God made us in his image
and yet, somehow we stray.
That he doesn’t throw his hands up
and quit...that is a miracle.

In the kitchen and in the glen,
all is innocence.
A flower blooms and dies
and is born again.

How entirely human to think
of grafting to make a bigger bloom,
a sweeter perfume and in the thready
atmosphere of need,

to turn the task to feeding the starving.
Yes!  In the force field of the cosmos,
there is a greater God than greed.
If evil is a trait of man, so too, is good.

Both theoretical and empirical,
It is not man’s faith in God
but God’s faith in man,
that is the miracle.

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”

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.

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.


washed to new-slate-gleam
by driving rain,
the air this morning
whistle clean and shining
like a schoolboy’s face.

No moon,
no stars, no breaking sun;
the clock says night is done,
the sky is undecided.
Trees, bare-branched and brave,
crave raindrops
like royalty craves gems.

Each blade of grass,
each limb, wears diadems
of diamonds.
Scents of morning
swathe the day with energy:

A Day in the Sun

Free from chaos, the id is an oasis
where muses soar and castles stand tall,
immune to tides,
even to tsunami.

When troubles take hiatus, onion turns to flower,
Petals peel in layers until the heart is bared
and psyche sheds its chains
as if by magic.

How glorious that day of sun when every soul has wings,
Gorgeous rainbows after storm, the meadow green
and blossoming with butterflies
free from drab cocoons