nighttime songs our fears erase

a story lived, now story told

we, early young, now later, old

see stranger things than daytime held

but not without our sorrows quelled


we fluff and tuck and yawn and brush

pray God remove all sinning blush

the air now cool in silver glow

what dreams may come we do not know


divested now of time and chance

we bid adieu and leave the dance

till thricely woven round with grace

the nighttime songs our fears erase


Learning his name

The ending to all beginnings







When the reprisals of our souls,

too young to love, too small for pain,

repeat their mistaken ventures into

the uncolored light of mistaken journeys,

then it is that the walls whisper

their ghostlike songs of ever after –

sighs of the imperfect.

* * *

Here there are no endings,

only endings of old beginnings

that transform by a refusal

to submit to the indentured servitude

of the hollow and broken,

preferring instead the ancient newness

of Cistine handshakes.

* * *

In the cowls of earth, her ears of stone,

hear fathomless time, tonsured and teased

from her birthplace deep in

embowelled truth whose Name Is.

Encompass within yourself this

faceless sojourner only now

learning his name.

Photo courtesy of my friends and fellow monastic-creatives at Abbey of the Arts. Thanks Christine Valters-Paintner.

Surrender – a prayer

Here, in this place awash in daylight grace,

I live my entire life on the head of a pin

on which is inscribed a single word:


When todays are saturated in

a low, crawling, redeeming sadness:


When the all-pervasive pall of a greening grey

removes dead soul-skin and tastes

like eating raw sewage:


When the bitter pill of leafless desire

gets stuck in my throat and

stops up anything nutritional:


When the wafer thin moments

of happy times bought at another’s expense

rob me of me:


When my lover who shares

my bed, my skin, my guts, my hopes,

becomes nothing more than a side dish:


When, in convenience, I sidestep

responsibility to another

and choose the busy road of non-involvement:


When I’ve surrendered all I am and have,

all I’ve been and will become,

all that was, all that is and all that is not:


When I’ve surrendered all,

I gain the one thing,

the Pearl of Great Price,

the Lily of the Valley,

the One who is in all,

who is all

and who needs no introduction because…

my soul knows him.

Help me to forgive you, God

I recognize this is not the first of its kind. Others have also shared just such things in the wake of the recent, horrific atrocities in Syria. I feel impotent to change much of this. But I can write. And I can pray. Here, I do both. Join me…please.






Lord, they did not ask for dusty feet

sandaled and sore

to walk over the flesh and bones

of neighbors and friends,

of brothers, sisters and parents.

They didn’t ask to be brought before

someone else’s tribunal on imagined

charges of being what they should not be,

what you created them to be.

They did not seek out this desperation

that found them huddled, fearful and crying.

To see the bloated bodies of fellow pilgrims

floating down the river, under bridges,

stuck and floating on rocks jutting out

and shaking bony fists at you for justice,

is to see a God too small to save.

Or am I missing something, Lord?

I am not smart enough to know

the fancy talk at long, important tables

where cigar-smoking men carve up

the world with a wink and a handshake.

I am not wise enough to understand

how to discern what most is needed.

I am not strong enough not to hate,

nor still enough not to stir up

my anger, my outrage.

Lord, if I am forced to sit and watch

what looks like the refuse of hate-filled politics

paraded before a God with weak arms,

and no stomach to move into the fray;

then, help me to forgive you, God,

if only long enough to dive in myself.

Who knows?

Perhaps we’ll meet each other there.


A Tuesday Examen

lily pads








Scattered across lonely seas

dwell the lilies of desire.

Dotted between the balancing


green are other frondish delights 

with fingers extended on palms

upraised, deterred by nothing


but the gentle floating away of

newly made ripples, starting

from a center and pushing out


to the edges where the shoreline

awaits to receive what waves may come.

They have made big what once


was small, white-capped wonder

from still and never-sunken petals.

The end exhumes the beginning


but little beginnings brought

such proud endings, humbled

by endless sandy sleep. Here


God is waiting.

God is watching.

God is cooking fish. 

waves crashing










Crashing waves: