Thunderstorm on Easter Morning

Easter morning

sings green

allelujah.

while rising storm

stacks up night

and bright as glory

lightning strikes

and thunder

rumbles

and rain

delights.

Through Bright Morning I Run

Through bright morning I run,
eyes brimful with green love
as the silver world sings
of golden spring,

and through azure noon I love
how joyful psalms, bird-throated, rise
from verdant hills.

But when the long day ends,
in bright window framed
I see
your dark door.

I will not fear the velvet night.
for in the burning stars,
I see your eyes; in hushed
delta breeze,
I hear your voice
calling me.

A Simple Question

“While I am asking questions which You do not answer, You ask me a question which is so simple that I cannot answer. I do not even understand the question.” Thomas Merton, A Merton Reader,

“And He continued by questioning them, ‘But who do you say that I am?’” Mark 8:29

Clear day
golden sky
gives way to
black clouds
and I ask,
“why?”

It’s a child’s question.

Within cities
hard edges, pavements
grey receive the red
tide, heads fall
and lives split open,
spill into
gutters fill,
sewers, fill
the sea,
and like a
persistent child
I ask “why?”

In the morning
through bright
windows I see how
spring leans
to summer, timid
leaves open wide
glow in silver light
and green fire
fills the wood,

and by this beauty
silenced,
I hear
in tones
beyond my hearing
a simple question;

“who?”

Crucifixion

I think of you

on this quiet day

as I walk

through  grass

under skies grey.

On the cherry tree

I  touch hard crowns

poised to burst

to new fruit

hard and round

for fierce

mockingbirds

to devour.

But this is your hour.

On another tree

you wait for me

as burning skies

blast your eyes

and living blood falls

in bitter drops

to sacrilegious ground.

O, lift your dying gaze

to heaven’s bright gate!

Pull forth flowing faith

from your soul’s

deepest core.

Though you seem

to be all alone,

I’ll pray for you

at last to find

the golden way

to go back home;

for the Father hears

every prayer

and opens

every door.

Three Intimations

My tree is still bare 

though tender 

buds flare.

The mockingbirds know.

They fall on robins, 

fiercely cawing.

White cranes rise,

face the sun,

and flash fire.