Hanging By Threads


Stumblings, falterings, graspings for heir
There go eye…
With a balancing beam a gymnast
Could do a complete routine upon
Protruding from my own ‘I’
Tweezing splinters from others’ sight
That I am loathe to admit
As if looking down
From much vaunted heights
There’s an irony
Not overlooked
A hypocrisy…inescapable
A look on my face
I sometimes cannot detect
Unless shown to me
Then the wait is imminent
The fill
The wash the agitate
The rinse
A spinning drum
Wherein…breath taken
I tremble and shake
Removed into silence
As the rumble abates
Hung out to dry
For all to see…humbly
Through it all
Comes this gentle breeze
In the Son
In the Light
Pinned to a line
A warmth renews me
Folded in neatly
Collapsing in upon self
And lovingly set aside
to the tune
of the gasp that gently dies before
an accordion’s final wistful wheezy sigh
Till worn again
In time…
Colors fade
Threads thin
Wrinkles set in
The cycle
More wondrous
Than vicious
More of a thorn to bear
Than malicious
Less flower in bloom
More root
Than stem
More button down
Than crew
Or leaf
Or pleat
Or cuffs at hems
Just outer garments to be shed
And renew in due season
Painstakingly straining out impurities
Funneled from a Crown
Out of a head
And into a heart
The unseen
The scenes of
once old familial surroundings
No longer akin nor beholden
come to mind
in a flashback maelstrom of olden days
Faded allure
whores of yore
Men stoic in mien
Deceptively furtive for good reason
Nefarious intents emerge
Not leaving anything to be desired
And I continue in reluctance
By bit and bridle to drink where led
Son-of-Manning the keyboard
as if a lonesome sailor at the helm
Rising and falling
Wrestling with white capped fury to stay the course
tap, tap, tap away to what end?
Rarely understanding…
Comprehending nothing…
until after
trusting enough
To hit “send”
Whether to fall
or to stand
Now entirely…
out of my hands
and “good riddance!”
I say thee one and all
for now…
I can breathe freely

“if people destroy something made by man they are called vandals. if they destroy something made by GOD they are called developers”

God Bless



Giving Thanks

When there seems to be no way

The Truth and The Life

Shows us a Way

When times are hard

It’s so hard to tell

For in You…

We want for nothing

Every need is met

Less we should ever forget

To give thanks and praise

To You O’Lord

In Jesus’ Holy Precious name

Provision is abundant

Your grace sufficient

Mercies and Graces

While safely kept

Food, shelter and clothing

May one and all be thus blessed


In every circumstance

We accept

Receiving graciously
beyond comprehension
by Way of mystery…
What cannot be earned
Poured out abundantly
From the giver of all good things


At Arm’s Length

Every week You are there to lead the choir. Play piano… Faithfully serve the church in various ways. Someone I admired. Now once or twice a year I hear from you In an e-card greeting. I’ve come to your home to see your face, to hear your voice with an open heart and a searching hope. I no longer attend services. Peace on earth goodwill towards men are only empty words if not lived. I could be hurt, Discouraged, Beset By indifference and neglect, Instead I feel pity. Though I tried to avert, Tried to circumvent, “On earth as it is in Heaven” are words, are truth And I miss you so. Strange it seems to feel this way and ache for you as friend and brethren, someone I thought I knew But in truth did not know. Your greeting could not bridge the distance between us. A neighbor nearby physically but Cold, cyber, hands, reach out electronically, hollow and empty. And only serve to bring tears to my eyes. For all outward appearances You seem well “adjusted”, though oblivious To the knock upon your door.   I will visit with you no more. when sensitivity clashes with the desensitized it can only result in unnecessary pain and sorrow whom do you serve, if you don’t even know, Who you follow?

Sacrificing in works to earn,
what may only be achieved by grace 
through simple obedience
tsk, tsk, tsk,
Merry Christmas,
any who.
Catholics…? (sigh)


“if people destroy something made by man they are called vandals. if they destroy something made by GOD they are called developers” God Bless


Ever have a day surprise you

A day in which you feel exceptionally alive?

A song,

A memory,

A combination of things

That seem to unlock

A vault of treasures

A safety deposit box

To rummage through in a cubicle of solitude

A time capsule unearthed

An inspiration re-birthed?

A presence that says:

“When you least expect Me…here ‘I Am’

When most distracted

Feeling distant?

Out of touch?





You come,

And sit by us,

Pay a visit,

Or so it seems to us.

Truth is always near


Always we are attempting

to get “still”

“be still”

To find this place within ourselves


Is a gift of grace,


We cannot achieve on our own

“…And know”

NO more flying the friendly skies

Losing ground

Rapidly rushing by

Wings contoured for lift

An attitude for altitude

Running out of runway

Nose to the sky

Somehow in the following of lines

The dynamics have changed

Air rushes across wings

And where lift once would occur

Drag and a lessened range

Before breaking free

The grip of gravity

Soaring uneasily

Rumble of engines deafening




Level off at cruising speed

Whistling whine of turbines, commanding, assuring

Something nags

Something pulls

Something in the pit of a stomach

Some kind of premonition

Something felt before

But had to power through

Had to believe

Place faith,

in rising,

Above and Beyond…

The unconscionable!


Ghost Pepper

jesus feeds the flockWhen it’s cold outside

I crave something hot

A porridge scalding and steaming

That I can breathe in and clear my sinuses

Tepid won’t do…

The only “just right”

On a frigid night

Is hot, hot, hot

I want to feel the burn

Know I’m alive

Thaw the benumbed digits

Quell the trembling inside

By a cozy fire I will lay me down

Smoke will rise as a sign

To travelers lost

Shelter is nearby

All are welcome

None denied

Stay the night

Sojourn in the morning light

I will tend the fire

And speak…

And listen…

In the spirit

For the silence


The orange/red/blue/white

hot crackling wood

like a Craftsman might smith words

or perhaps…

a carpenter would


to cooking fish.


Then again, life can sometimes throw us a curve ball…