The Essence

Worthy knowledge

is not the random hoarding

of plumage,

but rather a synthesis

of key points

and the most essential things,

so that empty noise and excess

may finally
dissipate.

To the Winds

When history breaks,

there is no splint

big enough

to contain it.

Altered

Awoke to a violent pounding 

in my head . . . 
A great darkness, long ago,

descended upon the land,

and nothing is

as it was.

Window

A speck of information

the size of a pinhead --

upon such a detail

an entire galaxy may pivot;

and somewhere, in the awed hush

of realization,

someone's universe

exponentially widens.

Hand in Hand

But what is poetry without music,
fountainhead of verse? 
Words, alone, are only
signs
whispering of the far greater . . . . . 
Add the symphony,
and meaning bursts into
lush bouquets that multiply wildly
as they stun
the heart.

Greek

The outside may have 

nothing to do

with the inside --

just a cloak, perhaps,

to shelter

from the wind and rain . . .

Greek to the inside's

Chinese.

"Normal's" Price

Memory storm over,

and "normal" resumes. 

Usual demeanor slides behind the wheel,

efficiency clicks into gear,

present time drives forward,

and traffic moves well. 

Yet, at the same time,

something much deeper,
intuitive,
alive,
and utterly unable to mechanize itself

is nearly crushed

between the gears.

The Smallest

If they don't notice

the wounded bird

fallen from the nest,

how can I expect them

to turn toward me?

Rather, 

I should draw the orphaned bird

close to my own heart,

for he, too, needs warmth --

and God's eye is

already

upon him.

Lift Gently

Lift gently, fog,

that soul may not

stagger

from light's sudden

clarity.

By Words and Brush

"Why poetry?" -- artist's inquiry.

Reply -- "Why paintings for all to see?

Play, Rachmaninoff, Play

Like an animal in a cage,

captive learned to be still,

listening

for breaks in the

silence

until ears rang

piercingly,

incessantly

against the iron fist

of sound's absence.

The Free

Fragile, so fragile

are butterfly's wings!

Of Love's tender freedom

they airily sing,

eluding capture by the

coarsened hand --

Beauty resisting beast's

jealous command. 

Less

Fear . . .

no smell,

no taste,

no sound . . . 

just something

shrinking.

Life After Death

Mind's crevice opened

and time poured in,

music gushing through,

memory electric,

senses aflame --

tongues of fire

sizzling,

leaping,

rising,

spreading,

warming the extremes

of numbed forgetting --

hunger ravenous

for the heartbeat of drums,

pulsing, pulsing

into the ground and up and around --

the firm embrace of

clear, strong sound

wedding my body

to the ground.

The Real

Edges rubbing, grinding raw

More ragged abrasions than eye ever saw

Soul bruising soul even when unintended

The spiritual crashing through fences unmended

The battle plays out on unseen ground

Onslaught relentless, no rest to be found

Wounds gaping wide as blood and tears mingle

Winds so biting, the extremities tingle

This -- the landscape no eye can behold:

Spiritual warfare, losses untold.

Counterpoint

Hunched shoulders, a shrug,

restless, skittering eyes,

a nod, a glance,

poorly hidden surprise;

rising voice, taut fingers,

gestures young in the older,

head forward, ram-style,

stance dismissive, eyes colder:

The language of movement

often opposing the word,

betraying the tenor

of messages unheard.

The Hard Spot

What does one say,

where does one start,

when one bumps into

a rock in a heart?

One tries to warm it

as best one can,

but the rock in the other

coolly thwarts one's plan.

One's efforts are measly,

too unworthy to be

of concern to the rock,

glacier in its own sea.

Homegrown

For months I wrote all alone on faith
that the readers God wanted would come.
To push this along felt hasty and forced,
so I followed my lonely sun.
Readers will come, and readers will go --
either way, something wants to be said.
So each day I invite myself
to rearrange thoughts in my head.
Even when I feel alone
with poem after poem after poem,
I trust that God will find some souls
meant to carry my words back home.

The Precious

Butterfly, flee --

escape the net

of those who would dissect you

without regret.

A Candle for Jude

The heavy ache hit me late this night. 

Epiphany, 2002: 

My baby, Jude, who never saw light,

"Maman" is missing you. 
This is my candle, little one,
in my heart an undying flame,
tonight brought out in thanksgiving for you
and for the privilege of saying your name.

Writer, Stricken

A broken writer is like a splintered

pencil stub,

easily misplaced,

quickly worn down

to the eraser,

which he might well use

to rub out his own

screaming words --

thin little matchsticks flaring only for an instant,

leaving him once again

a prisoner of obscurity,

message unheard.

Art's Call

The manly sculpture
wept.

Crowds gathered 'round

as the gallery owner scurried forth.

For days, weeks, months

the masses thronged the hall.

All gazed at the wonder.

Some took photographs.
Magazines and newspapers raved.

"Profound!  A work of genius!" all exclaimed,

peering closely,
seeking to locate the precise cleft in the rock --
the artist's singularly brilliant stroke --
which had released the flow of "hidden liquid."

One day, a child broke through the crowd

and ran right up to the statue.
"Veronica!" her mother gasped.
"High art!  A masterpiece!" the gallery owner cried.  "Do not touch!"

The child never heard.
With her little finger,

she wiped away the statue's tears.

"You came,"

whispered the statue,

and wept no more.

Panorama

A long, long time it took me

to realize I'd permitted

"zealous" souls

to shrink my own.

Christmas - Present

While the world, frenetic, forgets Christmas,

for me it begins --

air crisp, dotted with flurries,

nighttime's lacy veil.

Breathing freely for the first time since --

when? --

I feel His peace . . .

full and flowing, clear as water.

Could it be this simple?

This nighttime clear,

this looking 'round,

this breathing deeply,

soul sinking, exhausted, into rest

safe and solid.

They frightened the soul (didn't they?) --

tied it up in knots,

worried it sick,

chased peace away

with their alarming madness --

self-inflicted craze mistaking

excess for joy,

emotionalism for love,

full bellies for peace.

Meanwhile, He was sleeping,

just sleeping,

quietly in a manger.

When all is still and calm enough,

when I can feel Him Being, like a blanket, Always and Everywhere,

then I know, for certain,

that I need never heed the mad ones,

for He wants me neither jittery nor frightened.

This -- this! --

is my Christmas.

Not Much, Really

What he wanted -- it wasn't much, really.

He was lonely, aching to feel welcome . . .

somewhere.

He just wanted a little conversation,

a "hello," a "thinking of you," a "how are ya'?"

The people down the road, though,

they were real busy.

Lots of yard work to do, some haulin', some liftin' --

"Gotta' work, gotta' work hard, pressure -- ya' know? --

gotta' make things comfortable."

Sure, he thought.  Sure.  They gotta' get comfortable.

"Comfortable" -- real important thing. 

He wasn't comfortable.

No matter what angle he adjusted his chair on that porch,

no one came.

They'd see him, ya' know?  They'd wave.

He'd wave back.

Charity really fills a body up inside,

don't it?