Saturday, July 28, 2012


clamor in the night.

Breezes rush
through unseen leaves.

Darkness revels in deeper sight.

Call me from
this empty room
and give the wind
my breath of

Set my sluggish soul aflame.

I’ll rise like sparks
and fill the night
with your


Soft and spoiled
apples clings to shifting limb,
foregoing taut skin
for molten brown,

when night winds
carry them down
to invest
with teardrop seeds
the unsuspecting
grassy ground.

Wednesday, July 25, 2012


“Our being is silent, but our existence is noisy.” Thomas Merton

day begins
glint of grey, 
gust nudges the curtain
sun lights my face
as from unfinished dreams 
I wake, 
wide, dazed
I rise
into morning filled 
with shout of geese, 
trains blaring,
hurry,  can’t
be late,
into the shower, 
hot shock of water
rush through
my scheduled day
eyes always on tonight, 
no time for

Night Burial in Homs

She was just eight years old, 
thin wisp in a canvas shroud, 
easy to carry in the night

as he slipped by snipers
hurried through
the killing lanes 
to the grave,
scrapped gravel
over her head 
and paused to offer
her innocent soul
to Allah,

when shots snapped,
and he fell.

Now father and daughter 
together lay, no longer 

Tuesday, July 24, 2012

Deep in My Core

“Call it faith, call it contemplative illumination: the awakening to a new awareness of ourselves.” Thomas Merton

Deep in my core
beats my living heart.

Fighting through years
of planetary rotation,
gravity’s transparent hand
remanding quick blood
to constricted veins,

how long can it so remain?

When will it
grow still
and let go my

On that glorious day
put me deep
in the living earth,

and there at last
will I feel
the beating heart
of God!

Wednesday, July 18, 2012

Khaki Hills

khaki hills,  
light-washed, bleached
summer clean,
slopes folded

as a horse, mad
in the morning mist,
gallops and kicks
at nothing.

Thursday, July 12, 2012


Make me your

I’ll pound
the stubborn nails down
til all boards become one.

Let me be a fierce nail,
and I’ll pierce your living flesh,
number all your bones.

My rough hand will smooth
away sin’s sharp edge
and bring low life’s
knot of corruption.

With gleaming blade
will I open a wound
pulsing joyfully in your side

to anoint with living blood
the guilty hands
of soldiers.

So use me, O builder,
and build your house
of many rooms. 

Saturday, July 7, 2012

Wooden Valley

Wooden Valley 
leans into spring,
worn blue with time, 
rises to age-
less azure skies.

See the bold mustard
straight rows defy
winter's dark glow
light with cold fire.