This month I call you Saviour.

Mostly, instinctively
I call to you as Lord-God and Father.
Typically these are the names
I call to mind at early dawn.

But this month you are Saviour
as I become more acutely drawn
to my need to call on your saving grace
to draw on your sacrificial willingness
to cast off the trappings
wrapped up with heavenly glory
to embrace the blood and the mess
that comes with small town nativity
and ultimate betrayal in the big city.

This month I address my Hosannas
to you, my loving, risen Saviour.

A jet black shellac record spins
seventy-eight times a minute.
Its label bears a lady ’round the pin:
She strums her lyre pictured on it.

It’s a flat earth of forgotten tunes
that spins on an axis of steel
through heavens lit by a lyrical moon
filled with the stars of bygone years.

The label’s lady of the lyre
smiles up from her grooved time machine,
her strums reverse the stars’ funeral pyres:
On each rotation her lyre gleams.

Beyond the grave, voices I hear
defy the dark passage of time:
They sing, resurrected from yesteryear.
Her lyre scores each lyrical line.

Each scratchy hiss and tiny pop
I hear from the disc’s dust and scars
reminds me of a radio telescope
that points up to distant quasars.

Alas, the needle drifts further on
‘til it reaches the groove’s final string
and then the tonearm waits for a new dawn
when this time machine once more sings.

Why, Oh Little Ones, do you stop and stare
What you are seeking is no longer there
You walked beside him for three years
The very Word of Life was in your ears
He died and rose and appeared once more
To prepare you for what is yet in store
He laid His holy hands upon you
To confer a spirit of authority and truth
With his power you have been sent out
Trust in His plan and do not be in doubt
Do not stand there frozen and dumb
Time is short and there is much work to be done
Go you now out into the mission field
And gather for the master a bountiful yield

Lord, make me to be a living channel
An instrument of your comfort and peace
You speak to me and my soul comes alive
You are the living word, your words are life-giving
Blood and water poured from your sacred heart
Bathing the world in your mercy and grace
In the waters of baptism by the blood of the lamb
It is because of this that, today, I am who I am
Your river runs through me in deep currents of grace
When you said "Peace be with you" was it the look on my face?
I was unbelieving for the pain was too much to bear
It wasn't that I didn't want to believe or that I didn't care
My Lord and my God! Have mercy on me: a sinner
I am not worthy to be in your presence my God and King
I feel the movements of the spirit
In the deepest currents of my being
Open my eyes to see and my heart to believe
You opened yourself and were broken for me
Break open my heart and help me to receive
This flood of mercy and grace freely shed
To give me new life when I had been dead
In my weakness, in my doubt and my shame
You take my hand and gently call my name
"Peace be with you. It is I. I am real.
Do not me unbelieving, but come and feel
The hands that were pierced for love of you
Let my mercy and grace, Child, cover you".
Lead me Lord from fear into peace, despair into hope
From tears into laughter, from mourning into dancing,
From doubt to belief, from death into life
Guide me Lord from out of darkness into Your light
Jesus, I believe, help me trust in You!

underneath this steel hides
a tissue heart that is mine—
fragile at the slightest touch.
I surrender my paper heart
to the raging fire,
each fragile piece consumed.
slowly, from these ashes,
a fire rises—a phoenix,
scorching my heart with
molten hatred that numbs.
and so, my once-dead heart,
delicate and frail,
hardens into steel—
a heart that is
unyielding and unbroken.

A life after death
prayerfully sought in churches —
Mushrooms in tree stumps

In this dim night
before the dawn of All Saints,
no need to take fright
of the spirits you acquaint —
for they are merely the ones who went on before.

Beloved dead whom we miss
reenter the world of the quick
and blow us a kiss
with a treat but no trick —
as we celebrate their return from the dark shore.

In a world of mass production
Creativity is gasping for air
Everything is accessible, looking
Identical to your next-door neighbor

Where are the artists?
Where are the seeds of creativity?

Let us light a beacon of hope
In an age of templates and clones,
Let this beacon of hope burn
Brighter than the sun;

Do not lose hope, A resurrection of
Creativity is upon us