from a dark room

Van Gogh, A Lane near Arles (Landscape with Edge of a Road), 1888

“Our spirits were made for light, not for darkness.” Thomas Merton

This dark room
comforts me.

Tender eyes
are safe here from
the hot autumn wind.

Dark tears cleanse
as I gaze out
to the shimmering street
where rises the sacred scent
of yellow flowers,

heavy
and sweet.

Vigil

Deep in the twilight grey
I wait
for black night to drop
suddenly
and completely.

At the end of the day,
hope is measured
one careful procedure
at a time.

Night
is not kind in winter.

Too early It comes,
and stays much too long.

It brings fear,
red eyes
and stinging tears.

Lit by throbbing numbers
night probes your veins
one pulse at a time,

as your shivering soul watches
from cool blue bars
gleaming in the distant ceiling.

Stroking your hands
In the fading day’s light
I pray
for one more
morning.

The Three Trees: Autumn

The Three Trees: Autumn Claude Monet, 1891


Glare,

thin limbs,

wind drifting,

sun melting straw

autumn’s frost

golden

flares

form is septolet....syllabic verse, 1-2-3-4-3-2-1

Surrender

“Real self-conquest is the conquest of ourselves not by ourselves but by the Holy Spirit. Self-conquest is really self-surrender.”  Thomas Merton.

Look to the west
and see how your eyes
must narrow
or turn inward
to shut out
the glare
that precedes
darkness.

Hills wrapped in haze
lose all definition
become flat, devoid
of fold or crevasse.

No sudden rise
blocks your way
to the edge
at the top.

Surrender there
to the light before
you enter
the night.

Feed the Fire

We will never be fully real until we let ourselves fall in love - either with another human person or with God.  Thomas Merton

Close to you
I see you breathe.
Your sweet breath
is all I need
to feed the fire,
living desire!

Intimations

On this perfect September day
these California hills rise,
joyfully to pacific skies,

but from my high ground
I gaze across this sun-drunk city,
across that strip of shimmering bay
to distant, wild Marin hills
where a thin, white line
lingers among ancient redwoods.

I see it shroud them in white silence.
It obliterates even  
the radiant, waning sun.

This is winter.

His cold fingers will soon reach
into our happy lives,

our bright denial.