He leads me by waters of rest,
waters bubbling with competing song,
each voice heralding restored souls,
flowing down perfect paths through the greenest pastures
where our master-shepherd has prepared my rest.

Even in deep darkness,
I need not fear
for His rod and staff protect me.

Surely steadfast love follows me
as I return to dwell in the house of the Lord all my long days
and there I shall feast at my Lord-Shepherd's high table
forever.

The wind, he said, is lost
laughter.
Breathe it in and glory
in the joy it brings
in the forgotten smiles
of another age
and make your home.

The wind, he said, is dispelled
tears.
Let it in and as it meets your eyes
it will cool and condense,
re-creating past sadness,
distilling until the salt stings
with ancient lost glories.

The world doesn’t know how much it needs
me how much it would miss
me how much it depends on my
little choices
my small voices drowning
out the others and nudging
me to stay away.

The world doesn’t know how much
we depend on a little lack of leadership.
How much more devastated the world would
be with a little more co-ordinated lawlessness.

Little do they appreciate me,
appreciate that random acts of disfunction
are preferable by far
than my hordes of regimented devastation.

The world doesn’t know how much it needs
me to stay here
and not get involved.

The world doesn’t know how much
it needs me.

like lonely grass reduced to PGA lengths
hemmed in by white paving

like wild flowers in raised sleeper beds
out of reach of more fertile fields

like black-birds nesting in machined-tooled boxes
out of sight of the forest

like polar bears in a child-infested zoo
missing their glacial quiet

like a killer whale peering through glass
at knitting grandmothers

like a 58 year old man tethered to the white light of his next zoom call
while the sun breaks through a crack in his bedroom blinds

- we were made for more than this

Good your journey
true your road
wet your mouth
loud your song

Good your journey
true your friends
wet your eyes
loud your song

Good your journey
true your road
your friends
your heart

Diverted, never Defeated

rushing like water into its misted future
crawling like moss in a camouflage of the past
giving lie to our tiny present

a passing shadow of day-creatures
flit for their designated eight minutes
failing to fully grasp their moment

while the trees stand watch -
still present, pointing to a future only they see

Diverted, but never Defeated

A sycamore speaks
with its unique semaphore
giving voice to air and sky
while giving little away

A sycamore shouts its story on repeat
giving unasked for directions
to the climbers above, the writers beneath
urging them to walk down circuitous routes
with no hint of the true path it found
knowing we have to find our own.

A blackbird sings and a kestrel sighs
both telling their sister to hush
exhorting us to watch their greater eloquence
and to listen to a higher voice.