
Behind bars.
They do not
Deserve a
Trial so
You are free
To punish
Those rebellious
Thoughts and teach
Them to obey.
Yes, make a
Spectacle of
Those thoughts so
Other rebellious
Thoughts learn to
Obey the law
Of the land.