the poet

The humble man sits for hours
awaiting a poem
an attention
That rivals architectures
latticed with money
systems or
knotted with micro
surgeons

His work is anticipation
threshing out the
thoughts of silence
That contrast harmonies
colored with signatures
once empty
never heard until
now

He is commonly seen
as an isolated man
unnoteworthy
Because imagination
defies what was,
falling forward
out of meager
answers

His metaphor is meat and sleep
as usual among
any tribe
The communal tone of
histories ripe
with belief bringing
daily bread by day;
then bedded night

His listening is wealthy
with tutors of
wisdom
That is dispensed among
unsighted waterways
agreed on in
corner diners;
familiar

He sees and he hears and
he feels and he
speaks
That patience of books
which lie peaceful,
all worlds; not lonely, but heavens
love caused to write.

Video Poem

...from a neighbor of the Simple Way

the simple way

Pray and contribute. It's that simple.

The Simple Way in Philadelphia suffered enormous loss as a fire destroyed their neighborhood on June 20th. Thank God no one was injured. Now it's time to recover and respond.

Shane came to visit us last fall. He, along with others in his household are showing us a renewing patience and acceptence toward one another. We really can live together. We can take what is ours and share it with our neighbor. We really are more than our selves. Let's help them. Go here to contribute funds.

when I look at green
I feel loved.
the shades in ripples which
lasso the light
all foreground
a prophecy

when I look at dark
I feel held.
Just to see is evidence
of gravity even
fractures of leaf
in buoyancy

to see the focal point
of forest
makes a love to my eye
that bonds my soul
as do lips to hair’s nape
a dream as

chartreuse reaches
it’s fronds toward me.

My partner in poems: This mystic man whom other men remind
me of in fractions
The creator who mirrors me in parenthood bent from
lover's arms
My soft childhood face never a shame when it comes to light
a fatherhood
My watchful life is his eyes and my voice his breath brushed
lips a smile
The company of silent crowded yet to be revealed which hold us
married a fertile field
Iconic creatures clothed in words reflected a face of one
greeted in many

write your own mail

It's only money

Stephen Barnwell is just one artist highlighted here @ Rag and Bone.
Amazing how good a pocket full of money feels. Isn't it fun to find a $5 dollar bill in your jacket? What kind of mental money do we have stashed away?

...listen for God's voice in everything you do Proverbs 3:6

Such Massive Explosions Blast Elements...

...like iron, carbon, and oxygen out into the universe. "The iron in our blood is from supernovas," says astrophysicist Andrew MacFadyen. "There's a direct connection between stars and us."

Writing what I listen to:

It's a bad day. It's a day we can't remember with fondness. It is a day where those who mourn, parents and brothers and sisters and grandmothers and uncles and aunts and grandfathers feel nothing more than the end of the world.

Can we start to feel what people of another race and culture would feel? Can we start to reject violence in all its faces and forms? Can we start to see that those who live by the sword may even unjustly die by the sword?

Many have already beat their swords into plow hooks. In response to violence I want to reject arms and entertainment that makes an excuse for not caring. I reject "Grindhouse" and CSI and first strike.

I knit and I write. I cook meals and I read stories. I pray and I wait for the kingdom hoping that my daily life is consistant with the company of Jesus.
But the bad days come as he warned. The days that are worse than any should have to endure. There are those who wouldn't let themselves believe in a new place, a place of eternal life. But in the gospel of John he is said to have spoken these words:

...I am going away to him who sent me...you are plunged onto grief because of what I have told you. Nevertheless I tell you the truth: it is for your good that I am leaving you. If I do not go, your Advocate will not come, whereas if I go, I will send him to you...

Your grief will be turned to joy.

I agree and let it be so.

writing fast 4/9-4/16

4/5 Visions Fall 4/8

The open meadow in mist
of light
cannot be touched by
gnome or knight

The droplets hang in
suspended day
layered in meaning
the sighted pay

The page is turned as
a white dust road
ancient prisoner
you may behold

The cool browed vista
that lead to this place
is still envisioned
an altered grace

The metaphor
in draught or flood
can only whisper
of the Good

Away it goes
the way of earth
a tale a cycle
a chosen birth

Promises of rain
and yield
push to resist
a barren field

To faint now in
the face of dread
dishonors faith
in what he said

I watch the seed
of life be sown
In visions cast
thrown down, outgrown

Something new
must hidden stay
in artifacts the
dead display

Seeds and sun or
clouds of rain
bring you embraced
recovered friend

California Icon

The road to freedom is still filled with symbols and sign posts. Iconography is a cry of liberation for every era and culture that engages it. The textures of orthodox, European and Latin icons are interchangeable in our smaller world.

Sojourner Truth understood the power of image. She hoped people who bought her photo card would feel that her message lived on with them;
her message of inherent dignity and freedom.

The images on which we choose to set our eyes will determine our course.
A Ukrainian girl might choose to go far from home because she believes the images of an affluent lifestyle that are now racing into her new-born culture.
A Mexican woman may risk illegal boarder-crossing to feed her family. Or her brother may have been kidnapped to feed the appetite of someone addicted to his image on the internet.

The trafficker and the trafficked alike will pray to the Mother of God.

Leaders of every generation need to rally behind liberators.

Compassion as tender as the thread on a quilt is the only thing that will construct a lasting freedom.

California Icon
Suzanna Bond
3/07
machine pieced and quilted
cotton with rayon, nylon, and cotton thread
28 ¾” x 32 ½”

Never Have Before

I wish I could craft courage
like I would a quilt.
I would cut up what I know
and stitch it into what I want.
After all the layers of desire
were bound together I could
Take my courage and lay down
and feel my fear warm,
Then melt, soft like skin
to sleep in love like I never
have before.