Category Archives: Poetry

Forever

Ice Crystals on Wood

I believe in an afterlife. I believe that human beings are eternal beings. We always existed in some form, and will live forever, always improving and growing, with the objective of achieving our full potential. I sometimes consider what I will not be able to do during my lifetime that I would like to do in the hereafter. So much! This poem touches upon that wish. In the meantime, I had best be making the most of this life, this time! This is our time to choose, to learn, to love, and to forgive.

FOREVER

In Heaven
(if allowed)
I shall revel in eternity.

I will first master music:
a century for the cello;
a century for the oboe;
a decade or two for each other;
a millennium to compose for them all.

After music will come languages,
a decade each, longer for
dazzling Thai, Bushman, and Navajo.

I shall then conquer the science
of deoxyribonucleic acid
and genomic switches—
ten millennia might do.

I will take three centuries
to tackle cosmology:
quasars, black holes, star-birth;
encounters subatomic to intergalactic.

Then, I will study systems:
water and air and heat;
flora and fauna;
soil and seeds;
the interdependency and synergy
of all things.

Lastly, perhaps, will come
my study of the human mind:
the joys, the hurts;
the addictions and dysfunctions;
the condition of perfection.
A million millennia
will make a good beginning.

For the remainder of forever
I shall endeavor to learn
kindness, humility, patience,
generosity, and forgiveness:
the true arts of eternity.

Halter Broke

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One meaning of the term “halter broke” indicates the condition of a horse after its mind and spirit have been broken such that when the horse is wearing a halter, the horse will not move from the spot where its halter hangs to the ground, unless led. As you read my poem Halter Broke, consider the ways in which you may have allowed yourself to be conditioned to the point of paralysis. Ponder what you can do to free yourself, so that you remember who you really are, so that you realize you are free to become who you choose to become. Whether it be through religion, spirituality, meditation, learning, prayer, forgiveness, or poetry–come to an understanding of what holds you back from achieving your full potential, both as an individual and as a member of your larger community. You can do it.

HALTER BROKE

He stands at the scene,
at the very spot,
of his instruction.

Head down.

While the tail lies coiled,
the lead rope’s head lunges
up to its stranglehold.

Eyes down.

He stands in his space
sun-parched, thirst unsated,
though the trough sparkles
nearby under noon.

Shoulders drooped.

This is his place:
he will move
only when invited,
suppressing meanwhile.

Drooped and down.

To the Mountain

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This life’s journey can seem hard. No–it IS hard! In some ways life is meant to be hard (but not cruel or brutal) because it is through struggle and effort that we learn and grow, that we become better selves. So often I have resisted the upward climb in my life. My legs ache. My lungs burn. I feel fatigued. I just want to rest. And it’s ok to rest when needed, so long as we keep an upward direction. Learning new skills. Solving tough problems. Choosing to forgive. These expand our minds and hearts. These ennoble and redeem. So, focus on that beautiful mountain top, and climb!

TO THE MOUNTAIN

The wind blows cold upon this mountain:
you reach out frigid fingers
to winch me up, to the summit,
but I refuse and split my stupid shin
on an unforgiving stumbling stone.

The air rests thin upon this mountain:
I suck and gasp with each heavy foot fall,
glancing away from your easy smile;
shin blood congeals;
the mucous freezes in my nose.

A smell sits rank upon this mountain,
from so many pissing travelers
and their perennial flotsam of tumbling toilet paper,
jagged aluminum cans, jolly rancher wrappers,
plastic bottles that will last a millennium.

Blue lupine, firecracker penstemon, Indian paintbrush, golden columbine, fireweed, asters,
daisies, monkeyflower, beard tongue, shooting star:
you redeem this mountain,
remind and rebuke;
you sing the beautiful song
to the beat of sheep hoofs
and the chirps of pikas and marmots.
You sing the beautiful song.

(Photo of Mt. Timponogos, Utah, in July, by the author.)

Grooves

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I have just learned that another friend–a lovely, talented woman–has suffered decades of control and disdain from her husband. Is it simply human nature to be boorish? I don’t buy it. Life need not be such a slog. Every man, woman, and child on this planet can learn to be more kind and caring, more loving and forgiving, more outward viewing. Sure, it takes a little effort, a little discipline. The ultimate means of assuring our own success is to contribute to the success of those around us, not to tear them down. What will I (and you) do today to build another up? What connection do you see between this note and my poem “Grooves” below?

GROOVES

Our two lives
have worn two grooves
in our sagging mattress,
two trenches
where we have lain
side by side
through the battles.
I would that there were
no grooves at all,
or only one.
So much that
a new, level mattress
could not erase or replace.
As moonbeams glow
on the frozen snow,
I lay and listen
to the woman
in the sunken space
next to mine.

Rabbit Lane: Published!

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I have so enjoyed sharing my Rabbit Lane blog with all of you, my friends. Today I am pleased to announce that my book Rabbit Lane: Memoir of a Country Road has been published in print and for Kindle.

Rabbit Lane tells the story of a humble country dirt road, of its human history, of its natural beauty, and of its ability to bring insight, understanding, transformation, and healing to those who mindfully walk it. The book contains stories and poems, songs and photographs, musings and observations about life and nature, that will amuse and inspire. Rabbit Lane helps us to slow down and pay attention to the beauty around us and within us.

You can find Rabbit Lane as a full-color Kindle download at Amazon, and the black-and-white print book both at Amazon and CreateSpace.

My greatest hope is that my stories, poetry, and music will inspire you and bring you joy. I would love to hear from you as you read.

Smashed

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I have lived alone for 1 year now: 52 weeks: 365 days. The highlight of my life is to see my children. They grew a gorgeous garden this year, and shared with me their harvest: sweet corn; swiss chard; cucumbers. And a pumpkin. Their front porch is adorned with two dozen perfect orange pumpkins. Hyrum and Hannah offered me one, perfectly round, with a spiraling stem. The pumpkin reminded me of them each night when I came home from work. It looked so cute sitting by the front door, until one evening I found it smashed on the rocks.

SMASHED

To Whoever
smashed my pumpkin:
I wondered
how long
my pumpkin would survive
you.

Not long.

My little daughter
raised this pumpkin
in her garden.

I love her.
I do not get to see her much.
I miss her.

So, I set by my door
her pumpkin, my pumpkin.
It reminded me of her.

I dared to hope
you would let it be.
But you smashed
my little girl’s
pumpkin.

(PS. She gave me another yesterday. One can hope.)

Whispers from Tinker Creek

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My son, Brian, gave me a book entitled, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, by Annie Dillard, for my birthday. Published in 1974, the book won the esteemed Pulitzer prize. In its pages, Ms. Dillard goes traipsing through her Virginia woods, observing sky, trees, insects, birds, and Tinker Creek. The smallest observations vault her into grand philosophical explorations about the nature of life. I am impressed and moved at her intellectual and transcendental depth. I am enjoying the book! I have heard that a good way to become a better writer is to read great writers. During a quiet moment, I aspired to write a poem inspired by Ms. Dillard’s writing. I present to you, “Whispers from Tinker Creek.”

WHISPERS FROM TINKER CREEK

I hang on every word,
dew on a leaf point,
sliding slowly to drop
toward mingling mud,
the view blue and green,
blinding
but for shadow.

I cling to the twig tip
with suction feet,
searching, in space,
through tattered clouds,
for how to inch on.

The breeze whispers
words I cannot comprehend,
almost audible,
puffs of cottonwood,
floating dandelions.

The sun spares me
sudden death to bedazzle
with sparkling dust,
shattered crystals hovering
purposefully.

Worthy

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“I am worthless,” my friend sighed to me. “Oh, no,” I urged, “you are so worthy, so deserving.” My friend wanted to believe, but could not. “You are worthy,” I insisted again. This poem declares your worthiness:

WORTHY

I AM:

rocks and ice in frozen space:

I AM:

dazzling beacons of pulsing proton beams:

I AM:

rainbow clouds, glowing, brilliant, birthing billions of bright suns:

I AM:

gold dust, iron dust, plutonium dust, the stuff of supernova stars:

I AM:

volcanoes bursting liquid stone to the skies, hot and hissing:

I AM:

waters of life, boiling and crystalline, flowing, flowing:

I AM:

the breath of God:

I AM.

Couplets

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“Couplet: two lines of poetry that form a unit.” I found myself writing random couplets as they pushed themselves upon my yielding mind. I share them with you here. Each couplet only nicks the surface of a universal story. Explore deeper to find that every image is a symbol of human depths we can only stare into blackly. Examine the people, places, images, and ideas around you to see what poetic couplets come to you. Look at your lover, your dog, the hornets nest in the crook of your gable, your birdhouse. Only the poem can fathom.

COUPLETS

Rise unresisting to the slight swelling between
parallel bleached and knotted planks.

Strain at the runes stamped into your skull:
the Rosetta stone is smashed.

Hobble my feet at the desk;
hide my brain in the left-hand drawer.

The message is mute under my tongue;
black balloons founder on the floor.

Extinguished are the lights in the hotel hall;
strange sounds seep under bolted doors.

The coffee is free,
though cold (sorry).

What do I say? Give me a beer
so I can heave until I’m empty, then heave.

Peak through the keyhole, expectantly:
to see: worlds never to be known.

Bless all the dear children in Africa’s care, in Asia’s and America’s care,
the walkers, the limpers, the rollers and bed-layers: runners all.

Put your tooth under the pillow, your stocking on the hearth,
your clogs on the sill—your knees to the floor.

You should check that dry red spot on your back:
you lifeguarded as a girl, you know, several summers.

Put your arms around that boy, clap him twice:
Proud of you, son.

I would reach out, to touch:
empty space; paw at it, paw.

You look lovely,
dear.

You

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This poem is not an accusation of you, dear reader. Consider this poem as asking the question, What kind of person do I consider myself to be? Am I observant of my surroundings, or oblivious? Am I attentive to the needs of others, or uncaring? Do I hold the door for others, or do I go through first and let it shut behind me? When friends tell me about their successes and their struggles, do I one-up them with my own, or listen with excitement and empathy? Consider this poem as my quest, and my invitation, to live life showing more consideration, more kindness, greater courtesy, and more civility (as I’m sure you do, being readers and writers of poetry!).

YOU

You are the kind
that pisses on the toilet seat,
that unplugs your nose in the men’s shower,
that swerves slapdash through traffic without signal,
that leaves your soiled dishes on the table, swaggering off to your football.

You are that type,
the type that tramples the flowers
and does not see.

Sucking Air

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Some of life’s experiences leave you feeling like a flopping fish sucking air in a dry river bed.

SUCKING AIR

By some dark power she
damned the stream,
made all the fishes flop
on their sides on the rocks,
sucking air, just
long enough.

Break the log jam. Pray for rain. Breathe deeply. And swim.

Grail

3 Replies

How does one put into words the fragility, beauty, and precious nature of life? The more words we use, maybe, the closer we get–adjective upon adjective. Or, perhaps, only a poem, with the fewest words, but bursting with meaning and imagery, can do the job. Even then, words might not be capable at all, and we must yield to an embrace, a kiss, a memory, a lullaby. My poem Grail is an attempt to encapsulate life, or at least a bit of it. I hope you enjoy.

GRAIL

Even
a cracked and empty eggshell
evokes awe for new life.

The infant, you cradle,
as if a spark,
ephemeral,
of something infinite,
or divine.

Hold her, tight
and careful,
while she is yours
to hold.
She will bury you,
someday,
with roses and tears,
and tell your story:
you will inspire,
still, from the crypt.

First cry, first tear.
First laugh and first kiss.
Sips from the holy grail.

Finding Sleep

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I went to bed early one evening, overcome by fatigue, stress, over-stimulation, and worry. But I could not sleep for all the ambient sounds that my ears so perfectly picked out. Instead of sleeping, I scrawled out this poem. Was it really sleep that I needed? Or did I need the ability in the moment to find joy and wonder in all that surrounded me? Did the ear plugs help or hinder my state of being? Let me know what you think.

FINDING SLEEP

Bulbous beetle sees
my nightstand light
and bounces his exoskeleton
against the vertical trampoline
of the window screen,
bounces three times,
his lace wings rasping like
sheets of stiff cellophane;
he can’t enter into my room
to reach the light he longs for,
and we both are the better for it.

Incorporeal sounds sail through—
a filly whinnying over his weaning,
a puppy straining and yapping
at her collar and leash,
our cat defending her kittens
against the neighbor’s surly tom,
children screaming delightedly
as they run at night in the grass,
only to bicker over turns
on the round trampoline—
they all drift in
to settle upon me
like a New England Bible
on a dying man’s chest.

Orange plugs twisted into my ears
dull it all, stop even
the crooning of the crickets
and the breeze’s inviting whisper.

To Touch the Moon

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I know this has happened to you. You feel that something beautiful, something desirable, something blissful, is so close you can feel its presence, almost touch it. Yet it lies a universe away, the mystery behind the gloaming. Nearly yours, it slips through your fingers before you can take hold. Or, it may be someone: someone you wish you could love, someone you wish could love you, someone to touch. This poem explores that real but elusive sense, that longing.

TO TOUCH THE MOON

I cannot touch
the Moon.
For all her beauty,
her seductiveness,
for all her wisdom,
her distracted discernment,
she moves just
out of reach.
For all her cool warmth,
her illuminating glow,
for all her coy kindness,
her constant variability,
she glides just
beyond my reach.
For all my ardor,
my real gratitude,
for all my scheming plans,
my considered, burgeoning love,
I cannot touch
the Moon.

Yes

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Driving alone toward Zion National Park in southern Utah one night, the full moon appeared above the redrock cliffs, shining large and bright and white. I found myself suddenly flooded with tender emotions, wanting desperately to hold and be held. I wrote this poem to help me remember the image of the immaculate moon, and my emotions upon spying her. Please do me the honor of understanding that this is not a sex poem. Rather, this is a poem about the powerful and wonderful feelings that can accompany intimate romantic love, even across great geographic distance.

YES

I want to make love to the moon.

I want to caress her creamy, naked curves.

I want to whisper grateful sobs for withholding nothing but judgment.

Would she deign, I would make gentle, generous love to the moon.

Susquehanna

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This scene from 2013 is in the town of Bird-in-Hand, Pennsylvania, is the most idyllic I have ever seen. “I want to live here,” I whispered to myself again and again as I looked over the tall corn toward the farmhouse and barn. “This is where I want to be.” Have you had this experience of seeing your dream home, your dream town, and sighing loudly but forlornly with love and satisfaction? Boy did I fall hard for this place. I didn’t want to leave. But my wife and children were in Utah; my parents and several siblings were in Utah; my job (and my income) was in Utah. So I went back to Utah, not unhappily, but leaving a part of me behind in Amish country. My poem Susquehanna braids a dialogue between intimate partners with a description of place. Do you sympathize with or relate to one person over the other? Or are they both unrealistic, even extreme? Do you have the courage to pursue your dreams in spite of opposing voices? (I hope I do, but I’m not sure.)

SUSQUEHANNA

I could live here,

he dreamed,
gazing
from a ridge-top
road

And what would you do
Mr. Lawyer? It would
ruin the place—and you—to dive
into their divorces

at the far-off
river meandering
in graceful curves

and mangled hands
and rat poisoned livestock.

Still, I could
live here: right there:
on that farm:
see
the red barn, tilting?

where the feet
of mountains meet,
a reflecting ribbon,
shining silver
beneath a bright
sky,

I could right it,
help it stand straight
again.

You and whose budget?
Not yours, surely,
and not mine!
And what would you do
with a farm, anyway?

flanked in leafy
darkening green

You couldn’t fix
a door knob
let alone
a bailing wagon.

transforming
to iridescent gold
under the alchemy

You don’t know your rye
from your barley or oats
or triticale wheat.
You,
a farmer!

of the slowly setting
sun.

I could live here:
me: right here.

Tulips

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My poems usually result from a single poignant image, thought, or sensory experience. Through the poem, I tell the story of that experiential moment. On occasion, however, I compose a poem from random shreds of sight, sound, thought, and memory, stringing them together like multicolored bulbs on a string of lights. “Tulips” in one such poem. Though the glow of each image is unique, yet a common thread joins them.

TULIPS

Special sauce drips
from the double bacon
cheese burger clamped
between fingers and thumbs.

Overgrown boys goggle and grin
at bikinis bouncing
down the beach
as the girls blink and babble
at biceps.

Not one yellow patch
or errant blade
mars that lawn,
frequently fertilized
and mowed twice
to a neat crisscross.

He smiles at himself
in his tailored suit,
white shirt cuff linked
and monogrammed, perfect-patterned
tie, long-point faux alligator shoes
shining.

JD. . . MBA. . . PhD. . . CPA. . . MD. . . DDS. . .

Though shifting,
even clouds have shape.
Air I cannot see
rounds the alveoli
of my lungs.

Blood spatters my face
from new battles
with brick walls.

Drugs at least
dim the pain.

You had better shut your
window against the wafting
putrescence of skunk.
Dogs know only
how to bark.

Put down your gun:
no violence pursues you:
your bullets would pass cleanly
through the clouds,
undeterred and unaffecting.

Run to retrieve
a vomit bowl
for him or her. Summon
the compassion to watch
as they wretch.

Surrender to the universe
inside you. Let go
your clutching at clouds
you are not meant to capture.

Stand unafraid in the mists:
the dews will coalesce
to cool and sooth and moisten.

Tulips swell before the house:
purple, yellow, orange, pink, red, each
bright under the morning sun.

A Good Man

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Sometimes you just know. You see someone, and your heart tells you, your mind tells you, This is a good person. I can trust her. Don’t ask me how. It is something in the eyes, the set of the jaw, a softness of features, and a real spiritual, intuitive sense. I experienced this recently with someone, and at a place, I did not expect. But there he was. A good man. And I knew it.

A GOOD MAN

Today I met
A Good Man.
I know that
he may not know
himself.
His tremulous hands have
lost touch,
and his feet shuffle
through forgetting.
But the slight lifting
of grizzled cheeks
and his liquid blue eyes
looking into me
from behind bushy gray
brows, like a warm sky
through Spring’s maples and mimosas:
they told me.

Stuff

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One of my favorite books is The No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency by Alexander McCall Smith. I read with delight the entire series of 15 books (I can’t wait to read #16). Wonderful, sweet-and-sour characters, with goodness abounding and mysteries to solve. On a day off I wandered to the public library grounds and settled in on a park bench to read. A homeless woman, living on the grounds, approached me, interrupted my reading, and made a request. This poem tells the story. What would you have done?

STUFF

“Excuse me,
sir,” I heard,
but the slanting sun shone in my eyes,
and I could not see at first.
“Will you
be here for a few minutes?”
Here being my bench
on the public library grounds, a bench
made of steel slats curved
and painted green. “It’s so hot
and I’m very thirsty: would you
watch my stuff
while I get a refill?”
Stuff: two sleeping bags
neatly covering egg-carton foam
with plastic underneath, all tucked
into a corner room formed
by intersecting retaining
walls. “Sure,” I mumbled,
closing the book
I had been reading, fancifully,
about African ladies,
ladies who were detectives
and teachers of typing,
ladies who made an effort
to help, and who lied
only when necessary to prop up
their men, men who were good
and who worked hard but
who needed some propping up
now and again
by smart and guileless women.
“Thank you.
I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
She shuffled away, hugging
two gallon-size mugs smashed
against unencumbered breasts.
Brittle yellow hair, sagging skin,
and an absence of teeth told
some of her story.
Watch her stuff. Stuff:
box stamped “This End Up”
with cups of dried noodles
in it; tube of toothpaste,
toothbrush, deodorant stick,
neatly arranged on the bed;
metal folding chair;
extra blankets, folded; winter coat.
I wondered what I would do
if someone took an unwarranted
interest in her stuff—like
a bicycle policeman;
a wizened tramp pushing
his own things
in a borrowed shopping cart;
a dog off its leash—
and I couldn’t say: Umm,
excuse me . . . that’s . . . not your stuff?
I hoped she would
come back soon, and turned
my eyes again to the stories
of good women and men
who helped each other
with troubles large and small
the best they knew how.
The woman returned
with her mugs refilled,
and with a friend,
a friend who waved her arms
wildly, bending and turning
at the waist, swinging her arms
up and around and down,
over her head, between her legs,
and I stood up to find another bench
on which to read.
“Thank you, sir,”
the stuff’s owner called
after.

An Evening

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I contemplate. Everything. I don’t mean to; I just do. I notice my abundance and my scarcity. I think about my gifts and talents, and worry about my abyssal weaknesses. I ponder my joy and my sadness, my human connections and my loneliness. I try not to allow meditation to slip into obsession, or depression. And my observations are not just about me. I thrill at the beauties of nature. The world, and life, are simply filled with mystery and unfathomableness and beauty and suffering that beg to be studied, to be understood. So I contemplate. This poem contemplates a quiet evening alone.

AN EVENING

A fish fillet simmers
in basil and salted lemon juice.
The baked potato steams
with butter and sour cream gobs.
Three cobs of corn.
Absence of conversation.

Fingers fumble with chords,
picking awkward patterns.
Crooning “Blackbird.”
Absence of applause.

On the big bed,
looking at paintings
on the walls.

Color Me

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How does one write a poem about domestic violence without slipping into shallow prose, or, more importantly, without trivializing a horrifying trauma. As a municipal attorney, I have helped hold DV perpetrators accountable for 23 years. I have spoken with the women, seen their fear, heard their terror. I have seen the photographs of bruises, heard the sobbing screams in 911 recordings, and watched the abused tremble on the witness stand. I have watched the “bad guys” smirk and win acquittals from ignorant or misogynist juries. How I admire the courage victims have to become survivors, to stand tall and to say “Never again!” I wrote this poem for victims of domestic violence, though the poem is by no means a celebration or victory song. The poem attempts to express both the horror and the hope of someone caught, for now, in the twisted power and control dynamics of domestic violence. To all of them, I say: have courage; have hope.

COLOR ME

blue—royal
blue—navy
purple almost to black
witness
Van Gogh starry nights:
beautiful
but
not here
where pale skin
should be

red lightning bolts
in white orb

two weeks
maybe three
until
I can pretend
it did not happen
no one knows

dark pigments
you paint on pale canvass
private studio
still life model undressed

would you plied
with greens and yellows,
orange and sky-blue

pinpoint pupils
in a Saint-Rémy sky

Deo Song

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I sang for years with an excellent 200-voice choir, the Salt Lake Choral Artists. My last concerts were sung in St. Ambrose Catholic church in Salt Lake City, Utah. Beautiful scenes in stained glass stretched floor to ceiling along both side walls. The concert-goers sat in hard oaken pews, pleasing us with loud applause. Once we performed selections from Leonard Bernstein’s “Mass,” a modern and moving work. “Sing God a new song,” we sang. After the concert, I noticed a stooped, white-haired man sitting in the back row, tears in his eyes. I said hello, and he thanked me for the music. I imagined some of his life’s emotions, and wrote this poem before leaving the church.

DEO SONG

He had sung his lifetime,
raised his voice to the Lord altissimus,
lifted his broken wholeness to Kyrie in excelsis,
Qui tollis pecata mundi,
weeping to the precise glide of the white baton.

He partakes, now, from the back row,
his back twisted, head bowed—
still the tears.

Translation of the Latin:

Deo: God

Altissimus: The highest

Kyrie in excelsis: Lord on high

Qui tollis pecata mundi: Who took upon himself the sins of the world

Separation

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The week I moved out I began singing again with the Salt Lake Choral Artists, a 200-voice audition community choir. I needed the music. Music to soothe my anxiety and sadness at being separated after 25 years of marriage. At times waves of sadness crashed over me, ground me into the gravel of life. I needed the music. Our Christmas and holiday repertoire included some of the most moving melodies I had ever heard. In one rehearsal the director shouted at me, “Everybody is singing here!” I nodded, but my throat was choked up and tears stung my eyes. I needed this music. Still, the long drive “home” after rehearsal on dark, freezing winter nights, terminating at my construction zone apartment, mattress on the floor, wardrobe in my duffel, the thermostat set at 50, brought the waves crashing again, the music notwithstanding. This poem attempts to describe that difficult time.

SEPARATION

The cold brings it on,
and the darkness.
The long drive dredges it
up, even after
the singing, after
three hours of wonderful
singing, the long winter drive
to a place that wasn’t home,
where I shivered in my bed
and thought of the woman
that used to be mine.

Mr. Robin

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Riding my bicycle home from work the other day I noticed an American Robin standing proud and tall in the midst of deluging lawn sprinklers. He knew where to be to pluck juicy earthworms from the saturated turf. And he knew how to keep cool in the 100-degree heat. What caught my attention most was his bearing of obvious satisfaction, his beak lifted slightly, contemplating his idyllic surroundings. I couldn’t help putting pen to paper.

MR. ROBIN

Mr. Robin
stands tall
beak above the plane
eyes gleaming
in thick lawn sprinkler
mist, knowing
he is in the right place at the right time

Kingbird

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The Western Kingbird is one of my favorite birds. It is unremarkable in size, color, song, or other characteristics enjoyed by more glamorous birds. Its only coloration is a slight yellow-green on the breast. But I love to watch the Kingbird’s frenetically acrobatic flight as it catches insects on the wing. And I love listening to them from where they sit perched on the top of fence posts and power poles, singing an indecipherable electronica, devoid of tune but fascinating nonetheless. Every morning when I leave for work, and every evening upon my returning home, a little Kingbird calls to me with a friendly whistle. Today he let me take this picture as he perched on my wall with a grasshopper in his beak. Enthralled with my new friend, to whose whistles I always offer my own greeting of “Hello little Kingbird,” I wrote this poem.

KINGBIRD

You are always
there, in that same spot,
on the top
of the fence post,
little Kingbird.

You twitter
at me, so I will
look to you,
find you, again
in that place,
tidy Kingbird.

You catch
and hold my gaze, then
twitch and twitter,
yellow Kingbird.

A quick hop,
an acrobatic
flap after
an airborne bug,
quick little Kingbird.

And you wing away
with a twitter
and a whistle
until tomorrow,
friendly Kingbird.

A Perfect Match

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“Such a cute couple!” “They are so good together!” I have heard these and other phrases so often about couples, young and old. But what does it take to make a perfect match? “Opposites attract,” says the cliche, though I’m not sure I believe it. It is that we admire in our partners what we lack, or do we feel more comfortable with someone similar to us in personality and demeanor? In this poem I explore two sides of a relationship that differ and yet complement. I admit to tending more toward the second half of each couplet, though the poem is not (necessarily) autobiographical. What are your opinions about what makes the perfect match? Let me know by leaving your comment!

A PERFECT MATCH

impulsive
deliberate

spontaneous
self-conscious

hopeful
fearful

self-possessed
over-shoulder-watching

free-thinking
conforming

curious
contemplative

ebullient
restrained

giggling
steady now

disciplined
falling off the wagon

fun-loving
nose to the grindstone

inclined toward cheerfulness
tending to be sad

star-gazing
spot-scrubbing

bibber
tee-totaler

go to hell
I’m sorry

let’s go!
we’re late

bratwurst
sauerkraut

pedal to the floor
foot on the break

effusive
reserved:

beautifully broken

secretly afraid:

a perfect match

2020 Humankind

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Warning: this poem is satirical, even cynical. No soothing pleasantries here. Rather, I presume to introspect on behalf of humankind. And I don’t like what I see. As advanced as our species has become, with global economic networks, far-reaching social and humanitarian programs, abundant universities, and quotidian scientific breakthroughs, yet, I fear, we remain too shallow, too self-absorbed, too small-minded. A ranting soliloquy I overheard at the gym (I know, not necessarily the epicenter of human achievement) caused me to reflect on the nature of humankind, and “inspired” me to write this poem to encapsulate this cracked jewel of human behavior. Please forgive the profanity: it’s a quotation. The number in the title–2020–does not reference a calendar year, but hints at the notion of perspective. I, for one, will try to be a little smarter, a little kinder, a little more outward in my thinking and behavior. Join me in the effort to be just a notch better today, for the sake of the species.

2020 HUMANKIND

The thing I hate about this gym is, you
know, that on Sundays it closes at 3.

3!!

I mean, what kind of a shitty policy is that?
It’s Sunday afternoon, you know, and I’ve slept all day,
and now I wanna go to the gym. I wanna
get pumped, you know? Pumped up!

Boom!

But can I go to the gym?
NO! I’m fucked, man!
You know what I mean?

God damn!

What is wrong with these people?

In the Garden

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Rarely do I write religious poems, thinking myself unequal to the sacred task. Today, however, during a contemplative moment, images of our Lord suffering in the Garden of Gethsemane, pushed upon my mind, through my fingertips, to form this poem. I feel that I don’t know Jesus well, but I do believe that I understand something of his purpose for us, that is, to create us anew in his image, through his Atonement, into beings of light, goodness, kindness, empathy, understanding, generosity, forgiveness, and truth. He whispers to us every moment of every day, helping us to change, oh so imperceptibly, incrementally, to become more like him. His end is our eternal happiness.

IN THE GARDEN

drops of blood,
crimson, thick,
fall, to spatter
on the rocks,
the sand, the soil,
running on the exposed roots
of an ancient olive tree,
purple roots
in the darkness,
choked whispers and sobs
hovering
over

GATE C-18, SLX

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Thanksgiving Point Ashton Gardens by Roger Baker

Sitting in the airport half a day to catch a one-hour flight to visit my sister in Arizona, I took opportunity to watch the people around me, sitting, walking, milling, guarding their things–and to wonder about their lives. Such diversity, and such beauty in that diversity! People appear so different from one another, and are in fact different in many ways, but yet are fundamentally the same, each dreaming, each wanting love, each working to make their life good, each going somewhere. This poem sketches some of my observations of people during those hours in the Salt Lake International airport.

GATE C-18, SLX

Flight attendant,
a former stewardess,
bounces by in high heels,
face drawn tight,
weary of being stared at,
undressed.

Grandma texts busily
with one finger,
novel in her lap.
Her man yawns
to his magazine.

A mop of gray hair
on this squinting,
tongue-chewing man
intent
on his Apple laptop.

Four young women
gab, quite happily,
but not so loud
that I can hear
what they say,
legs criss-crossed
with charging chords.

Newspapers
still exist.

“I’m proud
to be an American”
ring tone.

Veteran ball cap,
gray beard, fingers
home-made whole-grain
cookies
in a Ziploc bag,
picks at his teeth
with his pinky.

Beneath her sleeveless
tie-dye house dress,
colored swirling tattoos
run up her arms,
across her breasts.

Clip-clop running
in boot heels.
Late!
Late!

Ear rings, nose rings,
gauges, bars;
dress shoes, pumps,
cowboy boots;
argyles, nylons, bare feet.

Breasts,
pushed up
past her collar bones.

Most stare
contentedly at nothing.

One man writes
a poem,
sipping
at his Coke,
munching
from his bag of extra
fancy roasted mixed nuts
from Costco.

Little girl dressed
in pink
plays games
on a plugged-in
pink laptop.

Pilot father flies
his giggling boy,
soaring, diving,
banking
to delighted sputtering.

Thunderstorm.
Lightning.
Heavy bouncing hail.
Wind.
Now snow and ice.
Our airplane diverted
to Boise.

Announcements,
with attempts at humor.
Polite laughter.
The tension grows.

I watch
the mop’s bags
while he wanders
off to pee.
Then he watches
mine.

We board . . . at last.

Feeding Koi

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I chose to spend my birthday (52) at the Thanksgiving Point Ashton Gardens in Lehi, Utah. Just me and the trees and flowers. Peaceful. Beautiful. No demands. I snapped dozens of photographs just because I could and I wanted to and the flowers were so pretty. At Monet Lake, covered with water lilies, huge koi lazily swam. A quarter bought me a handful of fish pellets, which I casually threw into the dark water. The water suddenly roiled with a sucking, slurping mass of colorful fish. I laughed, and I wrote this poem on my garden map.

FEEDING KOI

slimy slurping throng
benignly greedy
hot roiling mass
till the food is gone
droning gliders
splotchy bright
purposing only for pellets

Fragility

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This poem, ostensibly about a dandelion flower gone to seed, is not about a dandelion flower at all. Rather, the poem explores the fragility of life and relationships. The slightest events can lead to enormous changes of circumstances. So take care to avoid unnecessary upsets. But when upsets inevitably appear, do your best to choose to go with the flow. After all, the scattered seeds will birth new beauty.

FRAGILITY

This dandelion
head I carry cupped
in one hand’s lee
against a zephyr’s whimsy:
perfect symmetry of sphere,
nucleus sprouting spokes
sporting inverted umbrella wisps.
The slightest
stumble, or unfortunate exhalation
scatters dismemberment
and loss, gracefully,
a floating meditation,
without thought
of sadness or complaint.

Sleeping on a Sewer Manhole

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Wandering the streets of Philadelphia one rainy night, I asked a couple exiting their historic brick home where I could find a good place to eat. They recommended a few restaurants, warning me which were BYOB. Being both naive and a non-drinker, I hesitated, “Um . . . BYOB?” “Bring your own beer,” they chuckled. I found City Tavern where the Founding Fathers debated the principles of liberty while smoking and sipping madeira, and ordered Martha Washington’s chicken pot pie. My tummy warm and full (and my wallet drained), I set off through the cold drizzle to my hotel. Steam snaked eerily up from the holes in the sewer manhole lids. The wet air was growing more frigid. I stepped round a cobbled corner into a narrow alley and came upon a man lying in a fetal ball on a sewer manhole lid, soaking up what little heat he could from the sewer vapors, sheltered from the rain by wilted cardboard. This short poem remembers him.

SLEEPING ON A SEWER MANHOLE

A cold rain in April.
Glistening cobblestones.
Steam rising from the sewer through a cratered manhole lid.
A brother curled up, rolling restlessly, capturing wet warmth under his blankets
under an evening rain.

Woman at a Broad Street Bus Stop

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What difference will $1 make to the poor, the homeless? None. I’m not talking about the professional panhandler, who can make a good enough living. I’m talking about the humble poor, who really need help, but who often don’t ask. I gave such a woman $1 once, knowing guiltily that my contribution did nothing to help her solve her problems. I only hope that my attempt at kindness made a difference in her heart. She sat rocking, nursing her pains, at a bus stop on Broad Street in Philadelphia. Back in my warm hotel room, this is what I wrote.

WOMAN AT A BROAD STREET BUS STOP

She rocked on a Broad Street bench
rubbing a leg through blue and green blankets.
Tears quietly cut her brown face.
Liquid eyes shone
upon each oblivious observer, pleaded
unheard for spontaneous compassion.
No cup or turned over hat called for
a casually cast coin.
“Could you use a dollar?” I ventured.
“Oh, yes,” she whispered. “I need to buy medicine.
I have such pain.”
She rubbed and she wept.
She asked for nothing.
What use is a lousy dollar! What use
are a hundred lousy dollars!
And she asked for nothing.
“God bless you, sir,” she cried
as she rocked and rubbed her aches through her blankets.
She asked for nothing.

Wachovia Man

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I spent hours in the evenings walking the streets of Philadelphia while there on business. Around City Hall and the Masonic Temple, both architectural masterpieces. Along Benjamin Franklin Boulevard toward the Museum of Art, with its steps made famous by Rocky Balboa. On the banks of the dirty Schuykill River. By the famous LOVE sculpture. Down Walnut, Chestnut, and Market Streets in the historic quarter. In many places I saw homeless people, in desperate condition, sleeping mid-day in parks wrapped in dirty sleeping bags and blankets, crouched in cardboard shelters under the South Street bridge. One wizened man with wild beard and hair squatted with his back against a Wachovia bank wall, holding out his empty coffee cup for coins, staring blankly at the multitudinous passing feet, but seeing nothing. In my hotel, haunted by these images, I wrote this poem.

WACHOVIA MAN

Only the cup and knee-knobs
of crossed legs showed themselves
to the thousands of preoccupied pedestrians.
He sat tucked tidily
into a Wachovia wall,
out of the way.
The cardboard cup held 3 pennies
and a ring of dried coffee stain.
“It’s cold today,” I said and stopped,
68 smug cents now
in the cup of the blue-capped man.
His gap-tooth smile jumped from a thick grey beard,
and two clear eyes saw into mine:
Thank you. Yes,
it is a cold day.

Woman on a Park Bench

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Many years ago whilst ambling happily through Central Park in New York City, my gambol’s attention was diverted by an old woman sitting silent and still on a weathered park bench. A woman without a home. A woman without a family. A woman without belonging. Homeless. I felt overwhelming emotions: sadness, pity, regret, helplessness, compassion. I wished for her happiness. I had no idea what to do or say. I did and said nothing. Even today, I don’t know what questions to ask about homelessness, let alone what the answers are. This poem is about that encounter, about the woman on the park bench, but also about me, about you, about the human identity and experience. My next several poems will feature my few experiences with the homeless, our brothers and sisters, humans that have been written off.

WOMAN ON A PARK BENCH

She sits
on a park bench—
rusting iron, splintered wood—
tattered hat askew on unkempt gray-streaked hair;
cotton and wool dripping threads;
too-big shoes cold against bare feet.
She sits,
hunched and silent and still;
a tiny, unnoticed atoll spotting a vast, smeary world;
a universe within.
Once there were dreams and smiles at dreaming the dreams.
But they wilted and died,
the struggle ending long ago,
yielding to forces that depleted, that destroyed,
that said:
You are nothing;
You don’t matter;
No one cares.
And so it is.
And so she sits:
finished looking for life;
not waiting for death.
She lives because she does not die.

No! to Shame

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Mt. Timponogos by Roger Baker

Shame is society’s largest lie, telling us we are bad or broken for making mistakes, committing sins, having weaknesses. Shame cripples individuals, families, communities, and countries. I felt ashamed of myself for most of my life, feeling deeply defective, unworthy, at fault, but not knowing why. Then I learned the difference between shame (i.e., I am bad for doing that thing) and embarrassment (i.e., I feel bad for doing that thing). I no longer feel ashamed of who I am.

I thank Brene Brown for her work to understand shame and to help people develop resilience to shame. I celebrate people who have the courage to tell their stories of feeling shame, and who have compassion for themselves and empathy for others. I dedicate this post and this poem to my darling mother, to my sweet sisters, to my lovely daughters, and to my dear friend Liddy on the other side of the world, all of whom I love and admire and appreciate. Let shame have no place in your mind and heart.

NO! TO SHAME

Many voices
in this world
will tell you
to feel
your shame:
you will.

Satan
and his stupid slaves
will whisper,
will scream
to believe in
your shame:
you will.

Listen,
though,
to my voice
above all:

You are good!
You are whole!

I will roar it
from my rooftop:

You are light!
You are love!

I will shout it
from my lighthouse:

You are virtue!
You are truth!

I will bellow it,
loud,
above the million hissing lies:

You are worthy!
You are pure!

I will say it and say it
again, and again,
time upon time,
till this world knows
what I know,
till I have banished
shame
from you,
for shame
has no place in you,
no quarter,
no nook,
no space,
no place.

Shame is ugliness
to your beauty.

Shame is filth
to your purity.

Shame is stench
to your flower’s bloom.

Shame is a leprosy
to your exquisiteness.

Shame is cold, gray ash
to the fusion heat of the stars
living in you.

So
quash the lying voices,
quell the insipid whispers.

So
send shame to its devil’s hatchery,
suck it to the center of
a massive black hole.

Listen to my voice
above all.

May 9, 2016

Life Ethic

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As a boy I collected butterflies. I hunted them, killed them, and mounted them in an impressive display case. I knew their names, their habitats, their habits. Over 100 species. Unhappily, worms destroyed my entire collection. I see now that my youthful intention had been to capture the butterflies’ beautiful essence. I have outgrown my need to capture butterflies. I am content to view them alive and free, awed by their living beauty.

Working in the yard one day I watched my son Brian, then 9 (now 26), chasing a butterfly with a homemade pillowcase net. “I caught it!” he exclaimed. I held my breath as he peered into the net to examine his prize. He soon released the butterfly to live another day. A smile of wonder lingered on his face. I breathed a relieved sigh to see him possess the maturity I had lacked at his age. I had taught him to love beauty. And he had learned. Learned to love beauty without needing to clutch at it, control it, kill it, and mount it on a board, only to lose it in the process. He had learned a Life Ethic. Here is the poem I wrote about that occasion. (Happy birthday Brian.)

LIFE ETHIC

“I caught it! I caught it!” cried the boy
over my weed-whacker whir
after waving his pole-clamped pillowcase
across the sky.
Two wide eyes and a victory smile
raced to the porch where
two trembling hands
coaxed the delicate creature
through the screened bug-box door.
A bundle of awe,
the boy sat still and stared
at this astonishing bringing-together
of color and form,
at this life.
Father watched from the garden rows,
remembering his own youth’s hunt
for small, helpless prey,
whose fate was to rot
with a pin through the thorax,
and a tag with a name and a date.
But the magical fluttering rainbows had faded
fast behind their showcase.
“Nice catch, son,” father admired
with a pat and a ruffle.
“What are you going to do with him?”
“Well, I think I’ll watch him for a while, and
then I’ll let him go.”
Good boy, father sighed, as
a boy released his heart’s hold and
a captive rainbow again
graced the sky.

(I took the above photo of a Milbert’s Tortoise Shell in 2007 on the banks of Duck Lake in the high Uinta Mountains of Utah.)

Songbird

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Photo by Liddy Mills

My friend Elizabeth found an injured bird yesterday, a European Starling, and took it in. Many people think of Starlings as junk birds. I know of farmers who pay boys to kill as many as they can. But Elizabeth took it in. She fed it, watered it, and wrapped it in cloth. Elizabeth named it Songbird. She sang to Songbird, and, as she sang, Songbird fluffed its feathers and watched her. She placed Songbird on a bed of straw, but the bird kept trying to come to her as she sang. “I held him as he took his last breath,” Elizabeth sadly recounted. “I hope he understood that some of us humans care.” She buried Songbird in the yard today, on the Sabbath. “Songbird deserved a burial,” she said. Elizabeth’s caring heart touched mine, and I wrote this poem, near midnight.

SONGBIRD

I crashed
and lay crumpled
in your townhouse yard.

You scooped me up
and sang to me
a song.

“Hello Songbird.”

You cradled me in a cloth
and stroked my feathered head.

Sing to me
a song.

You watered me
and laid me in a bed of straw.

Sing to me
a song.

You kept the cats
away.

Sing to me
a song.

You cried when I died,
and you buried me
in your townhouse yard.

You sang to me
a song.

For another story about trying to save an injured bird, see Chapter 37: Of Caterpillars and Birds at my blog page Rabbit Lane: Memoir.

Prepping for New Carpet

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My friend Carl gave me a place to stay during the crisis. “You will help me out if you stay here for awhile,” he offered. To keep the burglars and vandals away, he said. I could stay for free; no rent. It was his great-grandfather’s house, which Carl had bought generations later as an investment property, a rental. It certainly was an investment: the previous renters, in additional to not paying rent, had trashed the house on their way out: food and candle wax flung on the walls, holes punched in the bedroom doors, and animal feces ground into the carpets. Carl painted and carpeted a bedroom for me to live in, and retiled a bathroom. That’s where I lived, my mattress on the floor, my wardrobe in a duffel. I helped Carl–a little–work on the rest of the house. I spackled holes in walls, painted ceilings, and pulled baseboards and staples to prepare for new carpet. Carl saved me. He gave me a place to stay. He gave me a reason to live. Carl gave me hope and friendship.

PREPPING FOR NEW CARPET

Staples
in rows
in the floorboards;
tufts of pink
from rolls of ripped-out padding
caught beneath.

Bang ‘em in or pull ‘em out:
you can’t sweep with ‘em there.

Some are rusted
from spilled bear
and untrained dogs
that left dark
offenses on the wood.

Pound ‘em in or yank ‘em out—
don’t matter which:
new pad, new carpet: covers
everythin’: like nothin’ never happened.

Pull, pull and yank;
yank and pull—pull,
with pliers.
Sweep the room
clean.

No Diving

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Photo by Liddy Mills

I live in an apartment now. My children come to visit. Mostly I am alone. But I have books, music, poetry, crock-pot dinners . . . and a hot tub. My children and I sit in the roiling 110-degree water even when the ambient air is 20 degrees F, and the steam has condensed in frozen icicles hanging from the hot tub railing. We talk about life, their soccer goals and rugby tries, sore muscles, ornery pimples, church dances, dates and the prom, stubborn cowlicks and bad haircuts, good books, good movies, hopes and dreams. We flex our biceps and splash steaming water at each other and laugh. Sometimes after work I soak alone, watch the steam rise, and write a poem.

NO DIVING

in the hot tub
three feet deep
no diving sign in the tile
ice clings to the chrome railing
steam, and contemplations,
billowing, billowing

Cup of Tea

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Photo by Liddy Mills

I sat recently with a mug of scalding water in one hand and a tea bag in the other, dipping the bag repeatedly in the water, watching the water darken as the herbs steeped. Mmm. How aromatic was that chamomile (“cidreira” in Portuguese). I looked forward to sipping that sweet brew! The process of boiling the water and steeping the tea–of transforming crushed, dried herbs into a delicious, soothing beverage–caused me to ponder the processes of life and transformation. I thought about how we are similar to crushed, dried herbs–the dust of the earth, if you will–and about how, through life’s challenges and choices, we can transform our character, our soul, into something better and more pleasing. I contemplated God’s purposes in sending us to this mortal sphere, giving us rules and guidelines for our success, and nurturing us quietly every arduous step of the way. Please enjoy my poem “Cup of Tea” about this process of becoming.

CUP OF TEA

The Maker holds me
by a string, steeps
and dips me in the scald
until I become
the water
and the water becomes
me, stirred and stirred
with small cubes of sweetness
and drops of smoothing cream,
to be held in warming palms,
to be smelled and sipped
and savored.

Snow

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A snowy Rabbit Lane

In arid Utah we are grateful for snows that persist through March, April, and sometimes even into May. I remember a May 1993 snowstorm that dropped a full three feet of new snow on the streets and yards of Salt Lake City, the year after I returned from being a Fulbright Scholar in Portugal to live with my grandmother, Dora. These Spring snows add high-mountain snow pack that continues to slowly percolate thousands of feet through fractured bedrock, into valley aluvia, recharging the aquifers that allow us to turn the desert into a rose. So, even though I post this poem at the end of March, it is still snow season in Utah. I hope you enjoy the poem.

SNOW

Sky lets down her snow
in slow and heavy flakes
all the long day
as if the world, everywhere,
has never known but snow:
slow and easy, flakes
perching undetected
in my thinning hair,
granting shy moist cool
kisses on the bulb
of my nose, on my soft
sagging cheeks, crystals resting
on lashes looking up
to a distant gentle font.
Wind does not dare to blow.

Bliss

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I have always believed that a state of bliss in this mortal life is possible, achievable. Perhaps not perpetual bliss, but certainly repeated blissful moments. I’m not talking about happiness, enjoyment, pleasure, or even joy. But bliss: a state of utter contentment and peace. I have been challenged in this ideal by those who I most hoped would believe along with me. Admittedly, bliss does not describe my normal state of being, or anyone’s, perhaps. In this poem, however, I declare the possibility of bliss and my determined intention to pursue bliss until I find bliss. I hope that you believe in bliss.

BLISS

You told me one day what
you believed bliss to be:
a sham, a ruse, a vanity,
a thing we chase
from dawn till dusk,
and dream dark dreams about,
and never find and never will.
But I am loath to think it
so. I will look
from my head to the long horizon.
I will search
every path and non-path.
For bliss exists and is mine to be,
not to capture but to free.
Then, I will beckon and waive
and say “come!” and “be with me!”
In that morning we will
walk every path and non-path,
touch every icy mountain peak,
warm to every ray the sun sends,
drink in raindrops and waterfalls,
and touch sea and sky and moon and skin.
On an evening we shall die
and know the soil and the seed,
and give life to grass and flower
and fruit of the tree.
We will see.

Ceumar

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(Photo by Elizabeth Mills)

Having lived twice in Brazil (including the occasion of my birth), I have come to adore Brazilian music. Though Brazil boasts many greats, like folk artist Dorival Caymmi and bossa nova pioneer Carlos Antonio Jobim, my favorite Brazilian vocalist is Ceumar. This lovely woman’s lovely name means Sky and Sea. Smitten by her silky, perfect voice, and inspired by her versatile repertoire, I wrote her this poem.

CEUMAR

Ceumar:
where ocean touches sky,
blue on blue,
often tender, assuaging,
at times roiling and violent
and black,
where the boundary
always is unclear,
where always I hear
music: of earth, of water,
of heaven.

I messaged this poem to Ceumar through Facebook, and she responded with grace and appreciation.

My favorite of all Ceumar’s songs is “Jabuticaba Madura”, which she composed herself and sings solo while playing acoustic guitar. (You can watch her on You Tube.) In the song, Ceumar compares the small, brown Jabuticaba fruit to a lover’s eyes. Here is my rough translation of the lyrics. (I apologize for the loss of nuance and rhyme.)

Ripe Jabuticaba fruit,
not yet fallen underfoot,
hovers shining in the tree,
giving me the desire
to know what it is.
Thus are your eyes.
Who can resist
discovering their dark secret.
Let me be that woman.

Let me climb up to you.
Let me choose you.
Let me taste your sweetness.
Let me lose myself in you.
Blackberry, plum, guava,
mango, breadfruit:
none can compare.
Let me give you a small, dark piece
of the fruit of my heart.

In her music, Ceumar combines quintessential Brazilian sounds and rhythms with the instruments and styles of their European and African roots, including the clarinet, mandolin, accordion, and violin. Her repertoire avoids shallow pop in favor of mature, deep, moving, and fun music and lyrics. In my opinion, Ceumar is a genius of Brazilian folk and popular music and culture. And her voice is nothing short of heavenly.

Miracle

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20160116_080327

Stansbury Mountain Range, Tooele County, Utah

During a quiet moment I found myself contemplating the nature of miracles. A miracle is often defined as a phenomenon that cannot be explained by the known laws of nature, and often carries a religious or spiritual aspect. To me, a miracle is anything truly joyous and beautiful, like love, acceptance, natural beauty, a smile. These miracles raise our countenance above the cruelty and disappointment of our mortal existence.

Inspired by my daughter, Erin (23), I keep a daily miracle journal. At the end of each day, sitting bedside, I search the day for miracles and jot them down. Hyrum’s cello recital. Hannah’s painting. Brian’s blog post. Laura’s straight As. Erin’s love. Caleb’s 15 points in a basketball game. John’s V6 bouldering problem. Smiles. Kindness. Laughter. Sunsets. Waves crashing on sand. Birds and butterflies. A peaceful sleep. Forgiveness.

I wrote this poem to convey, through images, what a miracle is to me. I encourage you to examine your life for the miracles that are surely there, every day. Seek them, and you will find them, and be transformed by them.

MIRACLE

the small
the hidden
the barely seen

what brings joy
what stretches
what teaches

a brush with the senses
an immersion
a whisper

relief
healing
denouement

my desire to forgive
my yearning to touch another
my love

your forgiveness
your reaching toward
your love

a butterfly’s artwork wings
a bird’s song
a giggling brook

fog hovering pink under sunrise
antlers, alert, twisting above brush
owl’s soundless flight

your whisper
your touch
unconditional

Picking Up Nails

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Over the years I have made a habit of picking up nails, screws, bolts, and other sharp metal bits from the streets and gutters as I walk during my lunch break. I like to think that if I pick up this one nail, I will save someone the trouble of a punctured car tire. I hope that, in turn, the driver is spared the cascade of negative emotions that might otherwise radiate out into his world. None the wiser for being saved this trouble, I hope that the driver will be more inclined toward kindness and gentleness. The pictured jar is full of the nails and screws I have picked up on my walks. I am filling a second jar.

As an assistant scoutmaster for a Boy Scout National Jamboree troop, both in 2013 and 2017, my Council contingent leader, Craig, gave me and the other scoutmasters a Jamboree medallion. He challenged us to carry it in out pocket every day to remind us of the Scout Slogan: Do a Good Turn Daily. Putting the coin in my pocket each morning starts the challenge. Feeling the coin in my pocket all day long is my constant reminder to be kind. Retiring it at night gives me the opportunity for reflection upon my deeds and the state of my heart. Even if it was just a smile, I have done my good turn. I resolutely believe that a simple smile, or a picked up nail, can improve our world. I hope you enjoy this poem. Pick up a nail today.

I PICKED UP A NAIL

I picked up a nail
from the street I walked upon,
and changed the world:
a tire will remain inflated;
a vehicle will stay true to its course;
a curse will remain unuttered;
a hand will find restraint;
a smile will grace one’s face;
a prayer, at day’s end, will still ascend;
a heart will incline to humble gratitude;
a child will feel the gentleness of a father’s forehead kiss;
a child will hear the soft tones of a mother’s good-night wish.
I always pick up nails
from the streets I walk upon.

Me at the 2013 Jamboree.

Prayer

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Prayer Rock by Laura Baker

Prayer has never come easy for me. I avoid it, put it off, wander in my thoughts, cut it short. Yet, I pray every day, because I have been told to, all my life. It’s what I should do, they said. I also pray because I want to believe that someone is listening and caring and responding. But really I pray because I cannot deny a subtle, loving presence that abides and sustains when I am prayerful. Prayerful through formal kneeling prayers as well as daily mindfulness.

For a family activity, we had each child choose a special rock from our faux riverbed, a rock to paint. Laura (now 20) painted this rock when she was a young girl. She gave it to me: a present for dad. I keep it on my nightstand where I see it every morning and every night. I call it my prayer rock. I reminds me to bend my knee and bow my head, in humility, in gratitude, in desperate supplication, in recognition of the divine.

I offer to you two short poems on prayer. Fitful, imperfect, but sincere prayer.

YES, I PRAY

Do you pray morning and night? they asked.

I wondered, Do I?

I pray all the day long.
My life is a prayer.
Living is a prayer–
a sacred expression of dreams, frustrations, loves, and straining efforts;
a reaching out to the One who can reveal the mysteries hidden deep within;
a cry of faith and despair, of struggle and the hope of victory;
an ever truer reconciliation of heaven and earth.

Yes, I pray.

ENDURING

Father–
I am here, and
I am listening.

A Cross To Hold

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Elizabeth recently sent to me a special crucifix, carved from olive wood, that she called her holding cross. Anne, wife of Father Chris, had gifted the cross to Elizabeth during a difficult period of Elizabeth’s life. “For when there are no words,” Anne had said. Elizabeth kept her holding cross close day and night, grasping it as she slept, toting it in her purse, carrying it as she walked along the beach, feeling it in her pocket. Knowing that I, too, was passing through a challenging time of loss and loneliness, Elizabeth gifted her cross to me. She sacrificed something holy and dear to her so that I might find comfort in the cross, as had she. How I appreciate her gift, which arrived the day after Christmas.

Since receiving Elizabeth’s holding cross, now my holding cross, I have often sat in contemplation of its features, simple and beautiful. I have thought of the wounds of Christ, the pain he suffered on our behalf, the love he beams to each of us, the dreadful certainty of his death, and the certain hope of his resurrection. Though often a trying exercise, I labor to trust in him to mentor me in each moment, to show me the ways of patience and generosity, to coach me at kindness and compassion. Turning the holding cross over and over in my fingers, staring at it in my palms, the words of this poem began to flow and form. It is my hope that this poem inspires hope within all who read it.

A CROSS TO HOLD

These two arms, outstretched,
fit the curving
space between my fingers
as I caress, hold tight, caress.
Those hands, two,
at the end
brought tears, and blood,
that I make my own
through kindness.
The head inclines
to me, to all
the world, the masses.
I wonder at the mystery,
joy in the simplicity.
The feet: his feet: my feet:
wandering purposefully through
time and tide;
standing firm through all;
footprints to follow.
Olive wood glistening
from the oils and sweat
of your hands, of my hands,
from lips’ kisses;
polished with beeswax,
scented with lemon oil:
smooth; soft;
shining.
Hope,
in my hands,
holding.

Church Bells

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(Liberty Bell, Philadelphia, PA)

Walking in the snow on Rabbit Lane I began thinking about Christmas bells ringing from church towers all over the celebrating world. I pondered the many emotions associated with pealing church bells. Happiness in marriage. Sorrow in death. Fear in disaster. Hope that “all is well”. The Liberty Bell rang in joyful celebration of America’s independence. I composed this song about church bells at Christmastime, attempting to embrace all of these emotions, especially excitement at the birth of Jesus, the Savior of the World. Here is the sheet music for you to enjoy: Church Bells.

A Visit to Saltair

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In August 2015 I took Hannah (9) to the shore of the Great Salt Lake. We stepped onto the dry salt-crusted sand, rough and hard on our bare feet. The water seemed miles away. As we walked toward the enormous salt water lake, the fine sand became progressively more moist and soft, yielding to our feet with small wet depressions. A calm day, the water reflected the sky. Coming to the edge of the glistening water, we ventured in, walking a hundred yards out but barely wading up to our ankles. Walking a path parallel to us was a tall, slender woman in a pastel red dress. As Hannah and I played in the sand and water, my mind wandered momentarily into imagination about the beautiful woman. This poem finds its genesis in the moments before catching myself in my fantasy and pulling myself back to reality. Having come to my senses, I still felt a twinge of longing after she had gone.

A VISIT TO SALTAIR

You stepped out,
ahead of me,
onto the sand,
hard and salt-crusted,
a pastel-red floral dress
draped from bare shoulders
to delicate ankles,
the water still half-a-mile
distant, it seemed,
and I ventured, nearby.

You delighted
in the softening sand,
scrunching your toes and turning
slow pirouettes in the lake
breeze, uninhibited.
You lifted the hem above
your knees to wade and frolic
in water, shallow still
for a hundred yards or more,
lapping at your legs.

A low sand bar separated us.

“Did you know
the Great Salt Lake
is 25% salt? The oceans
are only 5%. Nothing lives
in this lake. Except
tiny brine shrimp, trillions of them,
harmless little creatures
swimming with frilled gills,
some orange, some yellow, some rusty red.
See? They’re all around us.”
I wanted to say all this,
and more.

As you turned back
toward land, my heart filled
with shameless longing.
I wanted to splash
my clumsy feet in the water
with your long slender feet,
hold your salt-white hand,
listen to you talk about your dreams
for the future, release
your pastel red dress,
make gentle love on the sand—
if you wanted me—
and come back and back to this place,
forever.

But you are half the distance
to the parking lot,
looking small, smaller,
pastel red fading,
and while the glow yet lingers,
you are too soon
nowhere.

The name Saltair references a lakeside resort that reached its heyday in the early 20th century. My grandmother Dora told me of taking the train to Saltair with her friends to enjoy a day in the buoyant water. Fire ravaged the resort, and only one meager building remains to remind of the resort’s former glory. Few visit anymore, except those who want to walk out onto the salty sand to wade into the shallow water.

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