Five Haiku’s

My Child

Her tears were falling

washing memories away

of the empty crib.

Pilate

He sits at table

reaches for the blood red wine

with his blood stained hand.

Good Friday

Day has become night

the condemned slowly die

the people walk away.

Maundy Thursday

Bread is broken open

dirty feet cleansed with his tears

as wine becomes blood.

Love Lost

In the dim moonlight

I reach out to feel your warmth

in that vacant space.

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As Fall Ends

Fall leans into winter

a reminder that we

need to lie fallow

to rest and prepare

our hearts and souls

for the coming of a child

who brings peace

into our conflicted world

time of sabbath

embracing the silence

as nature renews

frost coating empty fields

denuded trees stretch limbs

into cold gray skies

a scent of snow

on the breeze

mixes with wood fire

from darkened homes

as people give thanks

resting in that peace

of knowing God’s presence

in the deep silence

that calls us to be still.

The Wait

Now we wait

in the midst of the noise

we wait

the anticipation grows

the need for light intensifies

our hearts are not filled

with the goods being hawked

so we get more

thinking to fill the emptiness

that will never be filled

so the soul waits

knowing what we do not

knowing that the true light

is so near, yet, so far

it knows our needs

even as we run

from the love reaching out

touching us deeply

and in the silent watches

we stand still

hearing the whispers of life

of peace on earth for all

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

My Confession

I was young

I truly believed

that we were right

things were black and white

we flew Old Glory

basking in it’s power

our patriotism was boundless

feeding our desire to do right

but in the mud and blood

the cries of children

who did no wrong

still haunt my dreams

and I’m not so I sure anymore

of being right or wrong

as voices in the streets

scream at one another

each holding Old Glory

claiming their truth

to be the only truth

and I no longer am young

belief is an illusion

being right is not a badge

that one wears proudly

as black and white

merge into patterns of gray

where we all truly live.

To Parker J. Palmer

You are an elder

or so I’ve read

a sage

filled with wisdom

for the age

a voice of reason

in unreasonable times

I read your books

and wonder

if I will ever achieve

that place of honor

of being an elder

filled with wisdom

whose words

are quoted

by the likes of ones

like me

who strive to write

with the same passion

and depth

or will I fade

into the twilight

a mere shadow

of who I once was

whose words are dust

that blow away

in an autumn breeze

never to return

lost forever to time.

Thrift Shop Volunteers

They do not materialize

with gossamer wings

no ethereal,

other worldly light

surrounds their bodies

they make no grand predictions

to young virgins

or calm the fears of shepherds

out in the darkened fields

instead they are just there,

every day,

with no expectations

helping forgotten people

listening to the stories

no one else will listen to

holding a hand

when needed

being a light of hope

in a world gone dark

doing this for no wage

or any praise

they minister in the wilderness

giving comfort to all

then go home in the evening

their light still shining

in the hearts of those they touched.