Walking can’t happen without a thought,
but running can happen by impulse
yet they seem the same,
whether thought or impulse.
A sudden noise can be the same.
Someone can pull a trigger without thought,
intent, or even impulse.
But holding the gun foresees the act,
sets the stage,
and owns the blast.

I dreamt that she was gone.
To where, there was no clue.
In the dream of panic
I felt lost.
There was no way to stop the dream.
I had to see through
all it’s insane and terrifying
turns of gloom.
Sweating I must have turned
in the sheets that slowed my efforts
to do what the insane attempt to do.
When I awoke my still-startled mind
had a weak grasp of another day.
The unreal reality of the dream
still held its dreadful terror.
But She was still there,
asleep beside me,
still breathing.
But I don’t know
if I terrified myself,
or if some warning messenger
came to me,
a part of myself, perhaps,
that sees the road ahead
beyond where my headlights
lighten the dark,
the terror of the blind
being a kind of sight.

In summer’s last days
of late September
with the sun in frozen clouds,
a flock of birds flew southwest.
The world was in turmoil
but took no notice
of clouds and sky.
Yet something there
caused wings of joy
to flow again as it did once
when I was one with the sun
and the clouds and the birds.

The Lord is my true mind.
He has given me a universe for my home.
He gives me a thousand beautiful things
to calm my anxieties.
He leads me in His ways.
Even when I am surrounded by disasters
and cruel people, his angels guide me
to His safe places.
He heals my scars of life with wisdom.
His blessings flow over the errors I have made
and the wounds I have inflicted.
He follows my wayward steps with his goodness and love.
And I and all my brothers and sisters
are one with Him forever.

I was an old child
Not knowing from whence I came
or where I was going.

I left home at fourteen,
and pursued a calling,
then another,
and wandered for forty years.
Whatever I found,
was good for the journey.
Wherever I stopped, my body was at home,
but my soul still wandered.

I grew a beard
and lost some hair;
but my soul
still wandered.

When I made another home I planted my wandering stick
It rooted, and its branches bore fruit
and my soul still heard the ancient call.

Now I am old,
formed like the world
recalling from whence I came
and won’t be deterred
from where I’m going.

A trusted friend told me
That Shakespeare wrote King Lear
while quarantined.
How I can relate to that!
I’ve been quarantined for months
during a pandemic,
reading the great books,
and attending to the writing,
I didn’t have time for
until now.
I’m forced to wait
until the quarantine is over
like a space shuttle
waiting to return to earth.
Staying home is hard.
I’d rather flee to the supermarket
or make some other excuse to get away.
But how can I ignore this opportunity
to drop my know-it-all attitude,
raise the white flag
and ask God to show me a better way.
For instance:
How do my life decisions
look in retrospect?
What kind of person have I become?
What can I do to be a better person?
If I follow the wisdom
of the wise,
and higher guidance,
what will I do,
and how will I live?
What can I do
to make the world,
at least in those places
where I am a part of it,
a better place?
And who are the people
I’ve lost touch with?
Is this a good time to reach out to them
by a call or a letter?
To do all this
I’ll need more time
not less.
And my life will be better
for doing them.
Rather than ask
what the world will be like
when this solitude is over,
I’ll ask: “What will I be like?’’
I can’t be thankful for a pandemic.
But I can make the best of one.

In court he knew the territory.
It was often perilous
and the law wasn’t always just.
But he was equipped for all that.
Even surprises weren’t uncommon.
He knew where his conscience was
and how to keep it.
When he retired the courtroom
was just a memory
and his game was gone,
like an aging athlete’s.
For anyone else
staying out of court
would be desirable.
But he was now a pin
in the world’s alley
seeing the ***** rolling down
with no alternative but
fate itself
as it moves toward
its finale.
He could choose
to play a minor part,
and archive his
old victories.
Or become an old crank
fighting for things
no one remembers.
Then wait for praise
at the end,
as a admirable advocate
for things that used to matter.