Becoming Bald


Light shines off my scalp.
It glows off my forehead.
The hairs of my head
are thinning out,
like
a pioneer forest being cleared
patiently by the foreign farmer,
who came to the woods
to carve a plot
from what once was a forest,
rich with dense undergrowth.

In former times,
the thicket would break the wailing winds,
accosting the house and barn.
Now the gales flow freely
throughout the rifled trees.

Peace shone through the branches.
Calm, as the roaring gusts
burst upon the stripped land
and coursed across the barren plain.

As the stiff breeze blew endless,
shingles tumbled off,
siding was lifted and bantered away,
studs creaked and collapsed,
drywall rolled off,
everything scattered,
like all the forest critters
running from a smoky fire.

When the ashes settled,
I saw the whole curve of the earth,
the land shimmering
like
a lake of glass with driven snow,
skating along the frozen pond.

The Poetry Trial
  

Years were passing
Beginning with a full head of brown hair
Bald now scant gray hairs over his ears
Sitting afront the screen
Tirelessly typing in poems
All this time thinking that he communicated with other people
Little did he know
The whole operation was a scam
Run by the leprechauns
That's right  The little folk
All the feedback he thought was real
Was just a ruse set up by the faeries
A hyper-sensitive software system
Serving up canned responses from
Pre-programmed poets
Digital and centuries old.

As a young man,
His father bound and persecuted him.
So he ran away.
Dad looked for him every day,
Found him and was disturbed and sad,
Yet threatened him.
So the saint hid away,
Gave enemies anger room,
hid for a month.
prayed to be free of persecutors.
Fasted and wept,
Happy though in the dark.
Came out accusing himself of laziness.
Folks saw his poverty and thought him insane.
He'd starved changed and they ****** him.
The saint thanked God for enemies.
"Disgrace makes a noble stronger."
Dad heard of the saint's disgrace and tried to destroy him.
At home, locked in the dark, beat by dad.
The saint grew fit by exhaustion and reproach,
Patience unaffected.
He rejoiced in suffering.
Kept upright intentions and way of life.
Without fear, he clung to Christ.
He took refuge in Jesus.
Whose sufferings are always greater than ours.

To Become Younger

Simply begin,
by reversing
the rotation of the earth.

Next,
reverse the revolution
of the earth around
the sun.

Finally,
Have the Milky Way
wind up like a clock
instead of
spinning outward
like a whirling dervish.

Because with all this spinning
we’ve grown quite dizzy,
and we’ve all grown old,
with this vertigo.

But,
if we were to **** it in,
rather than blowing it out,
surely,
we could begin taking off the years.

If only we would just begin
doing these things,
because what we have been doing,
is not working for us.

As I pray this even time
sparkling risen boughs of silver maple
wave and nod in the gusty breeze
between them is a patch of blue sky
I read Psalms of merciful forgiveness
while tears bedew my eyes unworthy
The dove flies over my house and away
out she goes into the endless blue distance
all of my dust applied to her tail
my sins all carried aloft and quickly passing
disappear forever with the fading silouhette
as onward she goes winging away
between the leaning branches of the elms
which ever bow to these prevailing winds
of my earth bound life

Swirling
  

Gusts out of the west
Burst through our open window
Blowing books, pictures, tapes, and papers
clear off the top of the bookshelf.
It's nearly August and the dry leaves sigh
as the wavy winds rise and fall.
the shadows freckle and sparkle
on the floors and furniture of this room.
the doors of the house open and close
with minds of their own, attuned to the moving air.
at first faraway then near, nature's breath
marches incessantly through the treetops.
this sunny day itself is excited about being.
irrepressible is the goodness of earth.
on Wednesdays like this the hues of the blues
of the skies themselves move lovingly among us.
a house sparrow anchors herself in the chain link fence.
the  yellow swallowtail butterfly takes a low flight path
just above the heads of the flowers.

More loose Ends

The dusty, ***** floor needs sweeping.
How hard am I willing to work?

I’m like a running back trying to move forward,
but my way is all blocked by big defensemen.

Will I keep my eyes open and moving?
Will I keep my body turned up field?
Will I keep my legs a-churning?
Will I run and pick my way,
through the maze that lies before me,
dodging the opposition, and gaining their turf?

Or:
Will I be a loner and run from everyone,
trying to make an end run all by myself,
and getting flattened by a swarming defense
that bridges me no gap?

What do I really want?
Do I really want Christ?
or
Do I want all the distractions of the world?

It seems I want them both.
Yet the Psalms say
there are only two ways
that a man may choose,
either God or the world.

So can I look into my own face and eyes
with enough seriousness
to cut through
all that is in me that is not true?

I could weep,
for I have been at this quest for as long as I can remember
and it’s always two steps forward and two steps back.

Yet here I am standing again,
ready to take the handoff from the quarterback
and try to outrace the opponents.

Lord please give me the faith and perseverance
to keep standing in here
in the backfield ready to run,
ready to always and ever keep trying again
regardless of past results
and unknown futures.