Thursday, October 31, 2013

Ordinary Life

My home’s filled
with living sounds.

Pans clanging
in the kitchen,

My son’s speaking
through thin chips
with distant friends

while pressed against my arm,
soft and warm,
the cat purrs with contentment.

She’s following
my dancing fingers

as I tap black patterns
on this glowing screen,
(to her, wise critic,
signifying nothing!)

I swim in this pond
like golden koi,
and inhale the fragrant
of my ordinary life.

Like Rising Flame

Like rising flame
my love ignites
the dawn
as molten sky
pours sacred gold
to fill your
folded valley
and compel your love
to conspire
with my soul’s
hot desire.

Driving Home

I glide,
past moon-drenched vines,
my feeble light casting
to where all certainty ends.
But beneath these wheels
the dark road sings
hymns of breathless
I speed
to that distant place
where I know
you are waiting.

Hear my love's breath

I hear my love's breath! 
Oh, where should I stay? 
Whispering fear 
to the stale, 
withered day?

I feel her breath
on my bleak, barren soul. 
She warms my heart, 
brings me out of the cold.

Morning Bright

Morning bright, night chill gone,
the scented wind stroking
high, compliant branches,

and I watch for you
in our summer garden;
lush in leaf and yellow rose
and silky grass
in vernal sunshine,

and It's you I wait for in the ivy shade
watching our lazy cat
stretch her dappled fur
on the bright, sun soaked
concrete step.

Like the tender vine
in the warming soil
I am content
to wait
for you.

Love and Living

“Life consists in learning to live on one's own, spontaneous, freewheeling: to do this one must recognize what is one's own - be familiar and at home with oneself.....The world is made up of people who are fully alive in it: that is, of the people who can be themselves in it and can enter into a living and fruitful relationship with each other in it.” Thomas Merton

What is mine,
aging skin
wraps my
inner world

where hidden rivers
course through veins,
rapids throb
with the
urgent pulse of

my brain
snaps commands
at the speed of light,
compels my hands
to type living

eyes send
to prove the truth
of my

here as I wait
and watch
for you to finish
your warm

I see
that I live
in you
and you in

Our Love

flashing in your eyes,
wind in your hair, gleaming
moon, passion

It remains
deep in my heart;
unquenched desire,
our love's constant fire.


st francis santa fe

The old town square swings 
in the gentle desert breeze
as the band plays hot salsa and Grateful Dead, 
and couples dance and children laugh
in the dying day's lingering heat. 

We don't dance, 
although our feet tap,
our shoulders shrug 
to these fiesta rhythms,

We claim our seats 
under the ancient elm
in the cathedral's green yard, 
and watch as St. Francis, 
with sweeping gesture, 
blesses with eternal joy 
this lusty life.

In the deepening shade 
of trees and adobe wall,
we stand 
as the day declines, 
and the fiery sun descends 
beyond painted desert hills, 
the glorious moon rising, 
over Santa Fe


"This light shines in darkness, but unless God Himself draws us out of the darkness, we are not enlightened by Him, even though He be present."  Thomas Merton

soft summer wind
murmering trees
distant train
calling me.

sun-washed patio,
the house gleams
in the sweet after-
glow of noon.

the chairs are

limbs lean to the
heavy with apples
sweet velvet light,

all waiting.

sometimes in the night

"Love is the revelation of our deepest personal meaning, value and identity. But this revelation remains impossible as long as we are the prisoners of our own egoism. I cannot find myself in myself, but only in another."  Thomas Merton. Love and Living.

in the night
I fight the 
deepening shadows
of sleep disturbed 
by fearful stirrings,
silent watchers
standing, waiting
as I fall  

but when I awake
and turn to you
I feel your breath
and finding myself anew
I begin
to live.


In the glow of the autumn fire
your eyes warm me.

With bouquet
of winter rose you sweeten
our room; your voice lifts
away night's misty gloom.

So why ever
should we die?

My heart beats
in steady time with yours,
and my mind seeks words
to shine for you
like diamonds.

Oh, my love, let's live here

Aubade Wake Up and See

and see
how the sun
lights the top-most leaves
sets astir the delta breeze, shrugs
off night and drives darkness down into the flashing sea!

Fill Your Breath

fill your breath
with the warm delta breeze,
whispering leaves, all power
contained in a bit of green
and a murmur of rain.

in the hot summer sun
our fingers caress. I see
in your eyes what
I’ll never forget.


Your breath

your voice
summer soft
lost in sleep

I dream
your whisper

rushing across
my bare

your breath

lands unknown

soft days, warm nights, life
flows into life, seasons melt
to hazy light; hold tight

my love, and don’t let
go! for together we’ll jour-
ney to lands unknown.

In the Human Community

in the human community
laughter fills the air,
deep voiced fathers, uncles,
small children laughing, playing tag,
playing hide
and seek
as birdsong pierces
the opaque sky
fills with ancient peace
the resurrection-trees of resurgent spring
in the human community.

Aubade: Your Face

Starry lace wraps
your sleeping face.

With passion
I watch over you

like the moon
to secret

to the importunate sun,

who, with ardent speed,
rises in-
to the fiery

Aubade: Autumn

Day and night
our hearts beat,
arteries, veins pulse
breath swells ardent lungs
and we live!  

Oh, hear how the morning dove moans
in the pale early light;
Wander with me.
With open arms
embrace the radiant eye.

Our love grows
as slowly
we rise.  

Wednesday, October 9, 2013

The English Teacher

When I told them how Jim Crow
made prisons of
bathrooms, restaurants,
candy stores, schools

and how the school bus forced
colored kids into a ditch,
(too black to ride)
and justice finally failed
even Sunday school girls,

they looked askance,
narrowing their eyes
and asked how people
could be so unfair,

so I showed them.

Six million gone
with the careless wave
of the Kommandant’s baton,
and Anne, discovered and reduced
to words on a page.

Their eyes grew suddenly old and grave.

asking them to write April poems,
I say,
look at the cold spring day…
wind blowing
through restless trees,
rain filling the land to
make it green,

but instead they sing dirges,
of children who murder,
and children who die.

So why should I be surprised ?
They did not make this world
and I cannot lie.

Author notes

(after reading Billy Collins’s poem, “The History Teacher”)