The Wait

I come to this place

to find myself imagining

where is my God

in the wildness of the wind,

where do I go to listen

for that voice so dear,

to once again hear that call

and feel the spirit within,

the wilderness is cold

the heart is broken

and now I stand here

in supplication and prayer

seeking the divine Logos

to speak to my darkened self

calling me from my tomb

into the light of the living One.

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Heaven or Hell

The church sign asks

where will we spend eternity

heaven or hell

and I wonder

if that is what God is

a judge sentencing me

to a place of pleasure

or to one of torment

I wonder where,

where is the God of love

where is the God who cares

the world weeps

and I ask

where is grace

in this sign

or do I have to choose

curtain one

curtain two

both a dead end

so I choose to ride by

to love, not hate

to care, not ignore

to stand for life

and not for death

in the midst of confusion

where we don’t know our way

choosing love over hate

choosing heaven on earth

not the hell we created

The Dream

Hair of spun gold

eyes as blue as the sea

her skin alabaster

she walks softly

along the narrow paths

in the early morning

footfalls silent

as she draws near

I see her standing

beckoning me with a look

silence fills the woodlands

my eyes are only for her

I’m a prisoner

caught in her web

as she vanishes

mist rising from the ground

The Blue Hour

The early morning begins to dawn

I sit on the edge of this blue hour

between two worlds of the passing night

and the beginning of a new day

not rushing forward but lingering here

watching the sun slowly rise in the east

as wood elves dance in the meadow

harvesting the dew laden moss

while a young deer grazes on cornstalks

that has grown tall and thick in the fields

and the earliest of birds begin to gather

to feed the hungry mouths in their nests

in this blue hour I am at peace

in the gentle glow of the dawns light

listening to the silence as loud as life

that shows the way to the one who loves

reaching out through the early haze

to embrace my heart with gentle hands

Spring of ‘72

In the spring of ‘72

we sat on the porch

of the old farmhouse,

in the warm sunlight

as the lilacs bloomed

their scent drifting

on a gentle breeze

talking

about the future

children, maybe

a nice house

a life lived together

both promising

we would grow old

together

our hearts bound

by a lifetime of love,

now we are old

sitting on the porch

gazing into a future

still filled with promise

of the love we share

as the sun sets slowly

on these closing days

Lovers

I look into her eyes

deep blue waters

where I drown

in a sea of passion

love

eternal, precious

living love

that breaks chains

our bodies touch

we rise on a wave

high into the heavens

touching eternity

where angels dwell

and our hearts sing

a sweet song

the song of a love

that never dies.

Apologies

I apologize,

for all the poor poetry

that I write,

breaching every rule

telling

not showing,

the weak reflections

and cliches

to mask my languor

as a writer and poet.

I should read

more of your poems

that are manna

feeding the psyche,

bridging the chasm

between worlds

in need of words

that soothe and soften

the harshness

of anger and deceit.