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trinity Nov 2018
Forgive me, Father who has shapéd me,
Forgive me, for I know not what You do.
Such knowledge is reservéd still for Thee,
While I, left blind, can naught but cry for You.
Forgive me, Father who has blesséd me,
Forgive me, for I know not what I do.
I know not how to act or speak or be,
And, try as I might, I fall short of You.
Forgive me, Father who has guided me,
Forgive me, for I know not what to do.
And, like a fool, I so oft refuse Thee.
Despite this, You remain faithful and true.
For like a flower, I am fading fast.
But You, O God, You will not fade, but last.
  Aug 2018 trinity
Dead Rose One
Lush is the quietude
of the late Saturday afternoon,
rich are the silencing sounds,
as variegated as the shades of greens
of a man-seeded, nature-patchworked lawn

rays reveal some bright,
some yellowed spots,
all a potent color palette

resting worry wearied eyes,
untroubled by the gentle fading light's illumination,
that soon will disappear and seal officially,
another week gone by

the lawn,
acting as an ceiling acoustic tile,
absorbing and reflecting
the varied din of disharmonious
natural sounds orchestrated,
an ever present reminder
     that true quiet
is not the absence of noise

I hear
the chill in the air,
insects debating vociferously
their Saturday evening plans,
the waves broom-swishing beach debris,
pretending to be young parents
putting away the children's toys for the eve

the birds speak in Babel multitudes of tongues,
chirps, whistles, clicks and clacks,
then going strangely silent as if all were
praying collectively the afternoon sabbath service,
with an intensity of the silent devotion

this moment, i cannot
well enough communicate,
this trump of light absolutes,
and animal maybes,
that are visually and aurally
presented  in a living surround sound screen,
Dolby, of course,
all a plot of
ease and gentility,
in toto,
sweet serenity

here to cease,
no more tinkering,
leave well enough,
plenty well enough
for Sally and Rebecca, who love the lushness best....

JUNE 2015
trinity Aug 2018
Don’t cry for me. Please, don’t cry
I’m sorry that i’m what you want
Please, oh please, just let me slip by
I have made your heart hurt enough.
     I can’t be the one that you love.

Don’t cry for me. Please, don’t cry
I’m sorry that i couldn’t stay
Please, oh please, just tell me a lie
Say you never loved me anyway.
     Forget all our yesterdays.

Don’t cry for me. Please, don’t cry
I’m sorry for all my mistakes
Please, oh please, just dry those blue eyes
I lack the courage it takes.
     What needs to be said, i’m too scared to say.

Don’t cry for me. Please, don’t cry.
     I am not worth your tears.
trinity Jun 2018
silently puppeteering,
ceaselessly poised under our noses and over our heads,
most visible when crawling by,
and too often moving much too fast.
time is an imposing figure,
intimidating and all too present.

yet it is also just the ticking of a clock,
seconds between minutes,
minutes between hours.
clouds slowly drifting across the sky,
the rising of the sun and moon,
generous and unhampered.

and is it fair to give it our burdens?
to use it as a pocket in which we neatly tuck away our problems?
time is not our enemy,
but neither is it our friend.
we ask it to heal all wounds
but time has no cures and no sympathy.
time has no intentions.

and so we ponder and debate and ask it for favors,
and time watches and says nothing.
very rambly, oops
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