How to Die

Darkness looms
on folded wings
cold and undeniable.

But its flight stalls,
as life rages on.

Red Infection flares
in your pale blood,
your tired heart savaged
by thin assassins.

Should you go now
into Dylan’s good night
where faint stars
call softly to your wasted soul?

Yes

enter

the gentle void
deeply breathe dark waters,
and all your pain will drown
in a sudden flood of

Nothing

No

Your

fierce soul shrinks
from this gracious night;

You fight for bitter light.

Raw pain is better
than vacuous rest
In death’s stark nest.

The Real Hope

“The real hope is not in something we think we can do, but in God who is making something good out of it in some way we cannot see.” Thomas Merton

Spring proceeds,
despite the cold
Pacific winds.

Storms that should have
blown through months ago,
now come lately,
blustering that late is better
than not at all,
and gather clouds, complaining of the hour;
they huddle and decide to get it over with
all in a day, and squeeze
fountains out of the
heavy April air.

This is the moment!

At last the iris arises,
sleek, and slender, and plain
curvaceous head,
concealing glory

‘til rain all finished,
the  sun having drenched
time and emerald space
with his golden flame,

the flower unfurls,
and stirs to nectarine passion
courteous bees, and
lingering birds.

Silent Watcher

Silent watcher,

see how the sun pales,

as gray clouds enshroud 

jaded day?

Just tell me that you love me, 

and I'll breathe you 

a new world.

The fiery bird

will rise 

impossibly high

into the leaden sky. 

Watch 

as I fill your eyes

with desire!

Daily Life

Life must provide a space of liberty, of silence, in which possibilities are allowed to surface and new choices become manifest. Thomas Merton


What I wear is pants. What I do is live. How I pray is breathe. Thomas Merton


Waking each morning, ex-
pelled from my space,

somebody
else has taken my place!

So rising to join in the common fray
compelled through the breathless, common day;

I stop,

and I choose,

and I breathe,

and I pray.

May 4, 1970

Morning was already warm, the sun beat
my sweating brow as I walked to the Oval,
past green Jeeps filled with tense soldiers,
past the detritus of last night’s battle:
torn flyers, shattered glass,
spent tear-gas canisters still reeking,
past garish, red ON STRIKE! posters,
to begin another chaotic day.

Because ugly war raged in Vietnam,
sharp tension hung over Columbus,
a grey, stinking haze imposed
on this brilliant
spring day,

So we lined up; the concept was simple.
student marshals, green armbands as our shields,
stood between swearing students
and nervous guardsmen,
whose black bayonets
wavered mere inches from our necks.
The idea was easy; being students,
other students
would respect
our vulnerability;
and not being demonstrators,
the guardsmen would
respect our lives.

It worked fairly well
until a rumor
exploded
about death
at Kent State.

Angry, bold, silent,
sweeping aside all respect,
they pushed us back,
into the bristling line of steel.
I looked behind me
and saw rifles lowered
to shoulder level,
aimed right through me,
and hearing the smooth, deadly glide
of bolt into waiting chamber,
I dove to the ground
and joined the fleeing, terrified
rush of children.

That evening, safe in my parents’ home,
far from the deserted campus,
I watched the news with my father.
I saw hard-hatted construction workers
angrily beating students, just like me,
on the bloody streets of New York,

and muttering about getting what they deserved,
my dad looked at me,
and saw my
tears.

Suddenly silent
he turned off
the TV.