Outrageous in its extremism

This one no license granted

By some authority

By some wilderness code

No, not this one

Grew to be a rescuer

Now in need of rescuing

Yet none mouth to ask

Nor hearers to listen

No door to open

Or hands to receive

Disappearing as a giant

In an ancient forest

In plain sight

Lifeless, anyway

Struck by lightning

Too many times


Eager to honor Sunday’s silence

Today’s truth shall advance with a gentle, sweeping motion

Holding at bay metal-and-plastic grind against concrete

Until Monday beckons me, eager again

God Glow

Pancakes on a Sunday morning were never supposed to be so loud.
The only sounds I’d predicted were newspapers unfolding, rustling pages after an appropriate period of time.
Harp-laced sunshine musically poured from the orange juice pitcher to your glass, my son.
Cozy, fluffy, buttermilk breaths, exhaling at long last, I wanted for us.

But the week had gotten the better of me.
Instead you heard man’s demands and the echoes of entitled children.
Screeching chairs against cold floor tiles and anxiety-producing forced air overhead.
Waste and plastic and a bit of excess.

But there was the blessed color, wasn’t there?
Tell me you noticed, beautiful.
The smiles of the Sunday workers, employed by capitalism, but still genuine and holding their own.
The crowd beside us in Sunday best, good news and gospel aglow.

Brothers and sisters we are.
Take that from the morn, my child.
This lovely, winding, seasonal scene of our lives.
And the time we were given and allowed ourselves.


#sleepless @12:38am

In New York I know
It is an hour later
Here there are souls a swayin’ now 
To White Rabbit, Creeque Alley
Golden oldie Boomer ilk
Some defiant steps 
Of a generation
Keeping me awake 
But ill-equipped to face Monday Monday