Poems

The sky lightens and the morning star grows bright, grows dim. Bird songs begin exuberantly.

Our dear, good, faithful— Our Father— may everyone find himself coming home carefully on roads brimming with tenderness, layered with light. May all, however hungry or raw, reach Your ultimate address past a world gone dizzy with drifting.

Martha tasks loom mountain-high, thought-wearying at the outset. A choice? Mary chose a quiet path of listening and heard his word.

Oh, how I suffer with righteous indignation, feeling so correct in the face of others' wrongs! (Yet sensing clearly I'm the one who's smarting!) Until, in humility, I see another's self-assertion can't intimidate or offend me. It's only my reaction that calls for being squelched! And so I hold in thought the true idea—man— in place of error's farce until no pushy mortal's left to elicit indignation and self-righteousness dissolves in the joy of knowing God.

You, you, you. I see you in the center of God's heart, The apple of His eye, In the hollow of His omnipotent hand.

When you stand before the mirror, You do not have to wait To see your counterpart appear, Or glass elucidate. Nor does God wait for you To reach a slow perfection.

Thank you, Father-Mother, for the one who whistles during the silent prayer, for the one whose dad left home last week, for the one who came after the all-night party. Soul, You unveil them.

We collided on the ocean of selfishness our angular aims taut with now's ambition our minds heavy with I   I   I cargo destined to sink to dark nowhere. Let's leave hate's spiral-down for a thought-helix up   up   up into God's covenant   to divine conception and high vision of the new man.

I don't have to wait till later on to see him as he is. I don't have to wait to share the laughter in some remote and vague hereafter— I can be joyful now.

We search in vain for man in mortal history. Old/young, birth/maturation/death are mundane concepts; deceptive, darkened fancies, which are effaced by light-drenched actuality.