Foggy Weather

Sitting in a quiet kitchen,
pale lemon on a sunny day,
but on this day
the mountains wear mist.

A shroud of fog and a scent
of cinnamon are my companions.
The rain raineth
and the wind bloweth.

The weather
is just another thing
we can’t change in this year
of posturing and lies.

In the face of bad politics
and puzzling weather,
Will poetry die?
I think not.

I read that poetry
is not the language
we live in; it is
the language of change.

It allows us to dwell
in the truth of humanity,
to break through the rubbish
and the rain.

Poetry turns these glum walls
back to their lemony sheen
and into a haven of cinnamon rolls
and a cup of a robust blend.

Miracles

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,
eavesdropping.

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.