In the hour of my greatest need,
When my rage has been spent,
And my selfishness,
Profanity,
Lovelessness,
Anger,
Lying,
Cheating,
Law­lessness,
Single mindedness,
And my quest, in all the wrong ways, for love,
Stands alone.
When the darkness is my greatest achievement,
Still,
I AM FORGIVEN.
I AM LOVED.

This is senseless to me.
It belies comprehension.
It demands exploration.
And after all,
Remains senseless and incomprehensible
Except for the words I hear
As I lay wounded and trodden upon
By my own sin,
"Welcome home. Be at rest."

Such greatness
With such grace
Bestowing
Worthiness on the Unworthy.

Gifting the
Ungifted.

Loving the
Unlovable.

Welcoming the
Unwelcome.

Turning the cheek
I have slapped too many times,
And responding
With a kiss.

I cry.
I wail for His forgiveness
And at the vision of myself
Strutting,
Cocky,
Totally inept
And inconceivably wrong.

And yet,
Grace.

The outstretched hand
That simply asks
For pennies thrown its way.
The voice of scorn,
"I've nothing,
I've got none for you today."

The dirt,
The smell,
The shuffling feet,
The lack of freedom
On the street,
Among the silent bustling
Of the office worker beat.

Who are the real beggars here?
We really need to ask!
Are Bay and Wall Street's sources
Spread to face the real task?
To feed the hungry,
Clothe the poor,
To fill the outstretched hand with more
Than just a passing glance?

About 2000 years ago
Christ did much more for me.
His outstretched hands
Were nailed in place
So beggars we would never be.

We pray for baubles
Every day.
The proof is there
we say.
The baubles come.
The baubles go,
God steps in
And out,
And so
the proof is here.
Then gone.

I dreamed of all the baubles.

My Pastor told me "God will help.
You just need faith."
I tried on faith
In many sizes
But they always shrunk in the wash
until, after many heartaches
from
leaning on baubles lusted
and gone,
He spoke.
I died for you!
Is that not enough?

I stood in the garden
In the still of the wet morning
And watched the leaves twitch
From the pounding of tiny droplets.
As if some small creature was racing for its life
From me.
The intruder.
A chickadee found its landing pad
Just in front of me
At my feet,
Unaware of my hulk.
A miracle unto its own.
Crows cawed,
And eagles screed,
Not breaking the silence
But contributing to it.
Rhododendrons,
Astilbes,
And wisps of grass
Missed in yesterday’s weeding venture
Waved in response.
And the only thought I could dare
To bring to my mouth,
Lest my puny effort to describe
This cacophony of beauty
Destroy it utterly,
Was “Amazing Grace.”

It's been about a year
Of my 63.
Somehow I awoke
To the hell around me.
My naivety dashed
Against the rocks of
Parentless terrorism.
Gazing at the latest tragedy
Or slap against humanity,
I long for beauty past
At 64.
Knowing that it will not come
Except within my own self
Where I have a modicum of control.

I see fields and flowers
And taste the honey
Before waking up.

Leaves.
Inside out.
Living things
Buffeted by the unseen.
Wrecked into action
As if awoken violently from a still sleep.
The howling
And merciless,
Unending,
Exhalation from Heaven!
Not a creature is stirring
But for birds
Adjusting their navigation gear
After too many near misses.
"There's snow in the forecast"
And we will be stronger to face it
Because of today.

Yearning for significance!
The day to day struggle
of the carnal man.

Praising for completeness!
The eternal embrace
of the transformed soul.

NOTE:We are all so consumed with becoming well off or rich, or with accumulating enough power in combination with the riches. And when we make it, we will call it comfort. Not so for the three wise men.*

Wise?
Beyond words.
Rich?
Beyond imagination.
Humble?
They must have been,
To follow the star
That took them to Bethlehem.

Awestruck!
In the presence of the Baby,
Their gifts seeming small,
These couriers of us all.
“Praise God!
“Praise God!
“We have seen Him.”

It's not every day I see the wonder.
But from time to time it's impossible to ignore.
Some are wondered by the sun and stars,
While others plumb the great mystery of new birth
Or life continuous.

I look for interference's in life
Both great and small.
For it is at those times that my smallness is unique,
And my largeness is revealed for all of its arrogance.
And as the thunder roars
And the grasses sigh,
I see Him.

NOTE: A comment on modern day Christmas.*

The shepherds have left
And the wise men are on their way back home.

Jesus bounces from thing to thing,
And Mary and Joseph smile delight.

This family of three are naught
But for the Christmas visits
Of poor, rich, and angelic choir.

The world moves on
And even now chocolate bunnies hit the shelves.

Jesus sleeps,
Unknown and unwanted.

Oh sweet boy.
Dashed without meaning
Against the rocks of time.
I heard of your struggle
And I wept.
I reached out
But couldn't find how to touch.
I was here but you could not know it.
You were there and in comfort,
Or so I thought.
It was not love you felt,
And it was not the limitless sky that guided you away,
But the wanderings of foolishness
And youth
That singled you out for ill.
And were we able,
We would come to you,
And you would know true love of 3.
You have been strong
In spite of our weakness,
And now I long
To see your sweetness
Once again.
Oh sweet boy.

Something
At the edge of thought.
More delicate than a dandelion seed
And more powerful than
The wind that blows it.

Somehow
I manage to run
While wanting
To stay
And act
Upon the restless order.

Someone
Beckoning.
Ceaselessly,
Continuously,
Lovingly,
Until at that moment
Preceded by millions
Without Substance,
I listen and hear.

Except for the Star
The travelers huddled in the cold night.
A lengthy journey almost at an end.
A journey fueled by hope
And threatened by the madness of a king.
They tired.
And often wondered whether their chase
Was real
Or if it was yet another means of
Squandered wealth.

Except for the star.

It was close.
Bethlehem was tomorrow's end.

Now the return.
The child had been all and more,
And their gifts were received in awe
As if they too were signs
Needed to assure of the offspring.
That was yesterday.
An event now just a memory
Taking on the unreal
Line of a tapestry that unfolded in a dream.

Except for the star.

The ages would tell and retell their story.
And many would believe.
And many would not believe.
What indeed would drive
Monarchs to live with camels under the sky
For but a glimpse of
A small boy?
Prophet's art is lost.
The hearkening of madmen.

Except for the star.
And except for the King.

Except for the Star
The travelers huddled in the cold night.
A lengthy journey almost at an end.
A journey fueled by hope
And threatened by the madness of a king.
They tired.
And often wondered whether their chase
Was real
Or if it was yet another means of
Squandered wealth.

Except for the star.

It was close.
Bethlehem was tomorrow's end.

Now the return.
The child had been all and more,
And their gifts were received in awe
As if they too were signs
Needed to assure of the offspring.
That was yesterday.
An event now just a memory
Taking on the unreal
Line of a tapestry that unfolded in a dream.

Except for the star.

The ages would tell and retell their story.
And many would believe.
And many would not believe.
What indeed would drive
Monarchs to live with camels under the sky
For but a glimpse of
A small boy?
Prophet's art is lost.
The hearkening of madmen.

Except for the star.
And except for the King.

I am tempted to wonder, at times,
If my sin was ordained,
Since
God gives glorious vision
Into glorious grace,
Otherwise missed.

There Will be God

When all of life's
mysteries
and
wonders
and inner revelations,
resolutions,
and
relative ramblings
have no source.
When you realize
that
the conclusions
you reached
were just another beginning
and
the music is quieted
by the vacant poetry
of the end.
There will be God

There he sat
Off in the distance.
Far.
Near.

Then he played,
And the fire began,
And the choir sang,
Off in the distance.

And the drums beat while he watched,
And the winds sang while he waited,
Nothing could move him,
And nothing could make him sing.
All was at war
Inside and out.

All was at peace
And there was no doubt.
Now the soft breeze
And just a guitar
Whispered its satisfaction.
All is well, all is well.
“Till tomorrow, then?”

Oh cross on the hill.
The body you bore today was as heavy as all time past and future.
And even now,
as it is lowered,
and you are left with the gore of saving grace,
the weight remains.

Oh cross on the hill.
You were but an instrument of a plan thought through in minute detail from time immemorial.
You played your role.
You bore your creator.
And because of your faithfulness and obedience to His call,
the hope of mankind became a living light for each of us.

Oh cross on the hill.
We will not forget too soon,
and we know not whose fate took them to you time and again to pay for their own sins.
And perhaps the stains themselves of the blood he left on your brow provided healing of body as it provides of soul.

Oh cross on the hill.
3 days have now passed,
and all who watched have heard of the wonders of this day;
Rejoiced in reunion with those who were dead just yesterday.
Your necessity as part of
The Great Plan
has been filled.
And with your cousin the stone
you may now rest.

The day rises.
As do the blades of grass,
The flowers,
And the mists on the river.

Sunrise services are my memory,
Spelled oh so cleverly
As Sonrise.
And 6 a.m. for a little fella
Was another form of rising not hailed in any book
Or ballad.
But a family requirement that I wished would end.

He wished it would end as well.
And it did.
The longest three hours in history
That are now ours to behold.

Till we rise.

what art befalls me?
what words express
or pictures show
or music rings
that deepest of the soul?
can it be told,
expressed,
or conveyed into your place
where feelings grow?
and if not,
is it lost
on the ears
of the universe?
or will the message of the medium through which it is driven
ring till the end
when only one
ear remains
to hear………
and does?

Why am I weak
When my strength comes from God?

And why do I rage
When the God of peace
Lives within me?

This world is not my home.
It is only a test that
My patience must endure.

Home.
That faraway place that is as near
As my next breath.

I touch it,
Having wandered from the source
Of my strength
And peace.

I hold it dear.

His promise becomes real.

I smile inside
And carry on
For another day.

"Sing a song,"
The master said,
"Before you don't
And wind up dead.
Sing a song And you will see
How happy, Sad, And young you be."

"What shall I sing?"
The singer asked,
"For up till now
Not one has tasked
To write that thing you call A song.
If none exists, I'll right that wrong."

And so to paper pen was put,
And rhyme appeared.
Of love,
And joy,
And dreams of what
Was yet to come.

"Tis half a song at best," He mused.
And then a breeze his mind did soothe,
And from his lips emerged a tune.
It was the first such sound
And soon
Was heard by all who ventured near
The singer.

And from that first song
Came the rest.
And through the time
Each one was best,
From singers who caressed the breeze
And gifted us,
Our souls to please.

The mouse lies
in my hand
dead.
and I stare
as I wonder what’s next,
here in the future
where input creates
and output destroys.
here in the future
where old men
once feared
and young men
didn’t see
until too late.
its fast,
its slow,
its young,
its old,
its here,
its gone,
here in the future.