Thursday, November 24

You asked me if I have been very hurt

Well no. Not in the sense that people have done me wrong or given me something bad.

Mostly people have liked me really and given me what they could.
But it is that I am disappointed very.
People gave me what they had and what they had wasn’t very much.
I needed the world, I depended on it and it left me unnourished.
Until I stopped depending on it at all.

But really I was mostly sad.
I see the world impoverished, and people with nothing to give.
I am hurt for me, but I am hurt for them.
I am sad for them.
I grieve for the people I have loved.

But I am happy.
I look to the sky and I see the sun
I open my heart and I see God
And the waters of that spring are ever flowing
And the nourishment is there.

Slowly I get up
Slowly I grow
Slowly I can turn around,
And give something back
To the people who loved me with everything that they had!

For that I am grateful.

I left because I was hungry, but as soon as I can
I will come back. 

A poet's poem

A poet’s poem cannot be put onto a blog, I tell you!
It is a wonderful day out
It is a game
It is a park in heaven where I can freely play.
There are pictures involved, and sheets of paper
And ink, and movement, and space

There are colors and sounds
And together we play

Oh can you imagine it?
I cannot show you my real work, o people across the world.
But if you want to see such a thing come alive
I urge you
Write a poet’s poem yourself.
Slow down,
And in the space of a dot, you can fit all of infinity.
I promise!

A note to the reader regarding Picasso and the abstract form

I could write in the abstract, and would you ever know?
Reader you would never know.
But I will stand up for what I say
I will support what I give to you
I will prefer to tell you outright.

Reader my form is not abstract.
There is symbolism abound, but take that as a gift.
Take it and unwrap it as you will.
Take it as a bulb and plant it.
I will not tell you lies and hide what I really feel.

Half a poem about a man

 a rocking roll song
Like every morning

White is the color of my sheets.
White is the color of the light from my lamp.
Transparent is the color of my sentiments.
Happy is the color of my heart!

A pinch on the bum by a bee
A hint of love in the room
A smell of a game in the space
A knock on my door!

A knock on my door
A pebble on my window
I run to open

I open the door, I see no one but the front lawn.
Did someone just run around the corner?
I leave the door open,
I linger about.
The sun’s light comes in
The crunch frosty white air
The feeling of laughter
The feeling of joy.
The silent sound of footsteps
The morning time.

The morning unfolds its time
It lays it before me
Like an apron spread on the heath at the front.

Like a feast is laid out,
the morning lays out its time
and I pick up a cherry to eat.

I am in a pile of death but I want to live

I am in a pile of death but I want to live.
I need to get out of here
And first thing, I need to take a shower.

I walk through black holes

I walk through black holes and dark tunnels.
I don’t just stand at the brink and look and turn around.

Those who just turn around and go home
are scared of every hole
and they keep their kitchen doors locked
and the shutters down

They think the world has ends
where one might fall off
and they hold fast to what they know.

I walk through black holes so I know
The world is not small
The life is not intimidated by death
The life is not kept in check by the big bad dead man
Life wins and love flourishes
In dark alleys there is soil
And under the train tracks there is earth.

God is, and where He is, there is life.

But you need to know the difference between a tunnel that is dark –
Because it is deep or it goes out of the way.
Or a tunnel that is dark –
Because the death is thick
the corruption is dense,
the decay is preferred,
and it keeps out the light.
Those buckets of dark
are but buckets of death, like tar
and don’t touch them.


Decay has a texture
It is an absolute lack of love
And the force that keeps together the parts is turned off
And what was living becomes a thousand pieces.

Cancer has a texture that is sick
It is when cells grow out of proportion
When they grow for themselves: and not as a part of the organism as a whole.
When every little cell grows out of its place
And the system comes apart.

Despite the stench

But God forgives
And Love does not leave this place of death despite the stench
And so the earth is still solid
upon which we stand.

Wednesday, November 16


Ah! Pretty butterfly of spring
on a beautiful winter morning

I won’t clasp you! Don’t worry.
I’ll walk alongside you
And on laughter,
Like fluttering,
I’ll bounce about.

Oh pretty creature
Kind sensitive soul
Are you lost and in my garden?
Are you flustered?

I have a serious steady side
A reliable stride
So you can trust in that.
But I have a playful side
And I fly like you
But my wings have bones.

Let me play with you fine creature
Don’t be in fear
Come out into the winter’s sun.

I will respect you
And see you as an equal
But love you as more than myself.
So if I now play a little,
don’t think you will be crushed. 

Little butterfly
Sweet gentle soul
You are welcome in my yard,
You are welcome

Saturday, November 5

I like

(a note to Brian)

I like the sun’s light,
and winter frost,
and everything.

I like everything when it is good,
And when it is in God’s service.
But I don’t like anything for its own sake.

I enjoy music so very much.
But joy has its place,
and its place is not everywhere.

I like truth.
I love to seek it.
I love to know it.
I love to know. 
I like to look at Truth in the face.
I like to bask in Its Light.
I like to learn.
I like to know.

I like it that when I am wrong (and I am often wrong),
I feel an itch that won’t go away.
I like it that my mind won’t rest
and it won’t sleep
until I am right.

I dream.
I like to dream
of a good world.

I like to dream of a Good moment,
at every moment.
And I like to stick my fingers in this reality
and to organize it,
and to rename it,
and to remake it,
and to remold it,
and to make it good,
like the Good that is in my heart and appeases it.

I like to read Plato
and I like to be in company with Socrates.
Likewise, I like to read all people who were good
And who loved communion and who cared.
I like to read them, because I feel the warmth of their love, across time, across the pages – and it feeds my brain.

I like to lift my face to the sky.
I like to look at other people who lived with righteousness,
Because their beauty makes me laugh and be glad
And their scent in the air makes me happy.

I like the Truth and everything that is in Its service.

As beautiful as nature is,
as satisfying as beauty is,
as exciting as music is,
as ecstatic as colors are,
they are all only as holy as the Holy Spirit that flows in them, and gives them life.

I like life!
I like the sun’s light,
I like the winter frost.
I like the leaves at fall,
the hard soil at winter,
and the smell of joy in spring.
I like light in all its natural shades.

I like hope and peace

I like communication and friendship,
pomegranates and love.
I like to write.

I like it that you have put this dictionary onto my laptop and that it is useful.
I like the good, the efficient, the real, the genuine.
I like to concentrate.

I like it that there is no ceiling and that the world is large enough.
And greatness is infinite enough.
That death is restricted, and that life is possible.

I like it that I can write.

And don't forget the joy of dancing!
You know Brian, I am sure, that this list is not comprehensive.