by the clear
of a new way
to be a

in magnificance
has provided a way,
but I ignore
it all too often
and all too

must remain
the defining tag
of my anti-empire
movement. Not
my trust with

is gracious
and has reached
far beyond my hope
to be faithful to me.
I am humbled and
thankful for


Hooded Figure

His cloak masked him and his intentions
in the dark, cold morning air.

Silently, he wove his way
through sleeping
bodies – corpses, nearly,

whose sicknesses
like demon-infused bandages
clung to them
mummifying their lives.

He needed out. Away.

The sky only began to pale over the eastern mountains.
A silhouette, he climbed the hillside
looking for
intentional solitude.

To complete his mission,
shrouded in darkness,
to suffuse it with any light,
was to be alone with
the One.

Direction and power to make
men of zombies
only came from him.

Before daybreak the next morning, Jesus got up and went out to an isolated place to pray.      –Mark 1:35



           .                                 i
             a                    u     l     n
f     r     e     s     h ,  b  bb          g    s     p     r

Winter with Ebenezer

A storm loomed and wind stirred
dried twigs of a leftover
summer plant, its withered tendrils
grasping at concrete and a
praying mantis long since deceased.
It reminded me of ol’ Marley. He
was dead as a door-nail.
And so are spent my recent successes.
A new chapter beckons, but the pain
of the present and abrupt end
makes me look more to the corrupted
mantis than the coming spring.
I’ve already been haunted by
the things I’ve done.
I paused, that morning, the carcass,
staring back at me, more wraith
than gentle spirit, igniting a
condemning symphony in my mind
accompanying the brittle descent
I’d taken from
many joyous years
odd but manageable recent ones.
I’d skipped to the last ghost, really!
That decrepit exoskeleton a hooked
and aged finger slipping from under
the ragged frock of death’s angel
pointing to my doom!
It cannot be! No!
Scrooge’s cry has become my own.
If only I could sponge away this writing,
and change these shadows by an altered life!

Between The Walls

Look out! In a new seven episode series of flash fiction, I am going to peek in on the world of a young boy who discovers a mysterious world and dragons in the most unlikely place: between the sound barrier walls blocking his house from the noisy southern California freeways.

Look for those short, short, short stories to show up this week.

Water Color

pink rose

If I could paint a picture tonight
of what God’s grace was like today,
I’d use water colors on white
instead of stony hearted gray.

If I could relive for a minute
the covenant bliss this eve,
Jeremiah’s words would ring
and ring and ring without leave.

Maybe I should simply tell
of Joy’s bottomless, boundless spring
flooding those nearby, and, well,
creating a constant urge to sing.

No, I think I’ll just read
prophecies and witnesses that tell
of Living Water and thirst dispelled
and sing and ring and paint indeed!

The Foot of the Light

The Raven sat atop a light post by a school,
feathers ruffled, a guardian with
a watchful eye and occasional caw at

The crow swooped down and up, up and down
agitated, ruffled, a challenger with
a menacing eye and constant caw at

this guardian of the Prize:

a discarded bag of tortilla chips and
an overripe banana
at the foot of the light post.

I walked by, looked up and down, down and up
careful not to kick the chips, squish the banana
a steady eye and silent witness to

the soon forgotten prize. Later,
the birds were gone – and I wondered
if the crow and the raven would remember me
on my next visit.

Ambitions Discarded: A Poem


Ambitions discarded.
Twenty years of accumulated
stuff falls slowly into disuse. Time’s relentless
abuse wears resolve and newness to tatters: an endless string
of the next craze – quads, fire pits, snow mobiles,
raised gardens, dogs – as if all were tied to an old rope
and dragged behind.

The rusted shell of
the VW Beetle in the back yard
tells the story:

fixed in time with weeds, black widows,
regrets and what-ifs.

Consider The Ravens

An imposing dark silhouette
against the slate sky,
he simply banked a turn,
wingtips splayed,
eyed his prey with a slight turn of the head,
and descended as if his wings had vanished;
then he did vanish.
Whoosh! and up, up, up
he flapped hard to light atop
a street lamp with his rodent quarry –
It’s tail dangling from his beak
like the limp rope after the peels of a bell
died away. A death knell for rodent-kind
and the chime of Providence to the Raven.