Like Tinsel Strung around the World

Like tinsel strung around the world,

Spiraling from needled branch to star,

We glitter with transparent light

That transports us beyond horizons far.

Along these lines, we lift our sight

Across the oceans wide and mountains tall.

We’re sewn together, somehow, in the squall.

It’s not the same as what the past has brought,

But it’s enough

To weather what this waning year has wrought.

 

 

This year may bring many of us a different kind of Christmas - perhaps a bit more isolated, a bit less filled with the presence of family and friends. For me, I am spending it in Nairobi, Kenya, and so am far from the family I usually see around this time. But I am fortunate to be able to see them over the computer, which helps me to remember that we remain connected despite the distance.

Stretching toward the Rain

Someday when the rains

Come,

We’ll find new food again.

But until then,

We’ll wait

And stretch what quantity remains,

Some

Each day to put upon a plate.

This is a final poem inspired by my time in northern Ghana. Part of the work we're doing there involves identifying poor and vulnerable members of communities, who are most in need of assistance to build durable toilets. In this context, one of the indicators of poverty is that a household is not able to feed itself throughout the entire year. Sometimes, people who fall into this category are referred to as "June/July people", because those months occur around the end of the dry season, when the harvest from the previous rainy season may run out. In this poem, I experimented a bit with very short lines (sometimes with only one syllable). One reason for this is that I think it aligns with the poem's theme of stretching what you have for as long as you can. A second reason is that I think the short lines help to add emphasis. For example, the second line increases the importance of the word "come", suggesting that the narrator is imploring, begging the rain to arrive soon. Similarly, in the seventh line, I think that emphasizing "some" implies a certain cautiousness - the need to be very careful about how much is consumed each day.

Waking to a Sliver of the Moon

Rise today to greet the morn before the dawn

When skies are dark and stars are bright and streets are still,

As the city sleeps, still hot without the sun,

While memories of dreams before deflect the quill

Which writes of present day.

Like a freshly filed fingernail, austere,

A sliver of the moon appears without a flaw.

Almost all in shadow, lunar light shines clear.

What little of this world I’ve known, I stand in awe,

And so I hope to stay.

 

 

This was another poem I wrote while in Ghana. Actually, this one came about very early in the trip. The morning after I arrived in Accra, the capital city, I needed to wake up very early for another flight to the northern part of the country, where we were working. As I was going to the airport, I saw a very thin crescent moon in the sky - very close to a new moon, but a small sliver of the surface was still shown in light. I wrote this poem during that morning's short flight.

Autumn's Lullabies

Dark eyes press against the glass.

What do they see in the moonlight,

In the silver stars that touch the grass?

The shadows of September loom,

When the hours of night the day surpass,

A prelude to October’s country

Where spirits gather beyond their doom

And dance their macabre scene.

Mountains rise, black-green

Against the backdrop of the night,

A phosphorescent glow beneath the moonlight,

But all the frights

Of devil, demon, wraith, and wight

Diminish before the morning

As stars, like angels, cast their lights

And break the latent bonds between

The visions and the eyes.

Chaos dissolves in falling leaves

Of laughter and autumn’s lullabies,

And the little one who grieves

In early, long November sleeves

Knows, soon enough, true life again will rise.

 

 

This poem comes a bit late in the year, given the months it mentions. It was loosely inspired by October Country, Ray Bradbury's collection of horror/fantasy short stories, and Something Wicked This Way Comes, his horror/fantasy novel. Personally, I find Ray Bradbury's writing to be very poetic and evocative. Although his short stories don't always end hopefully, the novel does, and so this poem does as well.

When Angels Dream

When angels dream

Beside the calm of heaven’s stream

Within a golden forest glade

Where branches overlap and braid

The silver starlight’s gleam,

What sights enshrine your haloed heads

And blossom in ambrosial beds

Of purely known unconsciousness?

What dreams arise when all is less

Than where you lie?

My dreams are less than yours, I think,

For my imperfect thoughts will shrink

And shrivel, fallen leaves that dry

Beneath a swollen sunlit sky.

But when your thoughts are close at hand,

My own proceed to fly and stand

Like trees that drink from deeper stores.

The golden forest stream explores

The higher realms that angels share.

With you as guide, I’m nearer there.

And so, I ask, so selfishly,

If once, tonight, you’ll dream of me.

 

 

I was in northern Ghana for work the past two weeks, and I wrote this poem on my way home, during a short flight that brought me back to Accra, the capital city, before continuing on to Kenya. I had the title phrase in my head as a starting place, but the poem eventually became a bit more personal. In my mind, it became about asking questions related to people who have passed on: Where have they gone? In the place where they are, do they dream? If so, what are their dreams? Do they look back toward the people they knew during their lives? And, if they do dream of us, can we feel it?

The Dreams beyond the Dunes

To cross the threshold of the dunes

With straw-green grasses waving in the wind

And glimpse the crystal crests on blue-green gray

Advancing far until the tides rescind,

Each layer breaking over layer

And tumbling toward the steady shore,

Rumbling then releasing all its spray

As it splays across the sandy floor,

Reveals a mirror for the lives

That come and go, yet linger on

To soak into the souls of those

Remaining on the dunes when they have gone.

And one who stays is wondering

Where waves will wander after they have passed

That far off, strange, unknown horizon.

What currents come? What dreams will last

To reach the ancient shores of Avalon,

Where what was once, one day may be again,

And all transform to queens and kings

Whose lives of love will be remembered then?

 

 

My grandma passed away on Friday night. She was 99 years old, and she felt ready to move on. I was in some other parts of Kenya this week, on a trip preparing for some work we will be starting soon (I'll be sharing some pictures, and at least one other poem, eventually), and I found out as I was traveling back to Nairobi yesterday. During some of that long, all-day drive, I wrote this poem, which combines some ideas I've had in my head for a while with this more recent news. Those ideas relate to some time I spent with my family at the beach (Stone Harbor, NJ), which was a special vacation spot for my grandparents as well. They also relate to some concepts from Arthurian legends (the island of Avalon).

 

One more note: I had a dream last night, in which I was on a walk with Grandma. This was nice for at least two reasons. First, she's been in a wheelchair for a while, so the fact that she was walking was significant. Second, after I woke up, it made me think of the hymn "In the Garden" ("And he walked with me..."), which was a favorite of hers. We had talked about me playing this hymn at her funeral. While I won't be able to do that right now, it was nice to have the experience I did in a dream - sort of like the end of the poem suggests (which, I'll reiterate, was written before that dream happened...)

The Winds of Change

It’s indescribable,

Yet somehow undeniable

For me, as I reflect on where I’ve come

Through all the years and all the weary

Moments. Imperceptible

Has been the silent hum

Of choirs undeterrable

In days of sun or darkness cold and dreary.

 

Leaves rustle,

Branches bend,

And all the busy, excess bustle

Can fall away to point me toward a blend

Of what my life should always be

And how my soul is most complete.

The winds of change surrounding me

Have brought me back for us, again, to meet.

 

 

 

I wrote this poem a while ago but never shared it, for some reason. Maybe I was waiting for the right time. Given my recent move to Nairobi, Kenya, it seems appropriate now. My first month here has felt extremely busy and hectic, but I've enjoyed it a lot. I'm working with some wonderful people, and I think we're going to be doing some very interesting and impactful work together.  

Giant

He strides upon the earth

As if its every speck were his

To hold, to specify a worth,

And build what his desire is.

Each step eats up a mile.

He wades across the ocean wide

And delves beneath the mountains, while

His passing makes all creatures hide

And hope for other days.

There was a time when he was small,

When greater herds could safely graze,

Before he stood so proud and tall.

With every footprint, forests fall.

Swung arms propel warm gusts of air

And whip up hurricanes for all

The mangroves on the coast. The glare

Of sun upon his eye

Reflects, refocuses, and burns

The valleys into deserts dry.

Transformed, the silent world turns

And wonders if his mind can learn

What consequences wait and rise

To make land boil and liquid churn

Before life’s vanished cries.

 

 

One interesting aspect of poetry - good poetry, at least - is that it can have multiple meanings, being full of metaphors that suggest different things. I don't necessarily consider what I write to be in a category on par with really good poetry, perhaps in part because I often have a single meaning in mind. In this one, for example, my thoughts were focused on the environmental degradation caused by humanity, and wondering whether we will learn and be able to change. But maybe there are other meanings that could be found, as well. That's another fun thing about poetry - sometimes a reader can identify ideas that the author may not have considered or intended.

Words of Life

Pens write on pages torn

From Gideon Bibles in hotel drawers.

Printed type is covered; born

Are freer curves, like fertile spores

That blow across the nighttime air.

Ancient prose and poems past

Provide foundations, concrete cast

For architectures bold and bare.

Fragmentary thoughts are drawn

In words and sketches on each leaf

Until, as with a fresh-cut lawn,

The scent of life refines belief.

Human struggles, failings, flaws

Collect within the flowing ink

And mirror what the prophets think

Of ancient kings and lands and laws.

Past and present join as one

To share the promise and the pain

When every plan has come undone

And unintended scars remain.

Offer up what words will come

From liturgy and light

Of present days, whatever’s right,

And God will build a greater sum.

Somewhere, by a desk lamp, bright

With blessings born of darkest night,

One finds afresh the perfect grace

That grants imperfect faith a place.

 

 

I'm reading a book called The Cloister Walk, written by Kathleen Norris - a poet who has spent long periods of time living in a Benedictine monastic community. In one section, she talks about the Psalms, which are read and recited frequently in that setting. She speaks to the way the Psalms convey the full human experience. The words sometimes convey anger and a desire for vengeance, and personally I've struggled with these and other parts of the Bible with similar themes. However, she sees them as revealing some of the flaws of humanity, and they continue to mirror our own struggles today, even though they were written thousands of years in the past. Perhaps they offer insight into humanity's imperfect prayers and expressions of faith. Whether we recite ancient wisdom, speak our own spontaneous musings, or use some combination of the two, perhaps our imperfect and incomplete words reach God, where they are made whole - more profound, more perfect, beyond words.

To Touch the Sky

What does it mean to touch the sky?

That bright blue ceiling strikes the eye,

But nothing’s really there.

It’s just the atmospheric air,

Which gently thins and dissipates

As I ascend through cloudy gates

And glimpse a solar flare.

Nothing solid – wall or snare –

Will stop my elevating climb

(Neglecting gravity, this time).

The nighttime sky is where

I see the true extent laid bare.

Infinities of dark amass

Above my head. There depths surpass

My sight beneath the glare

Of glassy stars. But don’t despair

Or lose your dreams of touching sky.

Forever reaching, striving, try

Each time, again, with care,

To struggle further forward, where

New realms will dare your eye.

 

 

A few days ago, I thought of the ways we sometimes talk about the sky - as if it's a solid thing that separates the Earth from space. We speak of "touching the sky," but as we reach further and further up, the air just gets thinner and thinner. There's no solid thing to touch. And yet there's value in reaching, in striving to reach higher and higher. At least in my view, life seems to be similar. We always search for greater understanding, higher callings, new discoveries, and better days. While we do not reach perfection, the quest to be better, to be greater than what we are, or to more fully understand our own place in the universe, remains valuable.

 

Where the Stillness Rests

When every sound is silence

And every vision dark,

When any move is violence

Against the soul’s redeeming arc

Arising from its meditation,

The truth becomes the destination

That graces life with wisdom’s spark.

“What truth?” I hear the stillness ask,

As if it hopes to soon embark

From where it rests to bask

In wisdom far removed from here,

And I feel rise a touch of fear,

For every word is incomplete,

Each spoken thing, at best, a piece

Of some unfathomed whole we meet

Where reason stops and stories cease.

Beyond the sounds our mouths can utter,

Eternal chords, far deeper, flutter

But vanish when we train our ear

And try to capture what they say

Or write them down to make them clear.

The fuller part remains astray

Unless we let the stillness rest

And know the truth’s an endless quest.

 

 

Sometimes, when I start writing a poem, I don't have a very clear idea of what it will be about. This one began like that, with what I thought were some interesting lines about meditation. But I wasn't sure where to go after "the stillness" asks its question. I ended up writing the rest of it in short spurts over the next few months, until finally reaching a point that felt like some sort of conclusion. It eventually arrives at the idea that (perhaps like this poem) our search for wisdom and truth is never truly over.

The Night, Awake

The crescent moon, a pale and sleepy eye,

Extends its gaze across the blue-black sky

As stars appear like tears upon a face

That knows not why it condescends to cry

When breezes bring, within its breath, a trace

Of growing life from fertile soil’s grace

Where brown-black grains of graded silts and clays

Define the depths of land’s creative space

As locusts hum above and moonlight strays

In filtered silver beads through wooded ways.

At times like these, when all the senses spy

The oneness of the world’s songs and plays,

You feel your smallness shrink below the sky

Although its dreams of you exceed its eye.

I've written a number of poems about the night, maybe because I'm often awake during that time. Sometimes I feel as if the night itself is awake, and is aware of me (not in a scary way - it's more of a comforting feeling). This poem imagines some of the night's different senses, and the mutual awareness between a small individual and something much larger.

A Sunset Captured by a Drop of Rain

The orange sphere is racing just ahead

Of dark-gray sheets that sweep across the sky,

Collecting shades of pink and purple-red

Where rays of light impart their sun-made dye.

 

The sphere appears to touch the distant ground

And flatten, as the sheets begin to pour

Their water from above, its muffled sound

Surrounding me upon the grassy floor.

 

One cloud-borne tear falls just before my face,

Descending on the course it’s meant to fly,

And in that moment – that brief, eternal moment –

One droplet holds the sun before my eye.

Sometimes when I go on bike rides in the evening, I see the sunset to the west juxtaposed against clouds that cover the sky overhead. This poem simply imagines a magical moment, when a tiny raindrop falling from the clouds appears to contain the entirety of the sun within itself. We might draw parallels to the depths contained within the human soul, the wonder within a single moment of insightful revelation, or - to borrow the title of a book written by the Dalai Lama - "the universe in a single atom."

Stagnant

The faucet had been freely flowing

Much like a steady river running,

But then the drain had started slowing,

Surprising all our careless cunning.

 

Eventually, we turned it off

Or, at least, reduced the rate

At which the water filled the trough,

And now we’re left to ask, “Too late?”

 

A tepid pool now lingers, waiting

Until the flow will start again,

While we remain at odds, debating

The right way to restart and when.

 

But as the present seems to stretch

And sit from day to day unaltered,

Perhaps we have the space to etch

A better future where we’ve faltered.

 

When future’s bells return to ringing,

Perhaps the flow will pull us to

Release what vestiges were clinging,

Revealing light still shining through.

I wrote most of this poem several weeks ago, while the pandemic quarantine was at its peak (although I continue to work from home now). It explores many of the same ideas and themes as my poem Spun Askew, which I shared in early May. Still, I think it has some relevant things to say, especially about continuing to be conscious of the societal issues that this pandemic has exposed.

The Sun behind the Storm

Where does shelter lie

To offer solace from the storm?

Do you wall the endless sky

And close off every face and form

Until your soul is held inside

And nothing enters through the door?

But what of those who wait outside,

Enduring still, as times before,

The lashings of the driving rain,

The pressures of eternal strain?

 

No – today, I open up

To hear the cry and see the cup

Where dreams deferred spill out again

To break upon the ground, and then

I reexamine what I think

And learn from lives that bend their ink

To mark the struggles they have known,

Each loss and wound and broken bone

And so much time spent waiting

For all to hear the devastating

Song that pours until reform

Will find the sun behind the storm.

 

For the sun is sometimes brightest

When it’s breaking through the falling rain,

And the air is sometimes lightest

In the shadow of the hurricane.

Will the days soon bring that moment?

Will the swelling waves and fair refrain

Bring all humanity to bear,

Confronting such historic strain

With deeper strands of love? Ensnare

My humble soul, in days grown warm,

Where solace lies beyond the storm.

I've been writing this poem slowly over the past week, thinking about everything that's been happening in the country and the world - thinking about the past and present sins that haunt our society, the need to confront and address these horrifying realities and systemic injustices, and the importance of raising up the voices and work of members of vulnerable, neglected, and oppressed communities. In that vein, I'd suggest you check out the short and extremely powerful poem Harlem, composed by Langston Hughes. That poem is what inspired my use of the phrase "dreams deferred" in the second stanza.

The poem I've written is meant to convey the responsibility I have to be open, to listen, to work toward a better understanding of the issues at play, and to support efforts for a more equitable society where everyone - and especially those who have been and continue to be the targets of racism and injustice - feels safe, valued, and loved. It's my hope that this period will help to push us along a path that leads, eventually, after continued effort and sustained work, to better days.

Spun Askew

When lovers wandered hand in hand

And children raced from door to door,

When every hour’s falling sand

Revealed to us an altered shore,

Each moment of the world felt new,

But time has now been spun askew.

Although the planet’s spin persists,

Our days are draped with stagnant mists

That swallow up our lives’ progression

As we endure this plague’s oppression.

We need a modicum of hope

To focus the uncertain scope

Of future’s course, to give direction

And help us feel time’s onward force –

A pathway toward renewed connection

To realign us with our source.


Over the past several weeks, I've not posted much poetry. In part, that's due to the fact that I've been focusing more on recording music to share on Facebook. But, it's also because I've been having trouble finishing poems during this period when time seems so different. I'm not exactly sure of the reason, but I think it has something to do with how it's harder to notice progress and change as the days blend together, and as almost all my time is spent inside my apartment. That's more or less what this poem is expressing.

Sitting Out as the Sun Goes Down

After returning from a run

And showering off the sweat,

I take a folding chair outside

Upon the deck and let

Myself recline beneath the angled sun.

Preoccupied by data shining

From the computer upon my lap,

I do a little work, defining

Trends before my sightlines snap

And look around.

The orange sphere’s descended.

A stillness settles on the ground,

The sky has purpled and extended

To meet the full moon’s pale and yellow light,

And I return inside, refreshed

By the magical turning of day to night.

There's not much explanation needed for this one. What's described in this poem simply happened last night, and I felt inspired to write. This poem may be a bit freer with rhythm than what I typically write...possibly because I wrote it so quickly.

The World at the Window

The scent of the rain

The touch of the breeze

Protect me from the daily strain

Of isolation’s draining freeze.

The sound of a bird

The sight of the sun

Uplift my soul without a word,

Forgive me for what’s left undone.

A taste of life’s expanse

Connects me, where my body stands,

To all the world’s varied dance,

To you in near and distant lands.


This is another short poem about life during this uncertain time. In Illinois, we are under a "stay at home" order, so I'm spending almost all of my time in my apartment. Yesterday was a warm day that offered all of the different things mentioned in this poem. It was nice to open the windows and feel these different parts of the outside world. 

Abiding

Yesterday, I stood

With the screen door open wide

To feel the world I’m distanced from

And all the unacknowledged good

It holds. I stood a bit inside,

Took in the air, and heard the hum

Of growing things that sprout and crawl and glide.

In the end, I thought of you

And knew

Your presence will abide.

Like many others, I am now working remotely from home. I'm fortunate to have a job where this type of remote arrangement is possible - many others do not. Still, it's an odd feeling, even for an introvert like me, to be separated from others to this degree. This poem is yet another one of my efforts to remain connected as much as possible, and to provide some small amount of comfort in this extremely uncertain time (for me, as well as for others).

To Turn at the Crossroads

I come to a fork in the road through the wood,

And a choice must be made where to go.

Running right, left, and straight are the options. What good

Will evolve from the footprints I’ll grow?

Staying straight is perhaps the easiest way

For the moment, at least, but again,

Quite quickly, I’ll meet a new crossroads and may

Face greater uncertainty then.

The straight path leads toward what I thought I’d desire.

A distant white tower ahead

Beckons onward, but pitfalls exist and inspire

A turn to a second thread.

On the right, climbing fast to a tall, airy peak,

I would soon leave the woodland behind.

The view extends far, and the voices that speak

May reach many with new thoughts aligned.

It’s a path I knew not, when starting my course,

But revealed, it presents some exciting

And broad possibilities, close to my source,

Though a soft voice inside me is fighting.

I finally look to the left, which slopes down

To a faraway plain where the trees

Grow thick, bearing fruit from a leafy green gown,

And the warm waters run with the breeze.

While I can’t see the future, there may be a chance

To return to the road I’ve been on

If it calls, but for now, this elongated glance

Just feels right. To the left I am drawn.

It’s unknown, but familiar – far away, yet near

To some places I’ve walked before.

And the longer I look, something seems to appear:

It’s my heart, my passion, my core.


This past week, I had to make a decision about my future. I had a few different options, and I decided to accept a job with Aquaya, a research institute focused on improving global water and sanitation. I'll be starting in September, when I'll move to Nairobi, Kenya to be the Senior Research and Program Manager at the institute's research office there. This poem is kind of an abstract look at this and other options I was considering, and the main reasons for my decision. Writing it certainly helped me think through the different possibilities, and I'm also really grateful to the people I talked to about this choice.

At Rest

“An object at rest remains at rest.”

This (partial) first law of motion

Is the law of motion I know the best,

For while I lie in the slumbering ocean

Of early morning dreams, the dawn

Begins to dance through the windowpane

Beside my bed, and the conjured fawn

Begins to prance upon my sleeping brain,

But still I remain at rest.

I wait to rise, to wake, to test

My movements as the night transitions

To newborn day. My senses soon suggest

Resuming life’s bold expeditions

Beyond the realms of dreaming,

But even in the sunlight’s beaming

Still I remain at rest.

Then, finally, the impulse of the spheres –

Forever revolving, marking time –

Compels me, as the image disappears,

To rise, to wake, to heed the chime

And cross the threshold into conscious rhyme,

Yet rest remains a natural state,

Returning nightly with unerring fate.


I've been fortunate over the past several years to often have the flexibility to choose my own working hours. For me, that means I can stay up late at night - which is when I often write poetry - and then sleep in a bit the next day. There's not too much to this poem beyond the notion that I like to take my time waking up in the morning.

Days Spent Sailing on the Sea

Day one

Was met by rising sun,

And worries were so very few –

An easy course to run.

Day two,

The storm came into view.

Too large to turn the boat and flee,

I started plunging through.

Day three

Was hardest yet for me.

I lost all sight of any shore

While rain was falling free.

Day four,

The waves were rising more,

And, every crest, the boat would strive

To shun perdition’s door.

Day five,

I’d kept myself alive.

The storm had passed, but, with that fix,

More struggles would derive.

Day six

Brought sunlight, playing tricks.

I’d lost my course through earth and heaven,

In storm wind’s swirling mix.

Day seven

Passed through to day eleven,

When, in a daze, I spotted land

And found the strength to stand.

Those days spent sailing on the sea

Diverged from what I thought they’d be,

But now I try, upon the sand,

To learn the truths revealed to me.

This poem was essentially just a simple experiment, to see how far I could get while using an extremely strict rhyming structure based on numbers. In some cases, imposing more restrictions on yourself might lead to greater creativity. I actually made it farther than I thought I would, but I eventually found myself diverting from the structure a bit near the end. 

Great and Small

You “think yourself a great man

Because you live in a little world.”

Better it is, I think,

To be a small man

In a wide world,

To see your gaze stretch far and sink

Inside the wonders in the depths of every night,

The magic in each word the poets write.

And even better yet, perhaps,

To be a right-sized man

In a right-sized world,

To find your place

And fill that sacred space

With great reserves of love, and then collapse

The borders of your heart until

Each little grain of living wraps

A world within itself, where atoms spill

Upon your soul

And make the wider world whole.

I read a Samuel Butler's translation of The Odyssey last month, and the quote at the beginning of this poem is from near the end of that work. It's a phrase that struck me as I read it, and this poem is simply my effort to think about it a little bit.

The Sculptor and the Sculpture

“If I may,

I’d like to shape you out of clay,”

Said the sculptor to the sculpture

As his hands began to play.

The art was yet unrealized,

But the artist had devised

His plan to bring the thought to life –

Then, suddenly, he improvised.

He introduced an imperfection,

Removed a fairly central section,

Then covered up the hollowed hole,

Invisible to eye’s inspection.

Some magic in the sculptor’s mind

Gave breath, and atoms realigned

To live, as all creation paused,

For here was something new defined.

It felt the air expand its chest.

At first it seemed content to rest,

But then it yearned for something more

And started on its endless quest.

Was it correct, this sculptor’s ploy

To make the sculpture search for joy

Outside itself? It’s led to greed

And wars from Gettysburg to Troy.

But there are times in life’s great trial

When what is lacking turns the dial

And spurs us to create a better world.

It’s then we see the sculptor smile,

For, though it’s difficult to fathom,

The sculptor named the sculpture Adam.


This is a fourth poem in a series about beginnings. It takes some creative license and re-imagines the Biblical story of humanity's origin, in light of some of our failings and our better parts.

New Days, Old Truths

We feel we’ve come so far

Throughout the past two thousand years

(So brief within the lifetime of a star).

We say we’ve fashioned shovels out of spears.

Our flags now fly on mountaintops

And lunar surfaces to spar

With cosmic rays, while earthly fields of crops

Feed billions through their days. And yet, we scar

Ourselves and all creation

With wounds akin to days before.

Men still seek power, wealth, and elevation

Above their peers, but push aside the poor.

We still pit one against the other

And fight our wars as if

We do not need the sister or the brother

Opposing us across the cratered cliff.

We still need ancient wisdom born

Of truths that hold from elder days.

The sun returns each new-made morn

To grant us all its warming rays.

We still need mercy laced with hope

In things unseen and thoughts unknown

To guide us toward a wider scope

Of love that forms a servant’s throne.


This is a third poem in a series about beginnings. In this case, it's about continuing forward without forgetting the important lessons we've learned since our beginning. We may still make similar mistakes sometimes, but the wisdom of the past may also offer some guidance on how to over come those mistakes.

Grown Again

The fallen seed was newly born

And sprouted through the soil toward the sun,

But soon it stretched too far, too fast,

Collapsing when expanding clouds had won

The sky.

Years passed until the present morn

When, once again, the life of days gone by

Returns to grow again and cast

Its gaze to capture sunshine’s warm supply

Of light.

But now, more sturdy branches run

And spread more slowly to a humble height.

Imperfect yet, the rising stem will try

To stand

Through any storm or chill of night.

This is the second poem in a series about beginnings. In this case, it describes starting something, failing, learning from that failure, and then beginning again.

Above the Stars of Eden

Above the stars of Eden burns

A night without an ending,

And, out of it, a presence turns

To gaze upon the life ascending

Upon a small, revolving world

Of blue, with green that’s newly growing.

A consciousness has come uncurled,

Commenced its crawl to greater knowing,

But, with its rise, the chance to fall

Comes too, and, with each new discerning,

The danger heightens. Life stands tall

To reach beyond its station, learning

That therein lies the path to progress,

But also, possibly, its own undoing.

The cosmic presence watches all

And asks which way this garden’s life is going.


I thought I'd start the new year with some poems about beginnings. This is the first one, which calls back to the beginning of the human race. Even today, though, I think the question at the end is still quite relevant.

Intertwining

With this post, I'd like to get the word out about a new music album I finished putting together last year. It's available on Amazon, and you should also be able to find and download it through online music streaming services. Below, I've reproduced the back page of the CD booklet, which includes a poem and general description of the music.

INTERTWINING

The moon is full tonight, as is my soul,

A circle filled with light, and all feels whole,

Pieces long divided, now together,

Held, embraced by love’s unending tether.

But now as I reflect upon the past

And look ahead to what our lives might bring,

I know that these relationships will last

And grow as all our voices join and sing.

I see it now – my soul is not in parts.

It stretches, touching all your distant hearts

Across the globe, and you and I will be

Forever woven close in harmony.

Tonight, I leave, my eyes and heart still shining,

For always will our souls be intertwining.

This album of cello, piano, and guitar music is a reflection on my time in Uganda as a Peace Corps Volunteer. Its inspiration came when I returned to Uganda a few years after my service ended. Visiting my friends there for such a short time, only to leave again, was difficult. However, one friend gave me the gift pictured on the cover of this album - a wood carving with both of our names written on the base. The twisting, intertwining design suggested to me that, although we may be far apart, our lives remain connected. With this music and the simple poems contained in this booklet, I've tried to convey that idea, along with what I think is a broader implication: Only together, in connection with one another, can we begin to contribute to a better world.