Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree (Poems)

In Cloistered Rooms of Trembling Sight

in days of shadow when the sun is bright and the wind is of ill
when all the world beneath the blight feels the fearful chill

in cloistered rooms of trembling sight we shelter from the kill
bodies bowed before the might as this plague works its will

be not dismayed o children of the light
while this tempest has its fill
the master of the day and the night
draws nigh and says
peace be still

Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree (Poems)

Encircled Cross on Painted Sky

encircled cross
encircling i
eastern sun
on painted sky

morning comes
to mourning eye
new day begun
from bitter night

encircled cross
encircling i
the risen one
draweth nigh

Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree (Poems)

Stuck with Some Bad Company

i am sure my neighbors
get annoyed
but it’s one way i
shout i am alive
i will not
give in to the
fear

the first thing i do
once i get in the
truck is roll down the
windows and crank up the
stereo with some
bad company

i leave for work
electric guitars
screaming
drums banging
bass thumping
waking the neighborhood
with what has become
my rocking prayer

i can’t get
enough of your
love

Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree (Poems)

Giving Up Air

i wonder if i could be so gracious
if i could stare without fear into the unknown as my lungs cry out for oxygen
like my friend on the phone
who says if he was sick
he would let another have the ventilator
and move on into that other place
where there is no shortage
of breath

such are the choices that may
loom just over the horizon
while some discuss compensation
and the guns they possess
and others make soup and bread to share with those on the edge
i think of my loved ones who may not be with me in the coming days
the sadness that may await on the morrows

and yet i know that the spirit
blows where ere it will
the tops of the budding trees
gently sway before the
brightening sky
and now this morning at least
i feel a sense of peace
my heart expanding
like opening lungs
as the one who holds this
groaning world in her hands
breathes new life
and a love for all
into me

Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree (Poems)

All that is Greek to Me

To succumb as did Socrates,

poisoned by hypocrisies,

and disregarded philosophies,

must I make peace with my mediocrities?

Am I enslaved to Euripedes,

a servant to Sophocles,

a traveler in tragedies,

fated to a future of futility?

Or like the ill-conceived bumble bee,

a waxy-winged Icarus cast into the sea,

or the golden-tongued Demosthenes,

will truth forever my guiding sun be?

Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree (Poems)

Writing on the Apocalypse

there is a comfort that comes
with the scratching of the pen
the slow refinishing of a church altar
the precociousness of a child
who blissfully does not fully realize
the fearful nature of these times

my writing takes me into the day
old wood grain shines like new in the morning sun
the laughter of children playing greets me as I step outside

Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree (Poems)

There is a grayness to the air

i could leave for work now
but there is no traffic
i’d just sit in the parking lot
waiting until the alarm is turned off

the world moves still
but it does so with a kind of wariness
there is a grayness to the air
as if that which we anxiously
wait for has somehow
discolored the sky

so i will remain here
for a few minutes more
gazing out into the morning
wondering when color
will return again to our
existence

Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree (Poems)

The Comfort of Sparrows

with my eyes
closed
i turn towards the
eastern window
to see the
shadow
of a bird in
flight
across the
sky
of my
eyelids

in these days
of
waiting
i will not
live
in fear
eyes
wide open
or
shut
the sun
rises
the crocus
emerges
from her
winter
sleep
the birds
still
take
wing
like
a
morning
prayer

Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree (Poems)

RIP Ernesto Cardenal

a budding revolutionary is captured by the poet who came with the Word
returns to his own people to sing and tell the stories he heard
of the struggles of a people yearning to be free
whose eyes were opened by a priest who showed them a God they could see

his voice thundering across the green hills of Nicaragua, the priest in a black beret
still calls us to a forever kind of soul revolution today

dear priest, i will keep listening,
i will remember what i have heard,
for you have planted a vibrant seed in me,

o poet who came with the Word