stick it to a wall
& sail away
go to the shore
and call it a day
to live, to lie
it's all just life
nothing's changed
just me, the same

You wash your heart with evening rain
as waves of drowsiness hold out
paper boats made of written dreams
that search endlessly for a lighthouse
to guide them home to you

I miss the sound of water
Keening past the hull,
I miss the soughing of wind in sail
And the dull thrum of the shrouds
Like oversized guitar strings
Plucked from my heart,
By fingers felt
Yet never seen,


I miss the heel of the hull as a gust
Catches the sails,
The feel of the gunwhale
Below my buttocks as I hike out,
The restored sense of balance
As my weight matches
The turning moment
Of sail over keel,

I miss that simple shared moment
Of unity and rightness
With a crew who understands,
Or sometimes while solo
I share that instant with
The great good God that made
Me and others fit
To experience His creation

I miss the water,
I miss the wind,
I miss the feel of a taut sheet
And a tiller in my hands,
The surging sense of motion
As the shore retreats
And the horizon beckons
Me forward

I miss all these things and yet
Even as I type this verse,
At the end of another day,
Another week and with another
Boatless weekend ahead,
Like all good fish heads,
In my head and in my heart
I am - still - sailing

¡Ya!
Prepare the barco,
Empújalo through the scrub.
‘It’s not much further now,'
His voice sugar-coated with expectation:
The flap of the jib, the slippery release into
El agua negra.
Summer sun has baked the avenue of grasses
Into wiry nests.
‘Do not open the gate,' he fulminates.

Waiting for the tren to pass
The gaze of the pasajero
Picks him out against the lights.
Wait, cross, check, shut the gate like you kiss
A un niño.

She pulls truculentemente against his bodyweight,
The smell of greased wheels
Mixes with the **** of ducks and burgers.

Canta ella:
‘It’s many the time I’ve sung this song,
Though the wind blows like a gale’.

How many more times can he set sail?
Before he is buried in the fango
And the sea shanty disintegrates
Into the
Trees?

“At the center of our being is a point of nothingness which is untouched by sin and by illusion, a point of pure truth, a point or spark which belongs entirely to God. It is like a pure diamond, blazing with the invisible light of heaven. It is in everybody, and if we could see it, we would see these billions of points of light coming together in the face and blaze of a sun that would make all the darkness and cruelty of life vanish completely ... I have no program for this seeing. It is only given. But the gate of heaven is every- where.”

― Thomas Merton, Conjectures of a Guilty Bystander

Surprising God, how does one surprise God?

I have heard the door or gate is not locked; it is always open.

Every day I think of Mike,
he told me about the river boat he was on,
the murky river water, many small boats alongside,
action all around. He was a sailor on a ship,
what the hell was he doing on a river boat,
he often asked, even now.
Can’t remember the name of the river,
but it was Nam…

You come home from war… you are different now.
No one seems to know that, “but glad your back bro,” they say. Yes, you are home, but then there is the addiction, not of killing but of forgetting.
The time comes to report, remembering one’s service, out in the woods, away from it all.
There is that standing at attention, hair and beard trimmed, at muster for the last time…
There was a strange silence afterwards,

How does one surprise God?
I have heard the door or gate is not locked; it is always open.

I have burned
all the boats
to reach to your shore
so my dear!
You can either
take me with you
Or leave me drowned...