A Seattle Winter

As the days waiver
and the sun goes to seed
in the flooded heavens

The temptation to blend in
with the drab palllete of
mirthless winter, overshadows

A people of evergreen and slate, waiting for the bus

As the will of the drab master seeps in
driving us away, from outside
we turn inward

But the rebel in citrus and rose
enters the scene of decay like
a whisper, turns one head
then another

A dawn of recollection
Eyes yawn from the sleep of winter hues
The flash turns minds out
toward ripeness and hope

Stirs, for a moment
tastes of Spring

Emerging from the Wordsmithy

The Old English epic poem Beowulf is written i...
The Old English epic poem Beowulf is written in alliterative verse and paragraphs, not in lines or stanzas. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I used to write and write and write poems. 5 a week. Sometimes I would write for 6 hours a day. I loved to draw attention to the overlooked, everyday things of life. The magical things. The deep things in the foreground of our daily lives that we just don’t see because we’re usually so busy.

Then I was converted, over a two year period, from the age of 23-25. At the time I was baptized,  I had a fellowship with Jack Straw Productions and was well on my way to a promising career as a poet. But as the months passed me by and I began to read Spurgeon instead of Rousseau and Tolkien instead of Patchen, I found that something was different. I couldn’t escape how vainglorious my work had always been. I read it with new eyes and found that it was humanistic, shallow and self-centered.

I continued to write after my conversion, but I couldn’t help it from becoming sermonic. I would pull out my pocket notebook and pen and pour drivel all over the pristine page. Though I was clothed in the white of the lamb, my words were full of kitsch christian platitudes. Continue reading “Emerging from the Wordsmithy”

Lion of Judah

A god that does not

nor cares to

walk upon the shore of a vast sea,

breathing in the salty air,

relishing what he himself



is not worth a prayer.


A god who does not buckle on

scabbard and mail

to go before his children

to seek his enemies upon the field,

foes for the slaughter,


is not worth a lighted candle.


A god who does not stand

at the tomb of whom he loved

and weep


is worth no devotion of any kind.


A god who does not taste

or breathe, or hate

who does not curse, or love

or serve, nor cares to


is a god worth mere disdain

no more than mockery


is no God at all.




Letting Go

The service road moved under the carriage of my car

Jostling hours away along the wood

Up where no one would hear, I was sure

in the gray area between foothills and mountain


I locked the doors, an urbanite out of place

Jack hobbled along as I climbed into a clearing


I wondered,  always

Sheepdog? Lab?


I drove the shovel into ground soft enough to dig easily

a necessity for some reason,

out where the wild things would certainly enjoy an easy feast.


I pulled two heavy objects from my pockets

squeezed the squeaky ball

I threw it out ahead of us into shrubs.

He didn’t go right off, right away.

He was always a smart dog.


Finally, he turned to see where his ball had gone.

The hammer slid into place.

I was close enough not to aim

the shot exploded from the hands that had raised him.


For hours I didn’t move.

I stood over Jack’s body

wondering; why I hadn’t

taken more time with him

and dug the hole first

Lamentation for the death of a friend

 I have finished many things today

a book, a cup of coffee

but I have not

finished mourning you


I have completed the things I must

clocked out, gone home but yet

The things I’ve left unsaid, undone

in the presence of a tender friend


Are crowding all my thoughts

sowing grief

in memories of a man

whom the autumn of years had yet to set

on hair not yet fully gray


I have closed out the day

the door, my eyes

but I cannot close the casket

still open; still warm in feeling

still framed by flowers and weeping


You are free; moved on

but I cannot


only bare forward the measure of injustice

in worldly terms, pray for understanding


I picture you seated at a table full,

name card in front of you

Laughing where tears can not live

But where you will, forever more


You are gone

but memories are not

you have finished, here

but here I sit

remembering, mourning

believing the day will come

when we will take hands

with a hearty shake and a loud amen

A Bride Going

I stood amid the impassioned tumult

of rivers met and joined

in foam and roar

heading west, acquiring;

each lending its force to rush

downhill, to fulfill the course of its first collecting


Off, here and there small rivulet’s cast about to find their way


I watch beneath the breast-white moon

that reflects the greater light

yet in glory all its own


The stars draw their zodiac

and men cast their course

this midnight sky draws all thoughts

from earth to the celestial and bright unending, revealed


these many lights and small

one endless canvas illuminates the earth before the day

they demonstrate the sapphire thrown


these marvels all, float on

flow in joy, to meet

a calmer canopy, where storms shall cease

a purer sea, where all is peace