Beautiful Voice, sing to me once more
in this exquisite morning.
Slender leaves of the tall oleander rest
motionless, unable to follow the wind’s demands
because of your song’s enchantment.
Birds hang still in the air, wings extended
as if in flight, but halted in time by the
melody rising higher and higher into
the cloudless blue sky.
The echo of your song flows down from the
mountain, washing the valley in
joy and wonder.  Deer and bear pause their
foraging, stand motionless in awe while
forests of pine and clusters of aspen
bow to the grandeur of this magical moment.
O Beautiful Voice, your song embraces the
depths of all being and we are breathless,
stunned into an astonishment of the Sacred.
Sing!  Beautiful Voice

I’ve lived a long time, logged lots of miles,
made some good friends, shared many smiles
because life has been good; not many trials.
I’m a fortunate man, indeed.

I have memories of childhood, peaceful and sweet,
a family that loved me and would often repeat
that my future held wonder; I could pick any street
and success would be mine without fail.

I’ve had chances not given to every man,
and I’ve done everything I think I can
to learn and try to understand
the purpose of my life.

I’m grateful for most that’s come my way.
I’m really not sure there’s been a day
when I haven’t stopped a minute to say:
thank you for everything.

But one fact is clear above all the rest;
I could never have stood life’s hardest tests
without the love of the very best
woman that God ever made.

I think I’ll be around for a little while yet;
don’t know for sure, but no point to fret
because I’d be willing to make you a bet:
I’ll be around again.

In a moment, I will fill this pristine page
with words, small ones and big ones
mixed with a sprinkling of commas and apostrophes.
I will select beautiful words, powerful words,
to paint a picture that is developing in my mind.
I cannot rush to write.
The canvas is not complete, the inner artist still works.
When the last brush stroke is lifted from the mind creation,
I will begin to shape letters into words,
words into flowing streams of thought until
I can sit back, taste the last sip of coffee and smile.
There it is.
A Poem

“Harness nature.”  You’ve heard that, too.
Maybe even said it.
Nature was made for us to use.
We own it all and we can choose
which forests to chop and burn.

The lakes are there to run our mills,
the bottom line demands it.
See all those rolling, wooded hills?
A year from now they’ll all be filled
with beautiful mid-priced homes.

I don’t know why you worry so.
It’s just a tree, you know.
Progress means we build and grow.
Think of the many things that show
the economy’s benefits.

So sorry, friend, I have go go.
The dozer’s on the way.
We’ve got to block the river’s flow
in order for those trees to go.
Isn’t progress great!

I hope to exhale my last breath of life
just as the sun drops low in the west,
painting the mountains in shades of burnt orange.
An eagle will circle tall pines on the crest
of sheer granite cliffs whose crevices hold
echoes of life from the past.

I will join the chants of warriors and chiefs
and ride swift ponies across a gray sky
as the last rays of sunlight surrender to night
and peace embraces the land with a sigh.
In a starlit canyon, I will lay my head
on soft meadow grass and I’ll know I’m home.

One day, when a hawk calls out in the dawn
and you pause at the sound, like recalling a dream,
I’ll rise on currents of warm desert winds
and touch the moon with the tips of my wings.
Then you’ll know by the flare of two streaking stars
that my love for you will never die.

Words matter,
never to be tossed casually from

pulpit to pew like confetti.

Saturation is a weak strategy.

Light a sky rocket, not a sparkler.

Trajectory, timing, tempo are

important ingredients in the recipe.

Content helps, too.

The effort is not meant to please,

certainly not entertain like

a stand-up performer.

Command of the language is good,

a bit of knowledge helpful,

integrity essential. Say it with

poise and passion, then sit down.

The rest is out of your hands.

Will anyone remember day after tomorrow

the point, the poem, the story, the

elegant exposition of an obscure sentence

in a book few read? Probably not, but

then the life expectancy of a spoken word is

mere minutes. In the off chance that the

worlds of hearer, speaker, and Spirit collide,

it’s worth it.

Preach with head and heart, tread gently

on tender ground: if you say it, mean it.

love them anyway.

I had a meeting this morning with

Sacrum, Ilium & Pain, Inc., joint

discomfort specialists and known to

many as The Backache Brothers.

They just opened a new office

in the lower south side

near the intersection of

L4 and L5 streets.

It’s the place formerly occupied

by Disc, Inc. Disc abandoned the space

several months ago, leaving a vacancy between

L4 and L5. I inquired of Ilium about

relieving my back pain. He

looked at me from head to toe

and then answered:

“Have you looked in the mirror

recently? In profile?”

I ended the conversation right there

because I refuse to be insulted,

intimidated or confronted with the truth.

As I walked out the door, Sacrum

called out after me:

“So, stop swallowing basketballs!”

I heard laughter

as I turned the corner.

Rude!

I will rest on my back in a sprawling field of Spring bluebonnets
just as the first pinpoints of starlight peep through the black
curtain falling gracefully across the earth.
I will lift my arm to its full length and stretch even
more to touch each emerging star with a paintbrush
dripping electric color.  Greens and Reds glisten alongside
Flaming Yellows.  Pinks and Purples dance in the Moon’s obliging
glow.  I will arrange this conflagration of color into
cascades of joy falling toward Earth.
The gasp of the Planet will be heard in galaxies
far, far away.  Sounds of laughter and singing will
swirl around and through all living things
and there will be one incredible moment
of unspeakable delight, an orgasm of exultation,
that will shake the granite mountains
and cause grazing deer in color-splashed meadows
to leap into the night air.
And, wrapped in a soft blanket of bluebonnet
perfume, I will sing “Glory, Glory, Glory”
through my tears of limitless gratitude.

 

The only limitation to limitless wonder
is the size of the airplane window.  One can take in only
so much, perhaps just enough to start a song in the soul.
The song rises on strong currents of wind as they
push agreeable clouds past the little porthole onto
life six miles below.
Cloud faces and odd shapes and playful animals,
artistic creations that change with the moment,
perform on the transparent stage, leaving their shadowed
presence on the sprawling landscape.

From great height, mountain ridges fold into shadowy valleys,
thin blue lines of water wander aimlessly, and, then,
without warning, human contributions to the
developing mural appear, streets ordered and laid out in
tidy patterns, organized for aesthetic efficiency.

Across the plane’s narrow center aisle, two people play
the verbal game known as “My Briefcase Is Bigger Than
Your Briefcase” as each, in turn, tries to outshine the other
with personal adventures and professional accomplishments.
They seem to enjoy the contest, unaware of
or uninterested in the artistic display beyond their shaded window.

Perhaps if they raised the vinyl window covering, they
might be persuaded that adventures and accomplishments
take a distant second to great billows of clouds
dancing in the morning sun.

Light is fading in the late afternoon.
Soon all the bluster and bravado of midday
brightness will retire stage left, making room
for long shadows that precede night’s performance.

For many, it’s a melancholy moment.
Activity is abandoned for another day.
The office is locked and the bus heads home.
School kids finish the last math problems and
the aromas of dinner float throughout the house.
In a few hours, lights in neighborhood windows will
flicker and disappear.  Light will rest beyond the western
horizon as one half of the world sleeps.  Darkness will rule.

Except.

Except for those ancient shoreline sentinels that defy darkness,
penetrating deep blackness with bright beams that bless the vigilant
eyes of sailor and seaman seeking reference and reassurance.

May the work of all who broadcast pathways of light be blessed.
May all fear be overcome, all who are lost be found, all because
the Light shines.