> “There’s no end to the publishing of books, and constant study wears you out so you’re no good for anything else. The last and final word is this: Fear God.  Do what he tells you.” Ecclesiastes 12 I write to know my thoughts.  I think to write things down. …

> Cicadas The cicadas are back with their tree top conversations. They come back around my brother’s birthday. When they show up so do thoughts of the streets I roamed when all there was was time to sit on the curb under the streetlight and talk about everything and nothing.…

> And I sat in silence. My face warm like the coals below me. Despair clouded the endless sky and failed to connect the dots of stars. The spaces between… Those infinite spaces filled me with emptiness… and the cicadas sang on and on. How I wished someone had come…

> Soaking Draw me a warm psalm so I can slip a worn out soul into it. It’s been a long day of propositional truths. My backbone aches. The carpal tunnel flares in the traffic jam of neuron highways. Can I just soak in the feelings for a while? Will…

> I know. Is the back seat really a place for love?In one respect I think not…But hold on a minute, I’m talking about love.I dreamt I was a taxi driver in and outof life’s traffic and jams.My light was on waiting for a whistle or a hand.Then she got…

> Give Me a Bite of That Apple because I’m definitely outside the garden. I’m out in the carb jungle and it shows. Where can I buy fig leaves with spandex? I know why A and E hid. I know why I want to hide. My pants don’t fit right,…

> Holy Tension There is a tension between work and Sabbath. Outer and inner. Doing and being. There is a band of grace which keeps life lucid. Too much sweat and the heart shrivels and cracks like drought on our spirit’s skin. Excessive rest and heart soaked rain will grow…

> Luci’s Shawl Prayers of thanks as I wrap the wholly crocheted words around me.  It’s cool in this writer’s cave under the stairs. Your tight and lose knots rest easy on my cold shoulders. It was back on May twentieth, early in the morning that I was invited into…

>                 Someone once asked me what my sleep number was.                 “Twelve,” I spurted.                 I threw it out there.  It sounded mediocre to me.  The reality was that I didn’t know my number.  I didn’t know what the numerical range was on that bed.  I guessed it might…