Monday, July 12, 2021


Good friendships evolve into great romances...

my late sister Rebecca and her husband, Jim! 

Sunday, June 06, 2021



A holy dubiousness settles
in the dust of human decadence,
and we are lost to the sounds
of silence; then, they appear from 
the void to enchant us with 
strange songs of justice. 

No, the holiness category remains
lifeless with no vibrancy; only a
cold emptiness staring at a blank
empty world. But they bring angelic
harp-like sounds to drug us with 
equity’s rhetoric. 

We, an unholy tribe, looking for
family, remain lost in the maze of
human confusion with no beginning
or end; and they offer sacred 
brotherhood to purify the land with 
bloodied hands. 

And then their music begins to
sound in us - playing our fears back
to us in clanging sounds of chains
of our own making; and these 
enlightened ones breathe narcotic 
thoughts in us. 

Surely they must be right, educated
and eloquent, building their lies on 
defaced walls of our learning and
we remain for them, serious jesters,
doing spins to music only they 
listen to. 

Monday, May 31, 2021

IF - Kipling

 IF - Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you   
    Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,   
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
    But make allowance for their doubting too;   
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
    Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
    And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;   
    If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;   
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
    And treat those two impostors just the same;   
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
    Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
    And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
    And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
    And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
    To serve your turn long after they are gone,   
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
    Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,   
    Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
    If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
    With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,   
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,   
    And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

Sunday, May 30, 2021



Under the afternoon blue sky,
Bolivia sprinkles her magical rest
in the heart of a restless pilgrim - 
he searches for peace too 
hidden to be found.

Yet the blue sky says again
and again, "all-will-be-well" -
nature's speech wrapped in
divine, quiet sounds pulsing
toward the tired pilgrim.

Embraced from so far away by
a perfect, cloudless blue sky, 
the pilgrim's weary heart 
finds holy peace, he cannot put 
to rest.

Saturday, May 29, 2021



Sigh...the heavy laden boat
carries burdens and dreams
of our undoing but we carry 
them anyway in Holy love, 
not knowing if the boat will 
smash itself on the hidden

The indifferent sea - lost in its 
waves, oblivious to our cry, 
blind to our outstretched hands 
and dangling feet -  remains 
enslaved by pulsing currents 
none can see.   

We drift slowly toward
Earth's sunset, waiting for 
the dark night, listening
to the gentle gurgle of the 
waves, hoping for angels to 
descend from Jacob’s ladder
to save us from our despair.     


Saturday, April 24, 2021



A thread finds its way into the needle's

eye, and goes for a holy walk, weaving 

sacred beauty on life's embroidery. 

Sharp and pointed, the needle plunges 

through tiny orifices like a diver, plunging

into the dark sea.  


The needle breaks tiny bubbles below and   

surges through the cloth's surface, carrying

the thread across minute openings, visible 

only to the needle. Oh to breathe fresh air!

And darkness around the needle 

dissipates under the Sun's light; 

now; the angels sing to the threaded 

needle, their voices weave the needle 

across life's sacred embroidery.      




Sunday, April 04, 2021




Leaves drink the Sun's  

sacramental light and shine through 

green foliage; perched on their 

tips don't petals look for attention?

Slender veins hold the green

leaves on the stem, giving them poise,

next to others in Godly design.

And they stand not alone but together

to claim holy attention.