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Continue reading →: Take Joy Sister! All Is Grace. Eucharisteo!
Those are the hand written words for my wife from Ann Voskamp. This morning I finished One Thousand Gifts and wept. Here, this grown man of fifty one, weeping over a woman’s ability to form into words the authentic struggle and blessing of life. It wasn’t information passed, but a…
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Continue reading →: Salt and Light: Savor the Flavor.
Who threw the salt into center night? Deep space thoughts sprinkled and preserved. The flavor of infinity dashed between light years and a dark night. The staring, my taste buds, the stars, raise my blood pressure. “When I look at your heavens, the work of your fingers, the…
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Continue reading →: Window Of Time: Early Morning. A Poem
Like a sash it opens just enough to let the mist saunter down and in. This morning breaks and the valley receives its due covering. A hovering of this evanescent spirit, spread in and though the crowd. Diverse fog splitters rising toward the heavens, trees reaching for…
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Continue reading →: Under The Sliver Of Soffit
Sliver of soffit. Under it I read aloud words like rain. They seep into arid regions in me. Tears of burgeoning sky land on page 205. “It’s not how we think of God but how God thinks of us.” Oh Lord, let drops slip into the cracks of…
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Continue reading →: Good Morning Moon: My, How You Shine!
4:00a.m. In bed I am. All I could see was him staring at me The white of his eye was hung out to dry. We’re both up now, lookouts for that cow. The mooing moon, Ole Bessie to swoon. “Maybe she can’t play, she’s…
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Continue reading →: Monday Morning Muse: Four Way Stops and Old Man Thoughts.
Monday morning sometimes is like a filled four way stop. There is hesitation, balking, and questions. Who was here first? You wave to the other driver. You move your mouth through the windshield and three others stare. You try to read their lips and interpret their hand motions. Ugh. I…
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Continue reading →: Mean
3:58 a.m. My bladder didn’t alarm me. Thoughts pulled me out of bed and I lifted the toilet seat anyway. I then fumbled in the dark and plucked a book off the shelf. Wendell Berry started poeming me. Old man thoughts strung to the background hum of the…
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Continue reading →: My Mother’s Heart. Every Mother’s Heart.
It is a muscle that flexes, always. I break open her chest with the sign of the cross and knead gently between the tightened beats. It is toned but rarely down. When it is pulled and ridden like a Charlie horse, I pray for the…
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Continue reading →: Beauty Poured Out As I Worked Today
Beauty just is. and is and is. I am thankful for eyes with which to see.
Gerald the Writer 