What Magic Lives in Christmas Lights

What magic lives in Christmas lights?

What wonders wait inside the stars

That touch the hearts of Christmas nights

And ease the year’s most troubled scars?

It’s something sprung from home and friends

And family – each meeting sends

Me onward with the grace to know

Of blessings, all reflected in

That multi-colored Christmas glow.

During my time at home over the holidays this year, I felt like there was some special magic in the Christmas lights I saw every night. I think it had something to do with the recognition that this is the time of year when I am fortunate enough to be able to come home and be enriched by family and friends. I know I'm not the best at saying it, but I want all of those people to know that I'm grateful for the relationships we share.

White Wings in Search of Hope

White feathers cover wings that cross the sky,

Descend, and land upon a wooden perch.

Clear eyes watch through a window. People fly

To decorate their tree, wrap gifts, and search

For memories of Christmases gone by.

Another landing spot outside a church

Reveals the melodies of carols. High,

Imperfect voices, singing softly, lurch

From note to note, and wonder if their sound

Will touch a chord of greater harmony.

Beneath a twinkling streetlight, on the ground,

A man’s unfocused eyes look up to see

A glint of hope within the stars, unbound

By hints of distant hymns, whose symphony

Is floating on a wind the wings had found.

As if in answer to a tacit plea,

The man begins to walk, his sight aligned.

He gathers up the memories that he

Has held inside, and hopes that he might find

What mercy holds for this long-absent one.

Clear eyes watch through a window. People dined

With thoughts bent on the past, but now they run

To meet it, knocking at their door, defined

By much regret. They welcome home their son.

White wings ascend this night of hope, now done.

It's become something of a personal, annual tradition for me to write a poem for Christmas. As with several previous ones, this poem feels more appropriate to share on Christmas Eve, rather than on Christmas Day. It's also an interesting example of how these poems evolve as they are written. In this case, I didn't realize this poem would be something of a modern take on the prodigal son story until I reached the fourth stanza.

To Melt and Freeze Again in Time

The climbing sun begins to melt the ice

That covers up the path I walk today.

The spreading liquid slides itself away

And wonders if this freedom has a price.

In time, it joins a cyclical array

Of vapor, cloud, and rain in warmer parts,

As stars look down on all the grateful hearts

Who thank the light for water as they pray.

In time, a new returning journey starts

To bring it back to its beginning place,

Refreezing in the falling night’s embrace.

I stay and gain the wisdom it imparts:

In time, it will be gone without a trace,

Except for all the lives it touched

As it traversed this space.

As temperatures hover around the freezing point, I've been intrigued by the way that ice melts during the day as the sun shines, then the liquid water moves through the world, and it eventually refreezes in the evening, as the sun goes down. To some degree, I feel like this cycle reflects our own lives. We are born, we interact with the world, and then, after a time, we leave - and those interactions are what we leave behind.

At Last to Rest

When the night will fall forever,

Will you tell me what I’ve done?

When I lay me down at last to rest,

Will I see I’m not the only one

Who wonders what these steps have meant

On life’s uncertain, troubled shores?

The waves just go on crashing, sent

In peaceful times and raging wars,

Depositing unlucky creatures,

On the rocks and sand, perhaps, to die.

We tried to stop the waves,

But the force the fates supply

Was stronger than our mortal hands,

Unfit to face the unrelenting flow.

And so, we turned to those now stranded,

Struggling in the sun’s unshielded glow.

We gently sent them back,

Again to try the vast, uncertain sea.

Our footprints sank into the sand.

Repeated steps dug paths that we

Could use to guide us as we worked.

But all those treads have since been swept away

By time, its tidal pendulum

Has smoothed the marks our lives display.

At times, I stayed the course.

At others, I allowed myself to stray.

And as my spirit lies in wait,

I wonder what persists, what may

Affect the universe when I am gone?

Perhaps it’s more than I should ask,

Too proud a thing that I request.

Perhaps the current task

Is to look beyond the cosmic crest,

And to say I tried my best

And rest.


This seemed like an appropriate poem to post as the year nears its end. Occasionally, I can't help but contemplate what it means to live and die in this universe that feels, at times, so vast, and at others, so intimate. When I do, things like this poem usually come out.

Tunnel through the Night

A gentle hum and sway

Accompanies the dreamers’ way

On tracks that lead us on from dusk to dawn.

The passing scenes outside are drawn

With shades of black and bluish gray

And points of light that blur before they’re gone.

The dreams and stories spun

Inside the gliding cars can run

Beside the sliding pictures in the glass.

Although the realms of thought surpass

Reality beneath the sun,

There’s magic in each darkened blade of grass

That sparkles in my sight

And shapes the lives that tunnel through the night.

When I visited my family over Thanksgiving, I took the train from Illinois to Pennsylvania. It was quite a long journey, and one leg of the trip (Chicago to Pittsburgh) happened overnight - we departed in the evening and arrived early in the morning. This poem is inspired by that part of the journey, as the train quietly glided through the darkness.

Ghost of a Memory

Your image wanders everywhere

Through the house where we had lived since you were small:

In a darkly-colored bag upon the stair

Or a shadow in a corner of the hall.

It’s the imagined ghost of a memory

My outer eyes appear to see,

But inwardly

I feel you’re near me somewhere

As more than just a shade of reverie.

This is the second of two poems I'm posting about my family's cat, Slick, who passed away last May. I wrote this poem in August, during my first visit back to my parents' house after it happened. I couldn't help expecting to see him waiting at the top of the stairs, or coming around a corner, or sleeping on the windowsill. And there were definitely a few times when I saw a bag or a shadow and thought it was him.

All Our Yesterdays

Life is oft spent waiting

For what tomorrow brings,

But when it comes with sorrow,

When all your life no longer springs

Or runs throughout the hallways,

When one more time your head will lie

Upon the safe, unmoving ground,

When every sleepy stretch and silent sigh

Has ceased to spawn your searching gaze,

I yearn for all our yesterdays

And wish to hold you one last time,

Before your spirit must rebound

To where a better peace is found.

But each today that grace has given

Will live with me my whole life through.

I’ll stand beside a windowsill

And find the breeze that called to you.

This Thanksgiving, I'm thankful for my family's cat, Slick, who passed away over the summer. This is the first of two poems I'm posting about him - one before Thanksgiving and one after. I wrote this poem almost immediately after he passed. I was in Uganda at the time, and the poem reflects some of my initial reactions to the news. I'll probably post the second poem next weekend.

The Angel of the Sounds of Night

When all the sounds collect

Between my listening ears,

More wonderful than I expect

Are harmonies, and she appears,

Allaying all my fears.

Arrayed in rainbow light

That swallows up my stagnant tears,

She hovers in her dreamlike flight,

Inspiring me to write

The growing melody

That echoes through the mystic night

Behind the silence, setting free

A creativity

That rushes to the Earth.

All manner of what’s heavenly

Arise to greet the new dawn’s birth

And share their songs with me.

This poem speaks to the creative inspiration I often feel at night, arising from inside my heart as well as from the outside world around me. I sometimes feel as if the music and poetry I write already exists before I put it to paper - my role is simply to find and share it. 

In the Dragon's Aftermath

He stood upon a blackened field of rye.

The fire-breather’s shadow loomed

Below the western sky.

He wondered if his life was doomed,

But, looking toward the dragon’s piercing eye,

He saw no note of malice there,

Unlike the drakes of old,

Whose greed was famed. Each caverned lair

Was lined with heaping piles of gems and gold

That glittered in the fiery glare

But left their master cold.

Then heroes of the stories rode

To best the beasts and win the world’s renown,

Invading every dark abode,

Perhaps, to gain a crown.

Today, the tale has changed its mode.

The monster followed as a consequence

Of modern humans’ hubris, bold

To manifest immense

Control of nature’s every fold

And quench the magic of the wider world.

With this, the mighty dragon woke,

And, leather wings unfurled,

It rained destruction, burned, and broke

The clockwork engines, gems of industry,

And raised the flames of which we spoke

With little urgency.

But now the fires are burning low,

And, standing there upon his field, he sees

A gentle rain to heal the woe

And wet the blackened trees.

It comes to fall on all alike

To quench this dragon of our own desire.

The beast departs, no more to strike,

Although it does not tire.

Its task is done, and all we’d built

Has crumbled into dust and come to naught.

He sees our great collective guilt

And every harm we’ve wrought.

He sees survivors kneel to pray,

Convicted by the dragon’s long-told birth.

He sees new hope in what they say

Of future lives of worth:

Restoring what was lost today,

But now as humble stewards of the Earth.


For me, this poem's fantastical elements are symbolic of the world's current environmental challenges, exploring a future in which those issues lead to sudden catastrophe. The hope is that, in contrast to the characters in the poem, we can change our mindsets and actions before encountering the full force of the calamity.

A Seasonal Anachronism

This order feels all wrong.

It’s not been cold for very long,

But snow’s already fallen on the ground.

The bottoms of the trees

Reflect a silent winter’s sound,

But multi-colored canopies

Still rustle in an autumn breeze,

And, slowly, leaves are drifting down

To land upon the snow.

A graceful beauty’s white and brown-flecked gown

Has warped the seasons’ flow.

Its soft anachronism

Leaves my heart aglow

Yet fearful of a harder schism

We may unknowingly have crossed.

What if there’s no returning

From where the seasons’ rhythm is lost?

What changes will we still be learning

Long after all the harm we’re wrought?

Perhaps they will be greater than we thought.

Mom and I were in Wisconsin last weekend, and we encountered what I thought was an interesting juxtaposition of autumn and winter. Snow had already fallen, but many leaves hadn't fallen from the trees yet. It made me think about the increasing environmental changes we've been seeing in the world, and where they might be leading.

Earthbound Angels

To look upon what’s heavenly

Is not so rare as I once thought,

For here your mortal angels live,

Revealing what your unbound soul has wrought.

And all the love that touches me

Is more than I deserve,

And more than I can ever give

If I could even find the nerve

To follow every word

And render each desire deferred

An offering to you.

But even these I struggle mightily to do.

So, if you may extend your mercy

Another measure more,

I’ll try again to find what’s truly

Everything we’re hoping for.

I’ll watch the angels everywhere

And, grateful for their humble hearts,

Surrender all my hopes of heaven

Rewarding me for any parts

I’ve played in some redemption,

As if what little I may offer

Demands a pardoning exemption

From all the weight of all my wrongs.

Perhaps with that I’ll see

The freeing liberation of

Our souls’ equality

Existing in your overwhelming grace.

Perhaps the sins that scar each face

Will drown in your infinity.

I’m not the one to say.

I’ve known my own proclivity

To want to save the world today,

Perhaps to gain some future destiny.

The truer angels see

We’re all as one,

And none can lay a stronger claim

Regardless of the work that has been done.

It seems to me, if I am comprehending,

The only way to bring salvation

Is love that goes beyond myself completely,

Enriching what surrounds my own creation.

When all the heart is bent on that,

The sparks of heaven may appear.

My own attempts are clumsy yet.

Perhaps with time I’ll shed my cloak of fear.

It’s then the better angels of the soul

Emerge and, in the process, heal us whole.


With all of the negative news that seems to plague every day, it can be easy to forget that there are so many good people working, without much recognition, to do what they can to make this world a better place. This poem is about them - and about the example they set for us all.

Raindrop Journeys

The newly christened liquid water falls

In tiny packets sliding from the storm,

And, entering the forest’s wooded halls,

They follow many paths of varied form,

Eventually to reach absorbent soil

Where, percolating, they will feed the trees.

Some sink before the clouds have stopped their toil,

At once to join organic alchemies

Transmuting life from separate elements.

But other droplets take their time to drift

From upper canopies with ornaments

Of flower, fruit, and vine before they gift

The ground with what sustains this old-grown place.

They travel, dripping down from leaf to leaf,

And crawling round the branches as they trace

Their paths that, in the sun, remain so brief,

Evaporating to ascend the air

And start again. The droplets run their race,

But reaching first to win is not their care,

For every moment’s journey is a grace

Enlightened as the sunlight pierces through

To capture all the beauty in its space.

So, follow every branch and learn anew

How each unique direction adds to you.


This poem began as I was watching a gentle rain fall around the tree outside my window. I was struck by the fact that some droplets reach the ground very quickly, while others take more time, pausing on leaves or branches, or sliding slowly down the trunk of the tree. It made me think of how we live our lives - sometimes at a hectic, frantic pace, and sometimes more slowly and reflectively. For me, the latter is what I tend to strive for, though I don't always achieve it. 

When Little Birds Will Sing Again

The shell has newly been discarded.

Now the baby bird’s begun

To follow where her mother goes

And leave the nest to brave the sun.

For though their home seems safe today,

Tomorrow brings uncertainty.

The mother knows they cannot stay,

And so she leads her babe away,

Traversing what the paths may be

Where other mothers brought their young

Over field and under tree

To a stream where songs are sung

Of safer lives and greater harmony.

But sometimes songs are not reality.

Upon arriving at the stream

And crossing to an unfamiliar land,

A falling hand awakes a scream

As it plucks the babe from off the sand

And traps it in a cage

Where other captive children wait,

Uncertain what the future’s page

Will soon reveal about their fate.

The mother wishes to assuage

The fear her little one is feeling,

But she is barred from coming near

And offering a bit of healing.

I cannot say, with conscience clear,

The falling hand’s in no way linked to me.

It claims to act for my security.

For where’s the danger in these baby birds

Who simply wish to sing their mothers’ words?

So I will sing my little rhyme

As clearly as I can

To call our hearts, until a time

Shall come when little birds will sing again.

This poem is about an issue that's been on my mind for a long time. It was a major news story several months ago, but I think more recent events have pushed it out of the public focus. 

New Light's Birth

A sprinkling in the sky

Of rainbow-tinted clouds

Evaporates, like days gone by,

Behind time’s ever-growing shrouds,

And then the stars come out.

They were there the whole day long

But obscured by sun and clouds, and doubt

Of their sustained existence, wrong

Though it may truly be,

Can simmer in one’s head

When all the sky’s a pale blue sea

Where wispy white-faced islands tread.

But now the endless blackness rises,

Revealing untold depths of space

And time, for when one recognizes

A twinkling star’s familiar face,

Its light, now shining on the earth,

Has traveled long to reach this place.

Tonight, I witness new light’s birth –

A star, where none had been before.

But in truth, this vision offers grace

For sight to see the past, and more:

One’s inner light may cross the years

To leave a mortal lifetime’s trace

Upon unknown frontiers.

This poem plays around a bit with the idea that we're kind of seeing the past when we look at the night sky, because it takes a long time for the light from the stars to reach the Earth. And it begins to ask what our own lives will show to the universe, as our light radiates outward from the Earth.

When the Pages End

Upon each day a pen was floating,

Recording with eternal ink

The flavors of your life, denoting

Lines whose forms would find a link

To others’ stories. Every word

Was written down and lives

Within a book that was referred

To me. But what it gives

Is not enough to satisfy

My curiosity.

The story stands unfinished. Why

Do no more words find space to be?

What happens when the pages end

But more is left to write?

I cannot say, but I will tend

This garden sown with seeds tonight

Until your tale bursts forth in me

To grace the dawn’s expectant light.

I just reached the end of one of the journals I use when writing poetry, and this was the poem I wrote on that last page. Now I'm starting to work through some new ideas in a new book...

Sundown in the Desert

The final sliver of a sunken ruddy sun
Contracts to leave a single point beyond the distant sand.

Refracted rays through atmospheric channels run

Then fade to purple darkness glazed above the rocky land.

The press of heat is quieted. Its throbbing hum is done,

And coldness quickly overtakes the sparsely covered ground.

The temperature precipitously drops –

A pebble fallen from a rugged cliff without a sound.

I stand upon the barren mountaintops

With hopes to hear angelic voices sing,

Or is that sheer, suggestive silence just the wind

Whistling past my eardrums as they ring?

Does God reside where life dare not?

Do strangers in this unrelenting land

Arrive in peace at their intended spot,

Or are they lost and led astray to stand

Amid the dangers and mirages of the desert sand?

Yet something moves beneath the stars,

And something sinks its roots into the soil.

Life persists, as if in fragile, sacred jars,

To face the fearsome landscape and its harsh anointing oil,

And so will I – persisting through the night

To search for you until the sun will bathe my soul in light.

This poem doesn't really come from recent physical experience, though I did spend two very brief stints in Arizona (Tucson and Tempe) earlier this year, and I enjoyed seeing the desert landscape beyond each city. Rather, I think at least some of the poem's inspiration comes from a book I read several years ago by Belden C. Lane called The Solace of Fierce Landscapes: Exploring Desert and Mountain Spirituality. Apparently, that book is still working its way through my mind.

Beside the Sunset Bay

Calling softly, seagulls fly

Above my head to touch the sky.

Water in the bay recedes,

And all the children wonder why

Time uncovers waiting weeds

As low tide pulls the waves away.

Salted sea foam breezes play

Across the sand the sunshine feeds,

While the water’s bluish gray

Complexion satisfies the needs

Present on a distant shore

Where other children’s visions soar

To spot the seagulls in the sky.

Still, this roaming troubadour

Will see the cycle, wet and dry,

Wishing to reflect upon

The storied patterns come and gone.

Where does every moment stray

When tides propel it past the dawn?

Perhaps it floats away

To rest beside the sunset bay.

Last week, I was at a conference in northwestern Washington. It was at a hotel sitting right beside a bay, and across the water was a town in Canada. The sunsets over the bay were very beautiful, but I found the morning low tide to be especially interesting. The bay was somewhat separated from the open ocean by islands; I assume that's why the water level dropped so much during low tide. It uncovered a big slope of sand, and the aquatic plants that had been far below the surface of the water were now out in the open air. That's where the ideas in this poem began.

In Sun and Rain

The steady rhythm of the sound

When water droplets touch the grassy ground

Wakes pale and parched organic blades,

Rejuvenating what were scorched and drowned

By fiery sunlight shooting through the glades.

The brittle brown begins to fade away,

Uncovering the greener shades

More flexible and less inclined to fray.

Too many sunny days

Can lead to life that’s easier to break

When just a little pressure paints the haze

And makes a minor tremor seem a devastating quake.

Too many rainy days

Can overwhelm the structures of support

And drown a life in sorrow, while the blaze

Of sunlight is so brief it seems a stingy, fickle sort.

Together, lives are balancing this mix of joy and pain

To weather what the unknown days will bring in sun and rain.

This poem began with a fairly simple idea about rain falling after a drought to rejuvenate the grass. It turned into a brief meditation on the idea that life is about managing the joy and sadness that we experience, finding a good balance through support for one another.

April in Her Eyes

I sometimes wonder where

Her little boy has gone

Who used to sit atop a wooden chair

Outside her house upon a well-mown lawn.

But in my heart I know

What sadness lingers there,

And trembling in the first December snow

Is grass that’s overgrown in disrepair.

I sometimes glimpse her pacing

On garden paths when clouds are low.

It seems as if she’s searching, chasing

Petals fallen months ago.

To drift beyond her hidden pains,

She lifts her gaze to breaking skies,

But always with the gentle rains

Of April in her eyes.

I recently finished reading Shakespeare's Antony and Cleopatra, and this poem is based on a fairly minor phrase from that play. The phrase wasn't particularly crucial to the plot, and this poem as a whole doesn't really relate to the play. I just liked the phrase and wanted to use it as a starting point for something new.

The Dark and Quiet Places

There’s a light outside my window

That shines throughout the night,

And periodic sirens blare

Beneath the moon’s nocturnal flight.

It’s sometimes hard to find a share

Of moments fit to channel rhymes.

Although it’s true that anywhere

Can conjure up poetic chimes,

For me, the dark and quiet places

Seem most attuned to revelation.

The world’s interstitial spaces

Are where I find my inspiration

When all the parts that make up me

Align to strive in harmony

And search for what my role could be

In fashioning the restless night’s

Uncertain destiny.

In my previous apartment, there was a light outside the bedroom window, and I was pretty close to a hospital and a fire station. The light and noise were never really that disturbing, but they made me think about how our environment might help or hurt our efforts to find a more thoughtful or meditative mindset.

First Movement

A silence hovers in the air,

But expectation’s also waiting there.

The music strives to be awoken.

Creation takes a breath before the start,

But all remains unspoken

Until the player peers into her heart

And pulls upon the string

Connecting past all space and time

To draw from sound’s eternal spring.

Vibrations blossom, spread, and climb

To touch each sympathetic soul and ring

Exactly as they should.

The first notes open out to bring

Awareness of the coming greater good.

While I was visiting my family this past month, I had the opportunity to play my cello at a couple different places. Music might be the way in which I connect most purely with the sacredness I believe is at the foundation of everything. Especially when I'm playing a piece of music, I often feel as if the melodies and harmonies already exist in some sort of timeless ether, and my role is to channel it, bringing it into the physical world, where it can radiate outward and touch the ears and hearts of others.

A Sacred Peace

What comes to me
In majesty
Is something every eye can see.

Surrounding and containing me

Are pieces of a greater whole.

Connected lives each fill a role

And speak to my expectant soul

Without a word. They set me free,

Imagining what hidden things might be

Existing underneath the macroscopic plane.

It’s not that there’s no loss or strain.

In conflict, competition, pain,

And death, so much of life is found,

But with it all, a greater hope is bound,

For somehow, stable ecosystems form,

Resilient to withstand each storm

That sweeps across the rooted, textured ground.

And here, as each new year goes round,

Death turns to resurrection,

And life’s eternal, grand direction

From young to old folds back upon itself to mold

A newer generation to behold

The future – to, perhaps, explore

The sacred peace their lives restore,

Which comes to me

And shares its harmony –

More beautiful than crystal chandeliers –

With bird songs ringing hymn-like in my ears.

As I begin to share poetry on this blog, this composition feels like a good starting point. It delves into some of the key themes that surface in much of what I write: my love of nature and my wonder in discovering the connections that link all of life together. It originated while I was circling a pond during one of my visits to the arboretum at the University of Illinois. Some of the phrases you just read began to grow in my head, so I sat down on my favorite bench, started writing, and didn't stop until the poem was done.