Thunderstorm on Easter Morning

Easter morning

sings green

allelujah.

while rising storm

stacks up night

and bright as glory

lightning strikes

and thunder

rumbles

and rain

delights.

Through Bright Morning I Run

Through bright morning I run,
eyes brimful with green love
as the silver world sings
of golden spring,

and through azure noon I love
how joyful psalms, bird-throated, rise
from verdant hills.

But when the long day ends,
in bright window framed
I see
your dark door.

I will not fear the velvet night.
for in the burning stars,
I see your eyes; in hushed
delta breeze,
I hear your voice
calling me.

A Simple Question

“While I am asking questions which You do not answer, You ask me a question which is so simple that I cannot answer. I do not even understand the question.” Thomas Merton, A Merton Reader,

“And He continued by questioning them, ‘But who do you say that I am?’” Mark 8:29

Clear day
golden sky
gives way to
black clouds
and I ask,
“why?”

It’s a child’s question.

Within cities
hard edges, pavements
grey receive the red
tide, heads fall
and lives split open,
spill into
gutters fill,
sewers, fill
the sea,
and like a
persistent child
I ask “why?”

In the morning
through bright
windows I see how
spring leans
to summer, timid
leaves open wide
glow in silver light
and green fire
fills the wood,

and by this beauty
silenced,
I hear
in tones
beyond my hearing
a simple question;

“who?”

Crucifixion

I think of you

on this quiet day

as I walk

through  grass

under skies grey.

On the cherry tree

I  touch hard crowns

poised to burst

to new fruit

hard and round

for fierce

mockingbirds

to devour.

But this is your hour.

On another tree

you wait for me

as burning skies

blast your eyes

and living blood falls

in bitter drops

to sacrilegious ground.

O, lift your dying gaze

to heaven’s bright gate!

Pull forth flowing faith

from your soul’s

deepest core.

Though you seem

to be all alone,

I’ll pray for you

at last to find

the golden way

to go back home;

for the Father hears

every prayer

and opens

every door.

Three Intimations

My tree is still bare 

though tender 

buds flare.

The mockingbirds know.

They fall on robins, 

fiercely cawing.

White cranes rise,

face the sun,

and flash fire.

Song of Spring

Lusty old bird squats

on branch, bends backward knees and
bawls his song of spring.

The Song of New Leaves

In the broad afternoon
high in the tree, they come
they come by the dozens
and sing, they all
sing the song of
new leaves,  
they come, the blackbirds
with red wings, brown
birds with striped wings
they sing, their orange
breasts bursting,
blue wings spreading
wide, enfolding
they sing
while high in the tree
the white dove moans,
swaying in the breeze,
high
oh! high
in that moon-struck tree
she moans
to the moon
nearly consumed
by the sky!
the sky
of perfect blue!

Walls of Sleep

“There is no where in you a paradise that is no place and there you do not enter except without a story.  To enter there is to become unnameable.” Thomas Merton, A Book of Hours


I
am
here in
this room, this
house,  light of candle,
see only as far as the door
of darkness, the narrow yard, black trees, night without breeze,
confining me in walls of sleep.

Tree at Dawn

tree at dawn, bursting

seed, rising sun, emerging 
summer’s golden day.

Variations on a Theme

But there are so many

things

To be considered.

The sky, for example,

Is blue today

And white clouds

Are gliding

Over the green continent.

Meanwhile, under the trees

Up Bonny Dune Road

Antennae tremble in the

breeze

While a bird hovers

Momentarily

And dives.

And what about me?

Suppose I’m driving towards Davenport

And I turn too fast

Around the smooth curve

And, seeing the bearded man

Bent over his tripod,

His camera aimed

At the glittering creek

I hear the screaming horn

Of a head-on pickup-truck

And crashing glass

Suddenly fills

My flaring eyes . . . .

. . . . or maybe I swerve in time

And drive on to Davenport,

To the Whaler Inn,

And with my camera

Search for the right shot –

A white church

Against brown hills.

But today I sit alone in the living room

Listening to Mozart , waiting for you

I watch as the cat stretches

By an open window

And stroke her warm fur,

Black silk in silver sunlight

On the dark red carpet.