Joy

I carried the weight of her

lament

until the trail invited my

full attention

and the gentle trees

illumined by brilliant sun

freed my hands to hold

joy

Scars

What hollowed you?
What emptied you from the inside out?
Who are you now? A spent self?

Can hope live in ashes?
Can joy grow from emptiness?
Can God raise the dead?

Birdsong Alleluia

If the snow were any match

for the strength of April’s sun…

If the sky weren’t endless blue,

clouds undone and on the run…

If the love that lifts us all

weren’t already on the ground—

grace incarnate, mercy’s deed,

flowing river winding round,

pulsing with the truth I’ve seen

and sung

countless times before,

always when it seems an end

what is real is something more:

rainbow arc from pulsing rain

brilliant bloom from blank decay

life from vestiges of grief

hope from endless shades of grey…

…then birdsong alleluia

would have gone unheard today.

I’d have knelt at the altar of despair

and left my offering there.

Instead I raise my newfound voice

with cardinal and robin,

Alleluia! Alleluia!

Praise the God of resurrection!

Poetry

The Poetry of Holy Week

In honor of World Poetry Day, and in anticipation of Holy Week, I offer you this poem I wrote last year. I. Introduction It’s almost too much The depth of human experience In the course of just a few……

Decompress

When the breath you’ve been holding rushes in, releasing all that binds…
let the water-worn rocks smooth your spirit
let the birdsong lift your fears away
let the lake harbor peace
let the trees bear grace
let the cold rain carry you home.

Free

A voice beckons beyond the ceaseless striving,
singing in the splashing falls and the lapping waves:
“I ground the brave trees that sprout from hard rock;
I steady you in the spaces you inhabit.
Is it fear, or pride, that makes you cling?
No need, my dear one.
Let go. You’re free.”

Portage Pace

Smooth sailing retreats to a distant memory,

and you trade weightlessness for ache

Ache that forges a round trip loop

from your heart

to your feet

with each pounding beat.

There’s no shortcut through grief,
nor mile markers to note progress

Only this narrow, winding trail…
…where the breeze still finds your face
…and the pine needles cushion your way
…and the trees (messengers of grace)
guard your heart until you reach
flowing waters once more.