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.