I'm the pillow you
threw off the bed
because you thought
you wouldn't need me.
Little did you know
that in thirty seconds
you would pull me
off the floor to
support your back
so you could lean over
your smelly handmade
journal pages to write
this short silly poem.

Don't be so naïve to think
you don't need me.
Don't throw me aside
in arrogance thinking
you'll be more comfortable
without me.

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

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.'

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.

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.

Statue in the wind.
Refined liquified fossil
from tanks below.
Stoplight foresight.
Epistemology,
'knowledge' is vanity.

Furnace's warmth,
Creator's compassion.
Wife folding clothes.

Binary buzzes
invisibly through
the air.
High-definition
image on the
television panel.

Friends preparing dinner,
awaiting, in faith,
to enjoy company.

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.

Have you ever
rolled down your windows
to hear the train
as it rolls by?
Or do you keep
your music turned up,
heat on high,
and curse
impatiently?

Sometimes
I get so distracted
by all the competing
voices that I forget
to slow down
and really listen.

I find myself
looking for the approval
of people
rather than seeking
the embrace
of the One who
really matters.

His voice is soft
because He doesn't
feel the need to
showcase His
profundity.
He whispers because
He wants
a leaned-in-ear
to listen.

Someone who sees
the signal lights blinking
and who knows enough
to shut everything off,
roll the windows down,
and listen.

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.

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.

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.

As we get older
We have to watch what we eat:
Our health, weight, and heart.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.