Tuesday, April 28, 2015


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)

Saturday, April 25, 2015

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

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)

Friday, April 24, 2015


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
as she contemplates
her next move.

(20 Oct 2013)

Tuesday, April 21, 2015

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)