Praying again today.
These are the long days,
The ones spent in the quiet pain of waiting,
Of thinking through the things we’ve said,
The things we need still to say.

Never quite content alone,
Never at home in a crowd.
Silence frightens us, and
So does being loud.
Never here nor there, but
Discontent in the present.
Longing for the past,
We crave a different future.

Few of us are blessed to find a calling
While in our youth, before our prime,
To leave but know the farm's the thing,
The earthly place we'll spend our time.

The Thiessen farm is ordered, neat,
Equipment, houses, corrals and sheds,
A visual treat, each row a street
To show the order in Dwight's head.

The old earth tracks the sun around,
Each spinning lap marks coming years,
Sees loved ones laid to rest in ground,
Brings little ones to stem our tears.

A weary circle - life, and few
Are those who see how they are blessed;
Dwight, Diana found that it would do
To farm, raise kids, thank God for rest.

One day, a doctor said the words
No one desires to hear, but still,
This couple prayed, they didn't swerve
From praying for God's sovereign will.

Back to the farm, the couple drove,
Held close in prayer by friends
Aware that good comes from above
Aware that everything must end

Dwight breathed one final breath, was gone;
He left and didn't say good-bye.
But, oh! what air then filled his lungs,
Celestial breath in heaven high!!!!

--------------------
Dwight's leaving reminds me of an old song by Don Wyrtzen (1971)

"Finally Home"  https://youtu.be/sBZe2nWRSjU?si=bTriiCVgoucus8Eb .

When engulfed by the terror of the tempestuous sea,
Unknown waves before you roll;
At the end of doubt and peril is eternity,
Though fear and conflict seize your soul.

But just think of stepping on shore-And finding it Heaven!
Of touching a hand-And finding it God's!
Of breathing new air-And finding it celestial!
Of waking up in glory-And finding it home!

When surrounded by the blackness of the darkest night,
O how lonely death can be;
At the end of this long tunnel is a shining light,
For death is swallowed up in victory!

But just think of stepping on shore-And finding it Heaven!
Of touching a hand-And finding it God's!
Of breathing new air-And finding it celestial!
Of waking up in glory-And finding it home!

I hear your wails;
I add my sorrow
To the howling winds.

I am smiling at your thought that the Apple Picker
has nearly died from standing on that ladder,
From hearing rumbling apples falling into the bins...

I have worked that hard as well, and I didn't die.

When a person works all day, standing on a ladder,
Or holding a paint brush, or swinging a hammer,
Or driving a tractor or truck, or shoveling manure....

You get the picture....

Yes, we grow blisters. Yes, we are exhausted.
Yes, we would rather be lounging on a beach
Almost anywhere else in the world...,

But the truth is this: After a long day's hard work,
Food fills most excellently,
The shower? The shower is the best shower ever,
And the sleep? The sleep is the sleep of the dead,
Dreamless, full of rest....

You make total sense, Student.
Now, a personal question:
Why do you not speak in class?
You have a strong intellect;
You think and write well.
It's time to open your mouth.
It's time to share your thoughts
With the rest of us....

Japanese fighter planes coming in
Three men at the gun, ready to fire;
How does one know it's time to go?

He knew the General Order, had never disobeyed:
"To quit my post only when properly relieved,"
Death leaning in or no. But what if it's time to go?

The Pacific teamed with ships; enemy planes sighted;
"Somebody's going to take a hit this time."
A sense that grew inside: "It's time to go."

He stood in the cramped gun house, "Good-bye, boys."
"Good-bye, Paul," one said, with no derision.
In his decision the certainty that it was time to go.

Swinging the steel door and stepping out,
His vision grayed from detonation,
Time stopped, or at least grew slow.

He'd left his post, nearly died in doing so,
Covered with gore from his friends
Who hadn't heard the call, "It's time to go."

"Read The Road," a recommendation
From a friend, fellow scholar, gentleman,
And so I struck out on the road, following
a man and his son pushing a shopping cart
Laden with food and blankets, and not much more.

Nuclear winter with cannibals seems to be the setting,
No green visible of any kind, and even snow is gray,
(Or, for McCarthy, grey). The road is long, littered, broken,
As is the man, as is the boy. No evident salvation, ever,
The man thinks, "There is no God. We are his prophets."

Still, beside the sea, gray, wild, cold, with the man coughing
His last ****** breaths in the dirt, tells his son he must
Move on, a dying man in a filthy blanket clinging to hope
For his son, crying under a dead winter sky, kneeling by him, poisoned soil beneath them, and down to a few cans of beans.

The old man next door loves birds,
Spends hours by his window every day
Watching his feeders without words,
Smiling as the winged ones come his way.

He lugs home sacks of feed and cob dry corn
Though his wife frets his spending.
He finds that kindness leaves him less forlorn,
Brings his old heart and mind some mending.

So out he goes to scrape rain-soaked seeds,
Clears the troughs, replaces suet in the cages,
Before retreating to his favorite chair to read,
Looking up to smile while turning pages.

Farm folk - Ranch folk,
Cattle and horses and wheat,
A world of sky and wind,
A land of temporary green,
Permanent brown,
Twenty-five miles from town.
A world of work,
Dirt in the air and in the lungs
Heat waves shimmering
A land of blowing cold,
Or heated mirage,
Day after day after day,
Until books and learning
Called me away.

Dead ones walking from cradles to graves,
Flesh somehow still living, feeding as it craves
Maleficent obsessions stirring passions rave
Madness in our ravings, sorrowing, we slave
We are the Living Dead; empty souls are we.
Unaware of living death, no living Salve seek we.

Until the furious Light of Grace pierces these cadaverous husks,
Awakens souls long slumbering in the death of dusk.
The Savior calls us from our sleep, "Arise and come to me!"
And those who hear His urgent call awake and are set free
The living dead, cannot awake through anything we've done.
The Living souls are living now through life in Heaven's Son.

As we wait beneath the mountains
For the passes to clear.

The river fills in torrents
As the horses and the men grow thin.

Feats of winter thriving
Fade in the springtime starving.

Birds fly high above,
Finding open water beyond us.

We wait in wonderment.
The dogs sense danger as we eye them.

Retreading the amphitheater steps
To my accustomed contemplative space
To see myself again in the eyes of the Fates,
Who spin and measure and snip.

Instead of Oedipus and Iocasta,
Arthur Miller is the Muse whose Loman
Must my aging sense abuse and disabuse
If I but can.

Erikson sits here beside me, taking me along
The 8 staged declension or ascension of aging
And looks me square and says, "Integrity or Despair?"
While I am sitting here.

My students, nearing 20 years of age
See Hoffman's Loman strut and rage his memories,
Bemused they turn away as if to say this dreaming
Is for older men.

I am an older man, and I cannot deny the meaning
Of old Miller's play packs much more punch
Today than just a decade back, but I am driven
Once again to this assay.

I know the old hymn, "O When I Come to the End
Of My Journey," and I long to die in peace,
Hands folded in an easy rest, content in every thought,
At seeing God's own Hand.
In His integrity, I'll stand.

Approaching customs, my father slowed the car.
"Time to eat! he said, and pulled us to the side.
He'd bought peaches from a fruit stand,
Forgotten they'd never cross the border.

Never one to waste, his plan unfolded.
We stood beside the car, peach juice
Trickling down our arms,
Falling at our elbows,
Gorging a delicacy turned to glut,
Making memories of forced generosity,
Gluttons of fruit, victims of parsimony.

My mother knew what was coming:
The cramps we kids would have
From smuggling peaches
In stretched bellies
Into Canada.

Whitman looked down at nature,
Saw the grains of sand, the single blade of grass,
Reflected on the journeywork of stars,
Taking it all in, he let it all out his barbaric yawp
Across the rooftops of the world.

You are not forgotten, Walt.

Dad gave us pliers and their holsters --
Said, "Wear them when you come outside."

At nine and ten, we carried them,
Entering the world of working men.

I wore out pliers and holsters,
Bought new ones and wore out them.

Now several sets reside in treasured spaces,
In boxes and vehicles and other places.

These days seldom used, my pliers remind me
Of my growing up, of everything behind me.

We pray to align our minds to the mind of God
We read the Word to renew our minds;
The Word changes us,
Never the reverse.

Change the Infinite?
We cannot.

Manipulate the Almighty?
Impossible.

Make the straight our crooked path?
Inconceivable.

Creation cannot become Creator;
Though it bear His Image,
It is merely mirror,
Never Light.

Servants are we,
Never Master.

This the Way.

Memories linger and arise…
Misty ghosts before our eyes.

Autumnal Wanderings

Summer's heat leaves us wilted,
Potted tomatoes drying on the deck.
Water helps, and evening's shade
Reminds us of the coming dread.

Ash trees drop late summer's shed;
Yellow leaves litter grass now lost;
Dog days oppress us as we yawn,
Ennui of heat turns our desire to frost.

We are not content at summers' turning fall;
We miss the verdant greens of spring;
We dread the snow, the wintry cold;
No longer young, we fight our growing old.

The semester has begun,
Textbooks, scuffless, new,
Slung lightly in my students' packs
As they begin their freshman track.

Thirty-seven new beginnings on,
I am an old horse about to plow,
Semester settling on my shoulders,
Horse collar creaking to the strain
As earth yields and rolls to the side.
Fall plowing the back 40 has begun.

Mom,

The lilacs are blooming now.
I remember how you loved them,
How the Avon lady sold you lilac spray
To make your lavender bedroom come alive,
The sweet scent of May in January.

I breathe these lilacs in, and you appear, Verna May.
Springtime is alive again with you.

2023

"Papa, we want to fish!"

We gather the digging tools,
The plastic pail,
The poles and the wagon.
My old fishing pack rides in the back.

First stop, garden, to unearth
Peaceful worms
For a hook and a bath.
Our fingers are black with soil.

The walk to the pond is hot.
The bank and the shade help.
Bullheads are our only customers,
Making worms' sacrifice a shame.

The girls soon tire and run to play,
While the boy and I try on.
"Here," I say, "I'll teach you to cast."
He looks at me, shading his eyes with his hand.

His little thumb barely reaches the release,
But his determination and natural skill
Produce perfect casts within minutes.
The line arcs high and falls, arcs high and falls.

I am no longer necessary for casting,
And soon he'll figure how to run the hook
Inside the worms' wriggling to hide the barbs.
Today is a most important day for both of us.

Some day, when I am gone away,
I hope he'll repeat this ancient ritual,
Digging in dirt, uncovering worms,
Teaching his grandchildren to fish.

I imagine a breath of celestial air;
I say I'll face the ground,
Afraid to see the Almighty.
But how?

If Jehovah is above and below,
Within and without,
Beside, behind, and before,
Everywhere at once...and more,
I'll have nothing in store:
No attitude, no posture,
No stumbling alibis...
No critical questions arise,
No time left to philosophize...

He sees me throughout;
He sees through my eyes;
He's in my thoughts;
He knows my truths...and lies.

I will attempt quietness
Though my mind rushes on;
He is here in tumult & solitude
Present in the garden and in the multitude.

Love demands Truth.
Love that bends and lies to pacify feelings
When Truth stands, resolute, cannot be
True Love.

It may be frightened, maudlin, corrupted,
Or many other things, but it cannot be
True Love.

Some, hoping to change the shape of Love,
Would pummel the footings of Truth,
But they haven't shovels enough,
Nor dynamite powerful enough,
Nor lies lasting long enough to dislodge
True Love.

True Love stands resolutely with Truth.
This relationship has always existed, always will,
While the Resistance has a beginning,
It must eventually meet its end.

      (DB, meanderings, July 10, 2023)

Write What You Know

I am standing in front of another writing class From my mouth, the mouth of all English teachers, comes, “Write what you know,” and the carefully tied fly whips itself out onto the surface of the classroom and lies there, waiting for a nibble or a strike. My students, fresh from fields and country roads and long hours alone on the prairies, stare back like ancient trout, converged at this bend in the river. No one moves a pencil; no one rises to even tap the bait. Silence is broken by the sound of the General Electric clock over my head marking the flow of time and water and life.

Whoever put a 15 inch clock on the wall above and behind the teacher knew something about sadism. Students mark their breathing in second hand sweeps, while I wait for that first hand to rise like a fish, foolishly deciding to catch one last fly for the evening…my bait, tied carefully to invisible nylon leader guaranteed to withstand the assault of five pound monster brown trout. Patiently I stand by the edge of the stream, my feet just barely touching the water line.

“Mr. Bouchard? What if I don’t have anything to write about?” a querulous voice trembles. Shimmers of water-light ripple through the pond-room. I see the other trout-children move ever so slightly, turning in the water thick air toward the question-tap.

“Patience,” I think…and clear my throat. “Good question,” I say. “What do you know that you would want to write about? What stories do you have to tell that others would like to hear?” I let the current move the fly a little deeper over the waiting trout.

And there I miss the first strike of the day.

“Nothing. I got nothing,” grumbles Charlie. “I don’t go nowhere. I don’t do nuthin’ but work and stay at home.”

“Yah. Pretty much says it all right there,” chimes in his best friend Tad. The other fish start to turn away from the prompt/bait. I can see they are thinking of going into deeper water.

Quickly changing tactics, I turn and grab a broken piece of chalk…not much, but enough. I scratch out two words: ‘episodic memory.’ Turning to the class, I say quickly, “What do you remember about 9/11? Take a minute and think about 9/11. Where were you? What were you doing? Who was with you? What time of day was it? What did you feel?”

The class is interested in the bait change up. I can see their trout bodies, speckled with brown dots, turning toward my new presentation. Gills are fanning in and out a little quicker than before.

A hand shoots up. Mary says, “I was on my way to school, and the bus driver yelled at us all to be quiet because something was going on with World Trade Center.” A couple of her friends nod their heads, eyes looking up and back, into the past. Images were coming into focus.

Jose blurts out, “My mom was on the way to New York that morning. She was waiting at the airport. We were all worried about her.”

Now we’re getting somewhere, I tell myself. “So, Jose, can you remember exactly what you were doing when you first found out about the planes hitting the building? Where were you? What were you doing?”

“I had just eaten…Cheerios…yeah, it was Cheerios!” he says. “I was making sure my books were in my backpack, and the news came on over the Morning Show. I remember I stopped and just stood there like I was frozen. It was a couple of hours before we knew she was okay, but her plane was grounded so she couldn’t go to New York.”

The rest of the class murmurs. The beautiful fish begin to move as one toward the bait.

I nudge. “What did you see? What did you hear? What did you feel? What did you smell? Who was there with you? Take a minute and write that down.”

Pencils scratch on cheap paper. The sound of the clock hum recedes. Time slows as currents of thought push the humming motor down. The stream slows and the water surface becomes glassy.

Two minutes pass. No one says anything.

I break the silence. “This is episodic memory. When huge events take place in our lives…events that mean something very important to us, or that are swift and exciting, sometimes too wonderful or too terrible to understand or to survive…at that instant…those events are stored in our minds almost like living, high definition videos. We can remember these episodes with all five senses. We remember what we were doing, what we were eating, who was with us, where we were, sights, sounds, smells, feelings…they’re all there in our episodic memories.”

I have their attention. The hook is set. Some pencils even scratch “episodic memory” on paper. I push on.

“We all have collective episodic memory. 9/11 is a good example. You all have some collective memory of that day when terrorists flew two airplanes into the twin towers in New York City.”

I take a breath. “Now comes the reason for my teaching you about episodic memory. We all have personal events stored in episodic memory as well. Each of us has his or her personal memories, forever burned into the hard drives of our minds. When we pull up these memories, they are there in true color, full sound, and clear vision. We can see, taste, touch, hear and smell those memories clearly. That’s what I mean when I say, ‘write what you know.’

It’s illegal to fly fish with multiple baits on one line in Montana, not that I am coordinated enough to keep 15 grey wolf flies separate and in the air on the end of 30 feet of fly line anyway. In my mind, I imagine those flies stinging the water and 15 fish leaping to snag them. The class is moving mentally toward episodic events.

The fly fisherman lives for that leaping catch, when the world explodes with the splashing surge of trout beauty and fierce battle. The teacher lives and breathes the exhalations of “AHA!” as students capture concepts and come to life.

Fifteen memories, brilliant as shattering crystal catching sunlight, explode in fifteen minds…and then the trouble comes. I have been here before and move quickly to head off a possible flight to deep waters.

“Class! I need you to hold your thoughts for just a minute.”

“Some of us in this room just experienced memories of wonderful events: winning shots at ball games, good news of brothers or sisters coming home from war, first kisses … and some of us are experiencing terrible events, reliving them over right here in this room. I know that happens. It happens to me. The problem is…not all episodic memories should be shared with everyone.”

The class is silent. A couple of eyes are red and I can see where tears are beginning to form. Someone is recalling a fumbled tackle and the agony of sounding jeers. Another is re-living the scratchy beard and sour breath of a father as he crosses all lines of decency and honor with a child. I can almost hear skidding tires and feel exploding airbags as three minds simultaneously re-experience crashes…. The silent sounds of slaps and screams, of joyous and sarcastic laughter, of tearful farewells and exuberant reunions fill the air, bubbles releasing in the moving water of the classroom.

And then, the bell rings. “Take your ideas with you and write about what you know! I’ll see you Wednesday,” I yell.

Fifty minutes. The fishing is good. I reel in the fly, check the hook, and wait for next fish to come downstream.

Fewer masks these days -
August, and the sky is clear.
Western rivers still run cold.
Rain falls at last upon dry lands.
In spite of hoppers, grass and wheat
Replenish the living.
Sleek cattle slow their grazing.

So, why this weariness?
Why the onsetting brood?
From whence the cloud, ennui?
This cynic stirs in search of hope.

I have become a ten-toed dabbler
Meanderer intentional sampling delights
Finder of mundane pleasures
Thankful for sound and sight, taste and touch,
Overcome by the newness of scents

I intend to be the finder of earthly heaven,
A barefoot walker of beaches
Collector of shells, sunsets, sensations
The crust of salt and sand and shells
Between my happy toes.

Relief settles slowly upon me
Covid come and gone, come and gone
Taste and smell returned
Lungs strong and pulling, pushing air,
Awareness of the preciousness of living.

I stop for the pleasure of roses, of rain, of radishes.
Thank Heaven for a taste of juniper, mint, basil,
Cantaloupe, berries of all kinds....
Covid gone, I am here to stay, if only for today.

I'm out, about, and on my way.

We wondered first when Mary's boy
Asked elders many questions,
Ran to the temple, full of joy,
And pointed us to Heaven.
Rumors spread at wedding time.
Guests there said the water turned to wine.
A blind man suddenly regained his sight.
We longed to know. Could this be right?

Loaves and fish, five and two,
Enough to feed a little boy
Filled thousands as they grew.
What power did the Lord employ?

Demons fled unwilling hosts.
Broken lives were healed.
Humans raised, no longer ghosts,
Miracles the Son revealed.
Hearing brought He to the deaf.
The lame could walk again,
Loved ones rose from stinking death.
God showed His power to men.

Disciples claimed He walked
Upon the waters deep,
Calmed the storms with talk,
A brief rebuff and back to sleep.
And still, men's hearts were cold.
A traitor rose among His ranks.
For 30 silver pieces, Jesus sold,
The devil's price, so little thanks....

Ten thousand angels at His call,
He didn't say a word,
Chose the path to save us all,
And "It is done!" was heard.
When we looked on, we looked away,
But then we thunder heard.
Bold lightning lit our darkening way,
Quaking tremors shook the earth,
And when the temple curtain tore,
The mountains shook and heavens roared,
And we all stopped. "He is the Lord!"

We sinners saw the Barrier riven,
The way to Heaven clearly made,
Through His death the path was given.
Our sins upon his death were laid.

Now sing we of His resurrection,
Though in the grave He lay
The third day raised Himself for Heaven.
King Jesus is the Only Way.

Father in Heaven, Giver of breath,
I am tainted by my prideful lust,
Wearied as I run toward death.
Kneeling knowing "dust to dust."
Were I to beg you slay the wicked,
My death I'd call for you to give.
Lord, hear the cry of one so wretched,
Tortured now, who begs to live.
Despite my wretchedness, I know
Surrender as I see your Image pressed.
Make whole this desperate soul,
Lift me to live in holy rest.

Amen

Scripture seems to be clear about the permanence
Of hell's torment, yet we finite human beings insist upon
Superimposing our imaginative emendations
Upon Scriptural descriptions.

Why do we do this?
Perhaps our love for those we suspect
Have gone to eternal damnation,
Or the fear that we ourselves may not
Make it to eternal bliss
Motivates us to create
Heavens and Hells,
Multiverses.

I believe that I am finite,
That I am created,
That my planning and conniving are incapable
Of changing the Eternal plans.
I have no power to create alternate realities;
No temporal holds upon supernal.

Burns Creek
Climbing Chimney Rock.
Dad and David Scoville
In their mid 30s,
Two men out to prove
Their bravery,
Their derring-do.

Nervous,
My Mother,
My brother and I,
Five and six,
Necks craning,
Wait and watch;
Dad moves up and up
Clings to the top.

Inept and six,
I stand below,
Admiring my Father's
Fearlessness.

I am nearly blind,
The myopic, thick-lensed gawker,
Peering upward.

The men climb down,
Victorious,
The day’s challenges
Vanquished.

Heading home,
Choking dust.
Old land,
Deep ravines,
Rattle snake domain.

My father's old Ford
Bumps over red scoria,
Billows burning dust.

Ancient land,
Cindered clay,
Open grazing land,
Dry and hot.

Memories churn
From sixty years ago.

Eastern Montana Badlands
1930s....

Coal where one found it,
Scoria hills,
Layered lignite
Waiting near the surface.

Burning lignite beds,
Smoldering centuries old,
Scarring and turning clay to scoria,
Crumbling rock,
Testimony to lightning fires
Beneath the hills.

Crude mines backed into cliffs,
Pick and shoveled coal
Free for the risky taking
Heated homes.

Coal caves,
Low and gaping,
Horizontal shafts.
Wagons first, then
Trucks backed in.

Crowbars and picks
Brought lignite ceilings
Crashing in rotten shatters
Mounding, sometimes burying
Trucks below.

My father told me
How he helped
Chris Ginther,
Deaf coal miner,
Hammer holes,
Insert charges,
Long fuses, trailing.

Old Chris packing holes,
Tamping,
Tamping,
Tamping...
Lighting fuses,
Tamping,
Tamping,
Tamping.

My father said he'd yell
"We need to go!"

Old Chris
Seemed never to hear,
Tamping,
Tamping,
Tamping,
Until finally...
Sauntering out
Before the rumbling Thump.

I can see the two,
Chris and my father,
Just a boy,
Lost in lignite clouds,
Coughing.

Nature rang.
She wants to know
What are your plans
For volcanoes.

The imminence of death
Heightens awareness of eternity.
We realize our need to live in the reality
That as eternal beings we must prepare to die wisely
As well as to live.

During the Christmas season,
We return to the Truth:
Jesus is our hope,
Our source of joy,
Our source of peace
Even in the face of loss,
Even in our sorrow.

Jesus is our “Shelter in the Time of Storm.”

On a desert plain, wind blown, mirages boiling,
Dusted, parched beneath an angry sun,
Silent heat unending, withering, bending...
So many loves behind me now have fallen.

Walking first, I tried to run;
Standing now, my trudging's done,
At battle's end; the desert's won,
On the plain of despair, I am undone.

I wait for the chilling night to fall
I wait for the chill of night to fall
Night to fall....

Far off, the mountains stand,
Slopes of trees lined in black,
Beneath celestial snowy caps.

There's water flowing there, I know,
Beneath those icy tips of snow.

Were I to lie here on this ground
I might not wake,
And though rest's a tempting sound
I will not take my end in lying down.

The ones who left me far behind
Have flown to rest ahead,
And if I linger here to pine,
My heart knows this is not my bed.

These winds, this heat, the churning air,
Are only for this place; solace awaits up there
On the mountains' rising *****,
I inhale the wind and muster my last hope.

Autumn's light leaves me
Wanting,
Seeming
Wrong.

Summer's light raided me,
Burning,
Yearning
Strong.

Spring's light lilted me,
Promising,
Blossoming
Songs.

Winter's cold glow chilled me,
Accosting,
Frosting
Long.

But, dismal Autumnal light,
Warns me,
Scorns me...
Go!

Carl didn't finish school,
Preferring to work on my father's farm
Breathing prairie dust and smoke,
Seeing suns rise and fall,
Living in the weather,
Freezing or sweating to the season,
Reading the wind,
Cursing the heat and migraines.

Smoking Salem cigarettes
Alone in his bunkhouse,
He never mentioned his regrets;
Three meals a day with us,
A car or truck demanding payments
Kept him coming back to work

The draft cards came;
Vietnam called;
Neighbors left,
But Carl stayed.

One day I barraged him,
"Why didn't you finish school?"
"Why weren't you drafted?"
"Are you going to marry?"

"I can't," his reply.

I asked why.

"Because I tested border-line *****."

Just 10, I had no idea what "*****" meant,
Had never heard Stanford-Binet,
Didn't realize the power of labels.

Now I do.

When authorities mis-measure
The capacities of a man,
When labels shackle,
We fail to see or know
Imago Dei before us.

We didn't stop to think
What gifts he had,
Nor did we see the perfection
Of his creations on his bunkhouse table:
Perfect miniatures of our farm machinery:
Tractors, cultivators, harvesters,
Cut from plastic and metal stock,
Measured intricately to scale,
Fitted with loving care,
Glued and painted,
Complete and ready
For some small-minded man
To drive into a miniature field.

A skater lone soars on new ice.
I hold my breath as I observe
His every pirouette and swerve.

Yesterday, the water lapped a chilling shore;
Today a brilliant skin holds sway.
Thickening hourly though it may,

I wonder at the nature of the glider there;
Does he consider life and death,
Or think beyond exultant breath

To be the first upon new winter's ice?
He sails along an ice-blade track,
Never falt'ring, never looking back.

Oh, I was young upon a time and flew
The way this skater now does fly,
But fear and "wisdom" hinder twice
While others soar above thin ice.

This night hosts dinosaurs and demons
Growling, tapping, slithering to my door
To utter threats or blessings, dependent
Upon my ability or desire to laden bags
With candies meant to cheer and send the chill
Of coming death away, even in the face of disaster.

This night stands at the death of summer,
Poised to catch the fall of leaves,
The deadened pulse of green things
Grown disconsolate in the hands of Frost.

When you run across a "which,"
Put a comma in the ditch.

Stolid now, and still,
Clapped for sons and daughter
Successful in their various ways:
Races finished,
Speeches delivered,
Bicycles ridden,
Announcements given.

Moved, these hands,
To build and mend,
To knead and sow,
Without a seeming end.

Held me as a baby,
Held my babies, too,
But now I hold them,
Cold and still.

Slack now, these hands...
A life of work is done.

Exodus 32:11-14
But Moses sought the favor of the LORD his God. “LORD,” he said, “why should your anger burn against your people, whom you brought out of Egypt with great power and a mighty hand? Why should the Egyptians say, ‘It was with evil intent that he brought them out, to **** them in the mountains and to wipe them off the face of the earth’? Turn from your fierce anger; relent and do not bring disaster on your people. Remember your servants Abraham, Isaac and Israel, to whom you swore by your own self: ‘I will make your descendants as numerous as the stars in the sky and I will give your descendants all this land I promised them, and it will be their inheritance forever.’ ”
Then the LORD relented and did not bring on his people the disaster he had threatened.

Thinking about the finite speaking to the Infinite,
The imperfect to the Perfect,
The chosen to the Chooser,
The creation to the Creator,
The human dialog with the Almighty.

Did a man change the course of Doom,
Move Heaven on behalf of earth through "prayer"?

I the lonely meadowlark
Perched upon the thistle
Waiting the sickled mower to pass

I the cracked egg
Fetal heart slowing, slowing
Death before the hatchling birth

I the hare crouchant
Scarce aware the shadow’s dive
Screeching beneath the talons

I the wind-torn tree
Branches scattered, bleeding sap
Beetles explore the shredded bark

I the fawn uncertain
Edging the splattered highway
Mother shattered in the lane

The Master slept; disciples saw the coming storm,
Threw a blanket on their Lord to keep him warm.
Clouds congealed, grays grew dark;
Lightning moved in flashing arcs.

More than a squall, the winds carved trenches
In writhing waters grown black beneath,
Tipped with frothing benches.

Grown weary of the crowds, body spent with care for others,
Still He slept the rest of an exhausted man,
Unaware the growing fear of brothers.

"Wake up! Do you not care if we all drown?"
Was it Peter who shook Him there,
Amazed he slept so sound?

He sat up from sleep, looked at the water,
Felt the wind, turned to the water,
Scolded, "Peace! Be still!"

The winds dropped; so did the waves;
The boat bobbed gently in the calm.
The men, awed, stood on the silent boards,
Marveling at the Lord.

We live upon on a tossing sea,
Torn by hate and fear in a storm of strife,
And no one has an answer we can see.
We're sailors fearing the end of life.
When is the time to turn to God,
Whom we forget still cares,
Waits "sleeping in the boat"
Until we're desperate in our prayers?

Blackbirds have found the feeder;
Lookouts scan from upper branches
While takers pillage cracked corn.

I approach to a flurry of black flight;
Guilt needlessly hangs
With the red feeder.

Meals offered to all comers...
Excepting squirrels
For which a weighted door
Flips down to cover the pans.

Four-footed chatterers declare war,
Express intention to circumvent
Discrimination.

Women, like the moon, reflect the light/love
Shone upon them, and when the light grows dim,
They take to dark pursuits
Hoping to find happiness and love.
Essential elements missing: love and acceptance.
Consequences: pain and death.

Advice from one husband of forty years to a soon-to-be husband:
Tell your wife on day one how beautiful she is, and
Keep telling her until the day you die.
She needs to know that you find her to be your all in all,
That you will love her beauty now,
When she brings children into the world,
And in the life after children,
When she has made sacrifices that will change her body
In ways that may cause her despair.

Tell her when she's 30 and 40 and 50 and 60 and 70 and 80
That she is beautiful, and something amazing happens.
You will see her with the eyes that saw her on the first day;
Your love, and her love will grow young again,
Even as the two grow old.

"Till death do us part" is a vow of strength,
Of promise, of comfort as years grow on.
The satisfaction and privilege of loving one person all through life
Cannot be compared with any other love or joy humans can know.

Take this advice or leave it.
It cost nothing, though it is worth everything.