Wind-chimes

Wind-chimes

clamor in the night.

Breezes rush

through unseen leaves.

Darkness revels in deeper sight.

Call me from

this empty room

and give the wind

my breath of

desire.

Set my sluggish soul aflame.

I’ll rise like sparks

and fill the night

with your

consuming

fire.

Ruined

Soft and spoiled

apples clings to shifting limb,

foregoing taut skin

for molten brown,

when night winds

carry them down

to invest

with teardrop seeds

the unsuspecting

grassy ground.

Now

“Our being is silent, but our existence is noisy.” Thomas Merton

day begins

glint of grey, 

gust nudges the curtain

sun lights my face

as from unfinished dreams 

I wake, 

eyes, 

wide, dazed

I rise

walk

now

into morning filled 

with shout of geese, 

trains blaring,

hurry,  can’t

be late,

now

into the shower, 

hot shock of water

wide-eyed

rush through

my scheduled day

eyes always on tonight, 

tomorrow

later...

no time for

now.

Night Burial in Homs

She was just eight years old, 

thin wisp in a canvas shroud, 

easy to carry in the night

as he slipped by snipers

hurried through

the killing lanes 

to the grave,

scrapped gravel

over her head 

and paused to offer

her innocent soul

to Allah,

when shots snapped,

and he fell.

Now father and daughter 

together lay, no longer 

afraid.

Deep in My Core

“Call it faith, call it contemplative illumination: the awakening to a new awareness of ourselves.” Thomas Merton

Deep in my core

beats my living heart.

Fighting through years

of planetary rotation,

gravity’s transparent hand

remanding quick blood

to constricted veins,

how long can it so remain?

When will it

grow still

and let go my

straining

soul?

On that glorious day

put me deep

in the living earth,

and there at last

will I feel

the beating heart

of God!

Khaki Hills

khaki hills,  

light-washed, bleached

summer clean,

slopes folded

oaken-green

as a horse, mad

in the morning mist,

gallops and kicks

at nothing.

Instrument

Make me your

hammer.

I’ll pound

the stubborn nails down

til all boards become one.

Let me be a fierce nail,

and I’ll pierce your living flesh,

number all your bones.

My rough hand will smooth

away sin’s sharp edge

and bring low life’s

knot of corruption.

With gleaming blade

will I open a wound

pulsing joyfully in your side

to anoint with living blood

the guilty hands

of soldiers.

So use me, O builder,

and build your house

of many rooms. 

Wooden Valley

Wooden Valley 

leans into spring,

worn blue with time, 

rises to age-

less azure skies.

See the bold mustard

straight rows defy

winter's dark glow

light with cold fire.