Strewn

It is all here
And there
The disarray
The fragments strewn
There and here and nowhere
In between
The clothes you wore
The tools you used
Notes you wrote
And books you read
The grease-stained John Deere hat
The chair in which you sat
Your glasses
With a smudge on the lens
Your fingerprint
Perhaps
A memory
A ghost
Your voice which once bellowed
Subaerial
Now slips in with the passed
Away
Distorted and coming apart
Ethereal threads soaked
And dissolving beneath the surface
Of the river water that won’t stop
Flowing
Under the bridge
Further away with each tick
Of the clock
The bitter moment stretches
The realization that my words
Will reach your ears
No more

Wheels

In that early morning hour

Of the only night

That winter chose to bite

The wheels left tracks

In a thin layer of snow

From the back door past

The reach of the porch light

Into the dark

Of little consequence

A business transaction

Complete

With an appointment made

For later

In the day

To seal the fate

Of the broken jar

The gurney carried

But that you

Left

Behind

It was the tracks

In the snow that continued on

In my mind

As I drove home

The singer sang

“Let Jesus lead you,

Let Jesus lead you,

Let Jesus lead you

All the way

All the way 
Lord

From earth to heaven

Let Jesus lead you

All the way”

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Fables cast aside along with figments

Last remains of which just slipped down the drain

Dishwater dilluted by the luke warm

Washed up nerves joy-numb overcast gray pain

While I claim that your perch is cast iron

This aging carcass still cringes and swells

Blasted by bursts of sobering winter

Wooed and diffused by charming groundless spells

Until I find an anchor for these knees

Kudzu will continue to entangle

Rendering the still small spark extinguished

Thorned weed grown around seed it will strangle

“Dead Wren” ~ A Poem By Henri Cole

When I open your little gothic wings
on my whitewashed chest of drawers
I almost fear you, as if today were my funeral.
Moment by moment, enzymes digest
your life into a kind of coffin liqueur.
Two flies, like coroners, investigate your feathers.
My clock is your obelisk, though only this morning
you lunged into my room, extravagant as Nero,
then, not seeing yourself in the sunlit glass,
struck it. Night – what beams does it clear away?
The rain falls. The sky is pained. All that breathes suffers.
Yet the waters of affliction are purifying.
The wounded soldier heals. There is new wine and oil.
Here, take my handkerchief as your hearse.

Prodigal Photographer

To capture an image of any significance
Pick me up off of the ground
Collect the shattered shards
Twist and turn my schismed lenses
The mind’s misaligned and distorted addictions
Bring into focus an ounce of truth strong enough
To be captured in a photographic moment
A glorious image of grace
Eternally documented
By a broken camera

To Measure Off Another Day

It is a self serving view that pulls the lead on my chain so that I only view the complexities of life from a ground-level view. Too often, the masses assume the best of human kind and, when faced with the reality of pain that exists on so many levels throughout life, thinks that an unfair and unfeeling god is just leaning, hunched over the backdrop, pulling strings. To view circumstances truthfully requires us to turn this interpretation inside out take another perspective. For the sake of justice our lives would be doomed. But, for the sake of love, grace has been extended. We seem to spend too much time looking up and ignorantly shaking our fingers at God when, really, we should be bowing down and thanking Him in the midst of His unfolding grace.

Apparently with no suprise
To any happy flower,
The frost beheads it at its play
In accidental power.


The blond assassin passes on,
The sun proceeds unmoved
To measure off another day
For an approving God.


(Emily Dickinson)