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”

Empirical Rationalization or…surviving a party next door

Separate
but expanding,
our universes collide with a bang.

Kafka said he needed solitude to write..
“Not like a hermit,” he said,

“but like a dead man.”
In the reticent grave
silence must ring in one’s ears.

My neighbors
are having a party.
Expanding decibels offend.

Empiricists
say knowledge
is based on experience.

Rationalists
claim reason
is the basis of knowledge.

The experience of the music
becomes the reason for a cosmic headache.
I understand Eliot’s objective correlation.

I exist in the benefits
of both experience and reason.

There is small comfort
in knowing
that wisdom fosters restraint.

Rumors of Light

Moonbeams spill over the lawn
Hornets are sleeping
Bare limbs in the orchard
Are keeping their promises hidden

An old owl is sharing his wisdom
The creatures of the forest understand
But I am just a mere human
Their secrets elude me

Still, I am soothed
Morning’s light is a whisper
Too distant to comprehend
This night is made for dreaming.

Aromatherapy

Night
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:
Aromatherapy

Melting Clocks

Crickets at twilight, frog calls from the pond…
My ears are so used to the sounds of summer
the silence is thundering,
It falls like a hard rain on my parade.

Though maples wear flame,
there’s frost on the ground,
Time creates its own conflagration,
Dali’s clocks no longer seem so surreal.

Summer has gone, a leaf flickers and falls;
its whisper already  a memory
for those days that are wrapped
in  the silence of snow.

In the end, the clock always wins out.
No matter how harsh the winter,
eventually the ice will melt
and time will continue.