In the Depth

in

depth of

distance, past

silent, wide fields, past

concrete steps, rushing cars, trucks, lives

unknown, stands the wood: still, closed, filled with what’s possible!

(7 March 2013)

Early Rising

early rising, fresh

sky night-black, just brightening

to early-bird’s joy,

but still tired,

eyes red,

I think I will go

 back to bed.

(17 June 2012, rev. 27 Apr. 2016)

Meditation at San Damiano

dark veins fill my sight
lying dendrites firing doubt
through my fragile faith,

complication
denying all escape
 
but as these steps ascend the steep hill
and converge into the unseen sky

I climb
to my blue redemption,

simple
and free.

(20 Aug 2010)

Shoemaker

The children watch his hands

strain against leather, tug

tough hide, obdurate skin,

once supple and alive, 

now stiff and dry,

see how his patience,

like love,

wears death down

until new shoes grow

in his strong hands.

They learn to bend 

life's refuse
to new use,

how being 

always finds 

purpose.

Thus, in lines of memory

we measure our days.

The ancestors guide us

as we build new form

from old tears,

and our children

watch

and learn.

(6/12/2013)

_________________________________

Shoemaker, Hung Liu, 1999, oil on canvas, Crocker Art Museum, Sacramento CA

At the Bird-feeder

Rushing, pushing

the sparrows shove;

pulsing wings

beating the air,

all for a bounty 

of unexpected feed!

When drops two doves.

 Wings folded,

they plaintively call;

seed of plenty

gently falls.

(9 May 2015)

The Encounter

Stretched
on sun-warm carpet,
gazing out on fenced wilderness, she extends
to furthest extremity; claws reach and retract
as she clenches
padded fists.

Then
in an instant she's on all fours,
back arched, whiskered mouth grimaced to
horrible grin as she growls and spits
into the gleaming window.

Looking back,
assured by double-pane,
the bird, all feather and fearless eye,
wonders at this new, strange
creature glaring inside.

(25 Apr. 2013)

Image: Cat and Bird by Paul Klee

The World is a Sacred Vessel

“The world is a sacred vessel . . .” Thomas Merton

blue vessel

in black vacuum

miracle world

encircling

thrall of this perfect star

sacred vessel,

His living cup

to beloved proffered, 

wedding gift

beyond measure.

(3 May 2012)

Fountain at San Damiano

Splashing like diamonds

water fills the bowl

spills to cool shallows

to darting larvae,

fetal tadpole.

A river falls

drawing grace

 to darker pools

where pensive koi

deep waters

peruse.

(4 June 2013)

Living Rosary

The children sit calmly

their complacent voices

monotone as a monk's chant.

They repeat the ancient words

recalling grace and courage

at the hour of death.

They really don't know

about the terror

and bliss of angelic visitation,

how a single greeting

can change everything

in a single moment dash

her young, pure heart

into the Judean dirt,

while her soul, enraptured,

soars high into the clear

desert sky. 

These are mysteries too deep

for their supple, green minds.

But I feel

in the rise and fall of their words,

her gentle acceptance

of the thrusting sword,

her transcendent smile

as the whip

tears across His tender skin,

the redemptive power of

all undeserved suffering.

These good children do as they're told

and behave well, reverently reciting

the millennial hope

on the bright gym floor,

in their school-day

morning prayer.

(1 May 2013)

Survival

Glaring like a field
covered with new snow,

this incipient page waits
for my typed letters
to alight
like raucous grackles,
foraging, finding

no tender shoots,
no easy meal.

These are hard times
for those who stay close to home
never winging it
to southern lands,

these dedicated black birds,
scratching the page
for another metaphor.

Survival here is measured
in image and rhythm,
in nascent
white space.

(9 Dec. 2010)

Aubade: Suisun Valley

Photo by Peter LaTourrette.  North American Birds Photo GalleryConditions of Use

“Love is not mere emotion or sentiment. It is the lucid and ardent response of the whole man.” 

Thomas Merton

Waves of grey light

wash over our small valley.

Cool morning

sea-born breeze prevails

for now.

High-toned birds wait

for the golden sun to ignite

our swaying trees.

Only in the darker eves

do I hear the mourning dove’s

steady moan.

In silver-blue tones,

he bids his love

awake!

(31 Oct 2013)