Retrospect

There will be great poetry in this
     after a while,
However long it takes to figure out
What happened, but not long enough to let
It be forgotten.  Maybe time will heal
Our wounds before we find the words to say
But the words will be there, waiting
     to be spoken,
Hidden behind whatever scars remain,
Forming themselves within our shaken souls
Like a slow forgiveness.


from Calendrums

The End Of A Year

A Reflection of 2013

It was a year of days,
of memories encapsuled
by frames of wake and fall asleep,
of moments made precious
by being relived,
of stories waiting to be told.

It was a year of big stories
and everyday stories:
the day of the bear
and the day of the fish,
days of paddling
on rivers and lakes,
through easy currents
and rolling waves,

days of driving
into Appalachia,
up to the Iron Range,
across Indiana
and all over Chicago,
and trips up to the folk's farm,

days of running
through the heat and
in the cold,
on the treadmill
and on marked courses,
at my own pace
and alongside others,

days of beer and Scrabble,
days of PADS, Habitat
and Feed My Starving Children,
days of work and working together,
days of rest and play

days I stood up to speak
and days I stood by to watch and listen,
days of tears
and days of hugging
and a few of loneliness,

teh day I fixed a fence gate,
the days I finished a floor,
days of cooking,
days of restaurants,
days of poetry
and days of Ravinia,

a day or two for my daughter,
a day or two from my son,
days of airports and days of hotels,
days of family in North Dakota,
in Wisconsin, Minnesota
and Illinois.

days caught up in news cycles,
days of getting news of our own,
days of great. distant tragedies
and days of a great, fallen hero,
days of meditation,
peace and quiet,

a day of reading with the
world spinning around me,
the days of Blackhawk victories
and days of baseball games,
a day at PNC Park,
another at Busch Stadium,

days of council meetings
and fencing tournaments
and talent shows,
homework days, deadline days,
overtime days
and blessed days off,

days of living together
and days of needing to be apart,
days of looking into the future,
days appreciating the present
and days, like today,
looking back,

days, not often enough,
I took time to pray,
days, every day in its own way,
I celebrated,

a life of days
with time marked
by anniversaries
and calendar moments,
and now is the time
to mark this year of days

and to give thanks
for each new wake and fall asleep.


not previously published

The Point of Life

1 looks to the stars
turns to the east
leans on the powers
of reason & truth.
1 pays for the view
waits for the feast
contemplates beauty
& holds on to youth.
1 bows to the throne
flees from the beast
stands off alone
while one sets up 
a booth.
1 searches within
struggles for peace
sees time begin
to grow long 
in the tooth.
1 takes up the cross
suffers the sentence
‘s less where he is now
than where he 
is going.
1 ‘s done what he’s done
comes to his senses
turns to the one
hanging next to him,
knowing
1 speaks of a presence
lives for today
lifts up the other
and shows him 
the way.


from Stillwater Symposia

My Doxology

Yes, I will praise God from whom all blessings flow 
and by whose strength my every song is sung.  

And yes, I think there’s nothing wrong 
with letting my convictions show 
or testifying to the things I know.  

And yes, I’ll sing, and though I’ve learned 
the lesson long ago that God is (always) singing 
greater songs than I will ever sing, 

I will no less keep singing 
to the music God has given me 
and by the truest notes I know,

and with a voice as providence bestows
I’ll raise my earthly spirit up to heaven
as loudly as the wind allows, 

And yes, I will praise God from whom all blessings flow!


from Turning the Metaphor

Sabbath

December is the Sabbath of the year,
Or should be so: We need a month of rest
After eleven months of business,
Before the year ahead of us no less
And more: we need this restful moment here
To bless the coming year.

I wonder if it wasn’t by design,
If God’s own resting was a matter more
Of looking forward, getting ready for
The days to come, the challenges in store
And less of looking backwards and behind,
No matter how divine.

Thus, when in God’s own image we look back
We ought to simply say how good it was
And turn toward tomorrow —with a pause,
Of course, for all it’s worth and what it does:
This holi-month allows us to reflect,
Compels us to project.

As every end ignites a new beginning,
As every prayer concerns continuation,
As silent nights turn into celebration,
As cheers turn into wishes, as ovations
Build to the encore, as the show is ending
The Sabbath world keeps spinning.


from Calendrums

Silent Night (2010)

This is my wreath: my evergreen circle
      hung on a nail on my front door, closed
      to the world cold, to winds uncertain;
      this is my home, my dependable storm.
     Behind this door I live life daily,
      ready to open when friends stop by
      but happy to stay this side of winter
      showing my wreath to the world outside.

This is my tree: my forest aroma
      cut from its roots, brought in from the cold
      to where it’s warm and dry, my summer
      green as the grass beneath the snow.
     This is tradition marked with tinsel,
      silver and gold reflecting fire.
      I like my tree real, my ice artificial,
      the smell of pine with a touch of stars.

These are my lights: blinking and flashing
      my Christmas spirit without a sound
      but every note is filled with passion,
      every word completes my song
     and takes the message out of storage.
      After long nights of singing blind
      on lonely streets I am determined
      to light these candles for the world outside.

This is my card: my Christmas greeting
      telling you how I bid you well
      and think of you in this wishful season
      of shepherd’s wake and wisdom’s call,
     of peace on earth, forever hoping
      in God come down on a silent night.
      I’ve been a stranger.  You barely know me,
      but this is my chance to make things right.

from Calendrums

Christmas Eve, 2011

It’s cold outside (sometimes)
and it might snow (sometimes)
I feel the wind (sometimes)
but Sunday’s coming.

As we grow old (sometimes)
we drift apart (sometimes)
a thousand miles (sometimes),
but Sunday’s coming.

Memories stir. I hear a song
that makes me smile, and I start singing.

I don’t know where these winds will blow
but I believe that Sunday’s coming.

—

They count on us (sometimes)
though we are strangers (sometimes)
far from home (sometimes)
but Sunday’s coming.

And travel’s tough (sometimes)
and there’s no room (sometimes),
we’re all alone (sometimes)
but Sunday’s coming.

And we take comfort where we can,
and when it comes it ends up being

all we need. Sometimes a few warm words
are all it takes. Sunday’s coming.

—

Lately I feel (sometimes)
I've worked so hard (sometimes)
the whole night through (sometimes),
but Sunday’s coming,

Out in the fields (sometimes),
out in the dirt (sometimes),
out with the beasts (sometimes),
but Sunday’s coming.

I want to hear what shepherds hear,
and see the things that they’ve been seeing.

I want to stand next to the choir
and hear the song of Sunday's coming.

—

We've come this far (sometimes)
from distant lands (sometimes)
to see a child's eyes.
Sunday's coming.

And we've brought gifts (sometimes)
fit for a king (sometimes)
into this country barn.
Sunday's coming.

I want to see what wise men see.
I want to go where they are going.

I want to know the light that leads
to Christmas time and Sundays coming.

from Stillwater Symposia

A Christmas Poem (2012)

O boatswain, let this be a lesson
For your children lived and learned
Of hope stirred out of cynicism,
Grace unsought and love unearned,
That even as the inquisition
Mocks the shepherd just returned
Or marks the missionary vision
With a basic truth discerned
Before the mission ever started,
Far beyond the pasture’s hold,
So too the message angels uttered
In a field to shepherds told,
And so the glory first imparted
In a trough, uncounted, cold
And barely noticed, always mattered
More than Christmas green and gold.

No doubt we need to feel the fire,
Watch the stars and keep the day
As holy as the world desires,
Festive, bold and on display,
And certainly we should aspire
To give gifts as the wise men gave
And to receive from one another
More than the receipts we save,
But let there be a better lesson
After all the songs have died
To outlast every brief vacation,
Make each day we set aside
Endure, let every contradiction
Stir what’s beating deep inside
And let the challenge of the mission
Move us, ne'er to be denied.

from Stillwater Symposia

Seven Swans - for the Christmas Stocking, 2013

The Swan, by Rainer Maria Rilke ( a new translation) This toil through life as yet undone is hard; we move with ropes around us like the artless waddle of the swan and then death and the letting go of a life of walking on the ground is the swan nervously slipping in to a water that receives him gently, happily taking what has passed from under him, wave by wave, while the swan, with perfect peace and calm, becomes forthright and regal upon the water, rested and relaxed.

(not previously published)

Festivus, Revisited (2014)

Four days past the winter solstice, when
the sunlight hours are at their shortest and
the drive home's darker than it's ever been,
it's good to know that Christ is born, again,

and if that's more than you can comprehend,
imagine those first Christmas moments when
the angels broke the shepherds' darkness and
declared the day and what it meant to them.

God meets us in our fields of fear and sin
and brings joy to the world we're living in
and gives us peace, such peace that even when
the nights seem endless we're assured again

of good news worth repeating now and then:
to us, this day, the son is born, again.


from Stillwater Symposia

Reflective Study of Wallace Stevens' Man and Bottle

The mind is the great poem of winter, the man
    The heart is the rose and ice of spring, the child
Who, to find what will suffice,
    Who, accepting everything,
Destroys romantic tenements
    Creates the real poetry
Of rose and ice     
    Of life

In the land of war.  More than the man, it is
    In a state of grace.  More than a child, it is
A man with the fury of the race of men,
    A child full of the innocence of youth,
A light at the centre of many lights
    A rising sun, a breaking light,
A man at the centre of men.
    A child at the edge of truth.

It has to content the reason concerning war,
    It never questions the cause or concern of grace,
It has to persuade that war is a part of itself,
    It never argues that grace is out of place, it is
A manner of thinking, a mode
    A matter of feeling, the core
Of destroying, as the mind destroys,
    Of creating, so the heart creates

An aversion, as the world is averted
    A convergence, as the dawn converges
From an old delusion, an old affair with the sun,
    To a new awareness, a new affair with the sun,
An impossible aberration with the moon,
    The inevitable deviation from the moon,
A grossness of peace.      
    The end of night.

It is not the snow that is the quill, the page.
    It is not the rose that is the dawn, the spring.
The poem lashes more fiercely than the wind,
    The ice breaks, the winter melts away
As the mind, to find what will suffice, destroys
    As the heart, accepting everything, creates
Romantic tenements of rose and ice.
    The real poetry of life.

from Calendrums

Mots du Jour

This is my way of calling it a day,
Of sorting through immediate memories
To find what's worth repeating, and by these,
My random stops and starts along the way,
Remembering the journey.  Every day
Its own adventure, every moment seized
A glimpse of further possibilities,
Each orbit spinning something more to say.
So here's my say, my call, my mots du jour,
My journal written of its own accord,
My record entered into history,
The story of my life, my private tour,
My positure, my confluence ---each word,
Like time itself, as it occurs to me.

Profile

Don’t be a cipher, someone said.
Show us the face that hides behind
The poems you have let us read,
Give us a glimpse beyond the mind
Of the poet who has edited
His life down into metered lines,
Whose given his blog a leveled screed
But nothing past the words he’s signed.

Here, then, you have my picture: See
The aging and the fattening
Of fifty years, the lazy eye
That looks like it is focusing
On things in the periphery;
See what’s in need of ironing,
The fashions that have passed me by,
The cry for different coloring,

And there is more, of course.  I could
Divulge my sordid history
Of marriage leading to divorce,
Of education forcing me
To compromises, of a good
Career besmirched with obloquy.
But there is always more, of course,
Than who I would pretend to be.

With marriage, I have progeny
With stories of their own to tell;
With education, I have learned
The fathoms of my earthly well
Of ignorance; and should you see
The merchandise I try to sell,
For every dollar fairly earned,
My reputation’s mostly held.

But turn away from all of this.
What should it matter what I wear
Or how I always seem to look
Or just how well I comb my hair,
If I’m a father with no wife,
More lawyer than you’d have me be
Or lead an unenlightened life?
For now, you have my poetry.


from Turning the Metaphor

Moleskin 6.2

Carter’s professed respect was towards what Niebuhr perceived as a theological duty in the realm of politics, to try to do justice in a sinful world —maybe, as it would turn out, more than a peanut farmer could handle, although Carter would maintain a dedication to this duty beyond his political presidency. But Niebuhr is also known, and perhaps better known, as the author of a bit of wisdom that may seem to fit less into politics, or rather shows the higher nobility of theology over our more human policies: it is the wisdom of a prayer, one that prays for wisdom itself, as well as courage, each in their proper place. First, though, the prayer is for serenity: “God grant me the serenity to accept...”  More grant than a twelve year old can possibly be expected to grasp. And yet, on the riverbanks of youth, without any knowledge of Niebuhr’s wisdom, the thoughts, the prayers were forming.

Sonnet of the Fire

The gift of spirit,
The dance within,
The forge that makes me
more than clay.
The wheel that turns,
The heat that burns,
The fire’s fingers
forming me.
The fragile flame,
The sparks of time,
The fickle flicker
of the glaze:
The soul for 30,000 days,
each longing for eternity.

Sonnet of the Water

The gift of quench, the grace of flow,
The stir of raindrops on the soil,
The tears we cry, the salt we show.
The way we wash away our toil.
A soak to soothe, a drip to feed,
The air that we’re conditioned to,
The life we’re given and all we need,
Our vehicle and avenue,
The force that cuts from source to sea,
Before we’re born, after we die,
The waves of time and destiny,
Our means to cleanse and purify,
The drink we drink, to all things new
   and from all that we should let go:
I fill my glass and lift it to
   the gift of quench, the grace of flow.

Sonnet of Earth and Essence

I am earth,
my God is essence
and in between

The wind blows,
the water flows,
the fire burns.

All that is made
my God creates;
I am created

With heart and lungs,
with sweat and tears,
with want and will,

And without these
my God is absent
and I am only earth.

Sonnet of the Wind

The gift of breathe:
The air supply made of green leaves,
The chemistry of oxygen
the lungs receive,
The circulatory cells they feed,
The appetite and hunger’s power
of needing more,
The muscles that refuse to sleep,
The will to keep
the moments of a given day,
The way we live in increments,
The breath we give back to the green,
The whole routine
Beyond belief or comprehension,
Uncontrolled, unspecified,
The spirit of the simplest soul:
The gift of breathe.

Sonnets of the Spirit

Sonnets of the Spirit
A Song, a Creed, a Toast and a Dance

Moleskin 6.1: Prayer

Prayer

In 1974 a football player took the place of Tricky Dick, and in 1975 a peanut farmer announced that he wanted the job.  Jimmy Carter had a brother, Billy, whose own inspirations didn’t get much farther than a beer can, but Jimmy, the governor of Georgia now, was more driven. The football player, meanwhile, seemed bumbling, and not just physically, as Saturday Night Live had fun pointing out, but also inspirationally: on the campaign trail his most prominent position seemed to be to get people to wear a button that said, almost unimaginatively, “WIN.” Whip Inflation Now, it meant, although it never really explained how. All of this was in the papers I was delivering and starting to read more in my twelfth and thirteenth years, but it would be much later that I gave more than a passing notice to one of Carter’s more interesting side comments on the campaign trail, a nod of great respect to a theologian, Reinhold Niebhur.

Thirteen Miles (or, Thirteen Ways of Listening to the Run)

A bird flies with 
  instinctive purpose, 
     but humans run with 
  determined will.

Rivers flow from beginning to end, 
  all at once.  
     Within every runner
  there is a river. 

The poem of the run 
  is one without words,
     won without words: 
  the run is the poem,

life’s rhythm exceeding 
  the sum of its beats:
     the drum of the run 
  becomes the rhyme

all at once:  it's the road
  speaking up to the feet, the heart 
     sending will to the legs, the soul
  circulating the blood,

all at once, the wind of the world 
  blowing into the lungs, 
     the breath keeping pace 
  (keeping pace, keeping pace)...

The race, says Qoheleth, 
  is not to the swift,
     but time and chance 
  are not what keep me going.

...it's the quiet salt rivers 
  that roll off the face,
     like lines of a poem 
  within a poem,

the descant chant
  of muscles in tune 
     with the length of the race
  and the time that it takes;

all at once, it’s the senses:
  the dry lips of thirst,
     the sight of the bend,
  the scent of the breeze,

the feel of the earth
  with the treadmills gone,
     the sound of the air
  without headphones on

and the mind memorizing 
  the song, but the song
     defies contemplation
  or singing along:

the song is the run,
  to be learned on the run,
     all will turning to purpose: 
  the run is a song.


from Stillwater Symposia