Breech-mender

I cried out for help

and in the silence  

I heard a voice,

like my voice

but from deep in a dream, 

ringed in song and sleep.

I heard Him declare, 

"yes,  I am here."

and so I cried, 

"Lord, I am deprived,

have become

the afflicted one

you once saved!"

but He replied, 

"Be quiet. For 

In the silence

of your soul 

I'll make

a cool river flow.

Water-gardens will spring forth

as I lift you, fortify you

until with your strong arms

I'll raise the shattered walls,

mend the breaches

that separate men, 

and restore to life 

the peaceful lanes

for the innocent 

children of Homs 

to play.

ref: Isaiah 58:9-12

(15 Feb 2013)

A Theory of Everything

The machine lurches

scattering matter through

the expanding void.

With galaxies, stars, and dust,

we glide wondering across

this this vast black balloon,

this every-day universe.

Yet microns away, mirror-wise,

our image turns.

With our dark twin

we slouch towards breathless

equilibrium.

In epoch attraction,

our fabrics collide.

Thus are born

new worlds without end,

and the cosmic machine

grinds on and on

through vacuous eternity.

(27 Sept. 2010)

Greenland

sheets of ice

cascading to the sea,

plunging in the summer sun

like kids cannon-balling into the deep end.

global warming

spawning new islands and bays,

a lush new age of water,

green-house gases rising

in a great belch

from the man's

energy binge.

But what is the cause?

Hydrocarbons burning in roaring cars?

The unseen dead rising

into the innocent stratosphere?

Jungle trees are burning

as, wild-eyed, the panther

prowls the Amazon village

hungry for her own energy fix.

We could blame it all on Fulton and Watt:

their steam-punk monsters spitting fire,

as trudging workers descend

into the industrial-grade darkness

and the misery of the money hole.

But one bright student

suggested  a more somber cause

from which there is no escape

in cap and trade.

Gaia, walking with large swings,

slings up

volcanos and glaciers and men

while, deep in her brooding, iron core,

she shrugs,

and, most inconveniently,

takes her own sweet time

smiling

as she contemplates

her next move.

(20 Oct 2013)

Wakeful Hills

“We have become more humble than the rocks,

More wakeful than the patient hills.”  Thomas Merton A Book of Hours

The morning fog flows like milk

through folded brown hills,

cream spilled on dry grass;

then the sun rises, rolling fog

into shimmering waves

before the hard hand of

simmering noon-day.

But you permit no illusion.

I see what is hidden

beneath the dark oak tree

under these dry rocks

what is given to me:

down shimmering highways

past white valleys of bone

I’ll glide till I become

the humble stone.

(30 August 2013)