I take my solitude as it comes
a gift that drops unexpectedly
but often when I seek it out
I seek it in the woods or sea.
There the waves lap close to shore
and crashing, murmurs of God’s approach;
then boldly run my thoughts to Him
knowing He hears me when I speak.
He was the one the serpents went to
And the fish and the honeybees
When their sheen had lost their gloss
Or glimmer and their skin
Had lost their sheen.
Sometimes you turn away your gaze for a moment
the light too strong for your eyes
then look back and the world’s changed
into something sharper, more beautiful
something urgent and pressing
but sometimes into something indecipherable
that doesn’t belong in this time, this place
but to a sentient landscape
to a prehistoric race
who knew what they saw
and understanding,
took flight.
I borrow, you borrow, we borrow
She borrows, he borrows, they borrow
The world borrows and borrows to joint sorrow
Hoping there will always be tomorrow.
What, then, do we borrow to our self-destruction
But justice delayed for the satisfaction
Of a life of pursuing our corrupt passion
And ignoring those who need our compassion?
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Continue reading “Escapist Fiction or Nothing Books for Nobody People”
Father of the trumpeting air and the setting sun
the purple skies and rainbow grasses
flapping ears and ardent eyes
grasshoppers dancing with the breezes
thunder of my feet
singing of the stars
beating of my heart,
I thank You whose hands have made
whose breath gives life
to me.
God of the aurora glorious
invisible Light of lights towering, blazing
across glacial mountains and hearts
over blue ice, silver melts,
resounding majesty of fiery life
bursting, joyous song of sky and sea
in solitary havens of the northern vasts,
I thank You whose hands have made
whose breath gives life
to me.
“I’m sure that the little girl in that back seat was signing us,” Karl said.
It sat on the shelf like a glowering menace, dusty with age and disuse and fine cobwebs like a gauzy shroud. Even buried as it was behind apothecary jars and pestles, it was still the first thing the visitors to the six hundred-year-old museum wanted to touch.
Don’t bother me now, I’m in a musical fog
of unknown dimensions, an alien force
overtaking my mind, sane thoughts crumple over,
dull murdered reason breathes its last
while treacherous tides lay siege
to reality.
Having guests over at seven o’clock today
and the table is set with the sides and entrée;
Can’t leave anything out and there’s no way
we’ll forget what to leave out well past the sorbet.
This Jolly Beggar 