You, Pontiac boy
Ever-beaconing muscle-car radio
Oldies songs all the way
Turned up

I, Chevy girl
Ever-grasping the volume knob
Ripped it off, tossed it out
My window

Pictured us
Forever grooving, reminiscing
Life-long love song
We’d drive


“Believe,” he admonished, five times again and again, from on high, living on bugs and breadcrumbs, singing some other language to me.

And speaking of crumbs, of fallen-food not given, I knew I’d better believe in something, since such was my fate.

He stopped then -they always do- and took away his scraps and sweetly sung psalms -they always will.

So she, a magical historian of a thing, in sweet song too, recounted, “Disappear. Disappear. Disappear.”

Photo Credit: Tiger R., age 9


Each of us has a Saturday song, resting patient in our heart

It stays there, soft, anonymous -almost nary a one makes its way

Upstairs and outward it ought go, and easy it must stay

Into our head, that our ears could hear to conduct our hands and feet

Combined ethnicities and God-ward now, as it should have been

Take her, the song, into your arms, and find together, the dance

(Architecture Credit: Frank Lloyd Wright; Annunciation Greek Orthodox Church, Milwaukee, Wisconsin)


A song exists
Not yet written
Waiting to be performed
Blank sheet music pages
Stacked neatly near my soul
Rustling now
My hand swift to assure
Notes forming from the void
Lyrics beginning to choose a voice

Sweet-sad violin
A torrent of dissonance
At last, it’s final note
Wafting far and heaven-ward
What chord progression with this?
Truth gives way
From the most distant place
Near-silent to crescendo