You both sit
entranced
by gadgets,
a paternal gift
and flaw,
Making new sounds,
playing old games
on laptop computers,
winning and losing
on Christmas morning.


No more dolls
that cry
"Mama,"
no more worrying about
primary colors
or classical music
or Goodnight Moon--
gadgets and games and Nerf guns
rule the day.


Wishing it was
a younger time
Only brings sorrow;
enjoy the day, the year
my heart tells me,
for these will be gone,
too,
soon.

She's on the bench now,
Our gift to rec soccer...

"Two touches and a pass, Hannah."

I remember when rolling on the floor,
Tickle-induced laughter peeling
Was our Sunday joy.

"Keep your head up--Look! Hannah!"

Even in her shady sideline spot
She has more grace than the others.

"Hannah, you have to work on speed!"

Now a long-legged beauty
Running in the sun.

"Shoot. Shoot! Hannah! Shoot the ball!"

Unaware of her dad
Encouraging...
Guiding...
Screaming!

"Goal!"

As if these days were all for me.

The small, ragged man
Stood alone
Astride the shoulder
Of the onramp.
His bag of possessions seemed
Small and battered;
He looked into each passing car
With hopeless eyes,
Knowing that each driver
Has had any kindness to strangers
Trained out of them.
His sign read "travelling. Hungry. Homeless."
I wonder what signs he saw,
Hung around our necks or
Sticking to the side of the cars
He didn't have.
"too tired to help. In a hurry. You scare me-leave me alone."

He sat slouched
Against the wall of the McDonald's
Vacantly staring
At the screen of his smartphone

His bag lay next
To him
Keeping his world
Together

A spare pair of pants
Underwear a luxury
Broken shades on his face
Drooping like his
Body

Straining to watch YouTube
On the too small screen
The only connection
To the unreal world
He wished
He could
Go home to

Endowed with amazing powers
to understand the fate
of the average man--counting the hours
between too early and too late,
hoping to see the median
touch the mean.


Keeping expectations just so,
Not very high, not very low
so that everyone can be
a success,
with a middling of effort and
a shade of finesse
we can all wear the cape.


Bouncing from grade to grade
in exact planned order,
mostly white, though looking
South to the border
not for long, we raise
our 1.8 children and live
our 72.6 years (unless you graze
the upper end, you lucky dears)
and hope for just enough trouble
that life might bubble a bit,
but not boil.


We dream ourselves miraculous,
spectacular, well-read,
looking to marry better than
well, sometimes getting lucky,
Captains Whitebread, we all sail from
moderation to moderation
hoping to see better than average
without really trying
especially hard.


We move from Monday to Sunday,
some rising, some settling
to the comfortable middle,
fighting against
the attractive extremes
that spell our doom,
knowing that a little more,
a little less, is the key
to our success,
our mean,
our bliss.

Frozen, with a nearly toothless grin,
curly hair,
sweet baby fat cheeks
mid-roll on the floor,
trying to get away from
a much younger me
blowing raspberries
on your belly.

"The next thing you know,"
they used to say,
"She'll be in school,
getting straight A's and
making friends."

"The next thing you know,"
your mom spoke to me,
"She'll be going to dances
and playing games,
she'll be graduating soon..."

"The next thing you know"
your grandparents warned,
"she'll be leaving,
one extra room
you never
really wanted."

The vacancy we anticipate
brings an odd
sadness,
earlier than we expected.

The next thing we know some boy will
profess
his love for you,
and likely will never
quite meet my expectations.
But, then, I'll remember
the grace
your mother's parents
showed me,
and I'll relent,
and allow your love
to be God's grace
for him.

And the next thing I know,
I will be surrounded by small ones
who look
just like you,
and him,
and I'll roll on the carpet,
blowing raspberries
into their bellies.

For Hannah

She's sitting at the
kitchen table,
Full of strep and forced
to read a book
by a mom who believes
the mind can continue to flourish
while its carrying case
suffers.

Forcing fluids,
killing biotic enemies
She sits silently
while I listen to the
Happiest Music I know,
Linus and Lucy;
She frowns,
more from pain
than distaste.

Mom cooks lasagna
and brother scouts the fridge.
Nothing looks good
She thinks.
She says.
She feels.

After a certain age,
One's death
Is rarely called untimely-

"He lived a full life"
or
"I'll be lucky if I live as long as she did"
Are the refrains of mourners
For the aged.

Yet when death comes,
It rarely enters
With good timing.
As the dead travel,
The living stand still,
Embracing the pain
Of Absence.

Life reckons death
Untimely, unfair,
An ill-conceived end.
Demise knows no
Convenient hour.

Walking to the scenic falls
Men in black
With women in an odd shade of
Green
And one, beautiful in white.

Take the hike
Up the hill
To the future--
His future,
Her future,
Their future.

The look on his face
As I passed by
One of blind anticipation,
The occasion,
The people swirling
All about him, unknowing,
At the center.

She followed at a distance,
So not to be seen
By his ambitious eyes,
She in her white gown
And tennis shoes,
Climbing the grade
Before the descent
Into the peaks and valleys
Of love.

A model of pretense
and monopoly
          "And now, Oprah's favorite things!"

Where choice doesn't really exist-
We get the same
However we choose
          Right...left...whatever

Dogs barking, howling
at whoever lives in the white house,
Beck, Limbaugh, Olbermann, Maddow...
we see the mouths moving,
and all we hear is blame
and fear,
sarcasm and hopeless wit.
          "We'll be right back after the break..."
          with more from the EIB Network...
          or MSNBC...
          or Fox News

We've found that what we have
in common
is at the bottom,
not the top.
         "Jerry! Jerry! Jerry!"

Forgetting our history,
doomed to repeat it
          "All glory is fleeting, All glory is fleeting..."

A country where tilting
at windmills,
or millstones
means you're crazy...
Forget what's important

Grey templed men
Survivors
Of wars and battles and campaigns
Fought in places
Whose names are forgotten
Except by those
Who nearly died there.

Baseball caps
Embroidered with names
Of ships,
Of campaigns,
Of armies,
Remembered, truly remembered
Only by the men,
Once boys,
Wearing them.

We applaud
While they quietly,
Stoically
Shed tears
For forgotten friends,
Forgotten by all
Except those
Who lost them.

I haven't seen gold
or red plumage
for many autumns-
nature's course seems
to have forgotten Fall,
leaping from pale green-
hardly Forest at all-
to something brown,
or naked.

Yet here I am in November
seeing a feast of hues
this year;
a dash of crimson
alongside something,
resembling yellow,
still clinging with its last
ounce of sinuous strength
to the branch, the vine,
life.

I can be thankful
for this respite
between equinox and solstice,
between long and short,
hot and cold,
a pleasant moment of peace.

Grief is a town
full of dirt streets,
always muddy,
rutted deep
by those
passing
through.

We look for
the bypass,
the way around,
only to realize, too late,
boots already
******* more muck
with each step
that this village is one
that all roads,
eventually,
lead to.

And that mud clings,
washings and rain
only drive the dirt
deeper,
staying on us long
after we pass
through.

Only time can dry
this all-covering filth,
make it crack
and flake off,
leaving clear the trail
of sorrows we've
trod;
and us,
splattered and stained
with memory.

Simeon, looking forward
to dying in peace,
the face of God
your goal.


Earthly motion all around,
a full market,
a packed street full of
familiar eyes and smiles,
passing by, sounds of shouted "shalom's"
flowing like water past you.


The temple ahead, high on the hill
waits for you;
A man, old with God's promise
on his way to meet
the messiah.


And they are there,
the three drawn together,
held by the father's purpose,
all with a part
in our saving.


So, Simeon, you have waited earnestly,
leaning into the future,
knowing the God
who waited on you,
Not knowing what He looked like;
Eyes forward, prosdechomai,
May you now depart in peace
with the smile of God
reflected in your eyes.

My wife
Is a practical gift-giver;
Utility equals sentiment
Around the Christmas tree.

We have seen
"Fun" become
"Useful"
Over the years,
No less heartfelt,
Just longer lasting.

"You have so many colors"
She adds,
Extolling my flannel-bound
Manliness,
"This will match your beard,"
I hear as I see the package open
From Christmas tree green paper
To gray cloth.

Wistfulness replaces
Mounds of paper,
Toys have become
Socks and
Kitchen gadgets.
Time is the currency
Of love.

You possess a crystal heart,
One I have admired
Many times,
It sits just out of reach  
Inviting my gaze.

Like a boy at a store window
With iced frosting,
Blowing steamy breath
And rubbing it free of the grime
I have deposited on it,
I gaze at the prize,
A treasure to be had,
Like key fobs or
Combs;
You are the magi
Who carries the gift.

The window is dark
Except for the spotlit
Center,
The object of my desire
And hope,
The pearl of great price
I will give all to possess.

for C.M.

What well feeds
this spring
of emotion,
running with a flood
of tears?

How deep a love
do you have,
my friend,
untapped,
waiting to run forth,
to embrace a
new life?

Do I see a regret
in your tears,
a wish put aside,
a faith forgotten,
a desire subdued?

Even a capped well,
shut off and blocked,
seeps and leaks and flows with
tears of pain
and hope,
your eyes look, watch, hope, pray
unable to close the well
of your love.

for Anne, after seeing Andrew Wyeth's portrait of his wife...


I looked at her face, painted
by hands that loved her,
made her come alive
like the wedding day
photo,
two smiling faces
next to one another
looking into the future.


The lines of her face,
painted, and frozen on celluloid,
a perfect mirror
one for the other,
evidence that two eyes can see
as clearly
as one.


Placed side by side
there's no mistaking
face for face--
lines and colors and shadows
showing more than
two dimensions of love.


But you love a lover of words,
not a purveyor of shades and
pigments.
How will the world
know that it's you,
with kind eyes and scented hair
(with its recent frosting),
the mind of a chemist
and faithful soul,
heart of a mother
and teacher,
love and lover
of my life...
How would they know
it's you?

I have a friend
Who draws maps.
He makes ancient cities
New,
Replacing the boulevards of despots
With streets
And avenues
And alley ways
That free people
Travel.

There is a cartography
of the heart,
Unseen on his work,
Blue streets travelled
by remorseful lovers
Parting,
Red paths
Showing the secret trails
Used by enflamed hearts,
Searching each other
Out.

We can find our way
and be lost
at the same time-
A map only helps
If you already know
Where you
are going.

I daydream
Far more than the average
Soul,
Easily distracted
And lost
In a haze that invites
Visions of the future
While deadening the
Thump and Clang
Of the present.

I imagine
Springtime light
Through the windows,
Languid time entangled
With you,
Not a slave to time
Or work,
Or the impatient
Buzz-Buzz-Buzzing
Of my alarm.

I hope
I live long enough
To fulfill my promise
To you,
To share a life
Unburdened
By the cares
Of time,
Of work,
Or another man's
Demands.

Frustration is the bellows
that blows the coals
Hot.

Thankless work begs
to be done,
Needful and important,
Necessity its only charm.

So we labor
Doing our best,
Filling the gaps
and wondering
What we should do
Next.

For a moment
We see the fruit
Hanging on the tree;
We must walk
the Red Hot coals
to taste its
sweetness.

I've been walking this road
for some time now,
enjoying the curves
and bends
and hills, the valleys
not so much.

This road, this path
occasionally with shaded
shoulders, at times
Full Sun Hot, is anything
but straight.
Boredom never walks
with me here;
my eyes must always
be open,
waiting for the next
unexpected dip or
s v
w r e.
e

My love reminds me
that the only way
is forward-
backward can never happen-
it's best to forget the stumbles
as soon as they happen
lest we trip over them
again.

The reward is in the journey-
I can say I walked
with you on this road...
and that you enjoyed enough
of the trip
to love me.

Collected moments
Things changing so quickly
One, then the other
Certainty flees
What's next?


Cold rain
Hard, stinging
Softens
Starts as a shot
Ends a windblown pillow
Dancing in front of the window


When I walked in
I was dodging drops
Now flakes turn
The window white
Like 2AM UHF
We wait to change the channel
To see what's coming on
Next

Our love is
Wine from water
Providing sustenance
And celebration-
A miracle of God's hand.

The world takes from us.
Joy, breath, soul,
All are drained away.
We give as Christ taught us,
Trusting Him to refill us.

And He gave me you,
At once the most pleasing draught,
Bright and cool,
The stuff of life,
Again the beautiful dark elixir
That warms me to remembrance
Of what I choose to live for.

So I move between
Life and wonder,
Beauty and the path
That stretches before us,
Drinking in as much of you
As I can.

There you go
with the rest of the
Dream Carriers,
White on top of Black,
at least light on dark,
Singing the tunes
Written
To set apart
This day
From all of the others.

There's this strange connection
Between you and me;
I find you instantly,
One out of a couple hundred
By the shape of your head-
Mine, only smaller,
And I wonder
If you can do the same, see me,
One of a thousand
Clapping heads
In the darker hall...
No, I don't suppose so.

But then flashing bulbs
Stop
And parents collect the future
And I see you looking
For me
So hard that you look
Right through me,
Until I fill your gaze,
Close enough to
Touch,
Tomorrow reaching for today.

I endure
the hot days of summer
Just to keep the thought
of those island winter breezes
Blowing in on us
Alive in my heart.

To sit on a sand-littered porch,
To lie on a hammock
with my books
pen and ink
Swept back and forth
by ocean breeze
And your voice
Singing Hymns
At our slightly
Out of tune
Piano.

Across the hall
We stand, greeting and
Pushing souls
Overcome by hormones
Toward their destinies,
Hopefully to find
Fifty-five minutes
Of knowledge.

I was out of my league,
Clearly,
Not a very good teacher,
Farther from home
Than you.

But there you were,
Beautiful,
Just naive enough
That I could steal a furtive glance
At you,
Tall, too slender, wearing
Your favorite blue
Paisley dress
A little too often
For coincidence.

In my poverty
You were all I saw,
The lovely
Pearl of great price.
10,000 days, more
Have passed
And I still steal those glances,
Furtive and longing,
Hoping that I can
Will you
Into my arms.

Even today, I see you,
The object of my
Desires,
My heart's goal,
Wrapped in blue paisley.

They don't say much
Now,
The folks for whom
The bell tolls
Today.

Names and memories
From a thousand
Pasts,
Some shared
So that a collective smile
Crosses our faces.

All saints, I suppose,
Some more than others;
Though true saints,
To be sure,
For someone.

The pastor calls out names,
Many he never knew,
The shared faith
Enough of an assurance,
Blessed and certain,
That God's city
Will have enough room
For all of them
And us.

I am on my way to see
A quintessential American,
To walk where he did,
And where he lies.

As is our native wont,
He ended himself,
The final act of violence
In a peripatetic life
Full of action and
Faithlessness and
Self-doubt,
A quintessential American.

Even so,
He shared his gift
With us, with
The world.
Shared a vision
Sometimes violent
And stark, but true.
True, at least,
For a
Quintessential American.

For R. W.

Winter has come;
Snow has fallen
Making the downhill
Treacherous

We drink coffee
And smile,
Remembering warmer days
Past
That gave life purpose
And Meaning,
Hope and grace
That visited
And taught us
To give in kind.

The melancholy
Of this shortest day
Moves across your face,
Starting with the
Pale blue
Of your once-summer
Eyes.

You stare ahead,
Through me,
Into a future
That ends here
But proceeds there,
A Kingdom
Where you are a knight
Of hope and grace
And where winter
Never comes.

For Anne

We sit at the round table,
Locked in something
Less than mortal combat.

Cards, dice, pieces,
Not always my favorite
Pastime,
"A friendly game"
Not quite enough
To tease my
Mr. Hyde
From his slumber.

The stakes are low,
Bragging rights and
Family sarcasm.
You love the game
Yet feign to hate
The bite of loss.

We long for time,
Time with our children,
Our friends,
Time to hear laughter
And to sharpen our
Wooden swords
Against loneliness.

Trying to learn
Something from the
Past
Is a funny way to spend the
Future.

We look back
At the beauty,
Seeking the safety
Of our imaginations,
Knowing memories of
Other Lives
Can shield us
From the pain
Of our own
Biography.

You long to sit
In classrooms,
Captaining other minds
Through the fogs
And mists
That shroud memory.

The light you bring
Can illuminate
Or blind.
Sometimes, a dimmer light
Is better
To see through
The fog.

Glance backward,
Don't stare.
The future,
Glorious and clear
Awaits.

Someday when I'm aged
And my eyes are less bright,
My ears will hear
Only the voices of my past;
Memory will be
A series of doors opening
And closing
Randomly.

And I will seek out a guide,
The one who traveled with me
The longest,
My truest friend,
The one who,
Even when I was lost,
Was lost with me.

I know that one
Will be you;
Able to trace the map
Of our journey,
The all-important North
On the compass of my life.
When everyone is a stranger,
You will be
All that I remember.