A Poet’s Sun

A poet’s sun this morning,
this light that turns
bare trees baroque.

In rotation with the seasons,
the harvest safely in,
faith is a sure thing.

Earth wears the sun
like a hat
that says Imagine.

Some will say we’re dreamers
and maybe that is so.
I just know it’s easy

to see the world as one
in the hush of early morning
with a liturgy of sun.


with thanks to John Lennon
for his inspiring song “Imagine”

Epiphany in a Winter Field

In purple shadows,
a lone fence post
keeps sentinel

over a field
deserted by all
but  a few field mice

and some twisted wire–
remnant of a boundary
long since breached

by the elements
and the ensuing

Once, foolish man
had claimed it
as his own.

This is God’s land;
we are footprints
then  dust.

November’s Bloom

The pines
outside my window
whispered softly in the wind,
shared conversations
scented balsam,

and I, curious
as I am,
sat on the warm side
of the window,

Of course, their words,
spoke in another tongue,
escaped me
but there was something
warm about them.

Even November
has its bloom,
and there it was,
a russet coated doe standing
tiptoe to reach a pine cone,

a scene created
sans any human hand,
a scene that only God
and dreams
could command.

Progression to Perfection

It began with love of craft…
the shading by the artist’s hand
of hues that shaped his face
and showed his soul, each line
a milestone.

She ‘used an old pen
to draw the old man’*
One hundred and two — his age
an amazement, his peace
earned by days well spent.

Eye and heart and hand,
in unison they worked
until when done, it was not
the love of craft one saw
but love of man.

*quoted from the artist’s remarks

You will find the painting at
Roswitha Geisler’s Skizzenbuch/Blog

Music and the Morning Sun

Dawn tiptoes across the frosted lawn,
Hints of flame climb over the horizon,
She is a shy girl emerging.

Daylight overtakes the night
with a gentle riff.
Early birds looking for worms
start with a song.

Robins and thrushes
and those rascally blackbirds
begin the morning event.

Then the wrens, black caps and chiff chaff
with their poorer vision…
glasses might help but the demand
for avian optometrists has not been met.

Every society has its bankers. Under the guise
of needing more light to find seed,
sparrows and  finches make an  appearance.

Some freshly suited — others arrive ungroomed;
their valets obviously on holiday–
They all chime in.

The semi from the highway contributes its rhythm,
Even a missed gear adds to the composition.
A dog barks, a door opens,

The scent of bacon and coffee brewing –
The kiss before the commute.
Morning begins in increments and over it all,
the sun.