Seven

Walk with me by the river
in the mist of waking dawn
as the wood duck sets her wing
to the rhythm of Earthrise
and every sun ray angle
‘luminates the diamond depth
of all things stirring to this
great green gathering alive.

2015-07-03 06.28.57

Shadowlands

O Love Divine,

If I may come to know You only in Shadowlands

with outstretched arms to feel my way by faith,

then make me poor and honest enough

to acknowledge my blind need

yet plenty brave to feel

the contour of Your face.

2016-07-23 21.39.12

Christmas Poinsettia in Spring

The seasons pass.

What can such morphing mean

when blood bygone

goes gradually to green?

 

A birth, a life,

a calling and a name;

grace in falling,

gained and granted, then came.

 

Fullness flowing

freely through inner veins;

rivers channel

from reservoirs of stains.

 

One who tunes to

seasons of silence knows

truth’s worth and gain:

Life, in the giving, grows.

IMG_4188

 

Hunter County

(a poem about Alzheimer’s disease)

My home is in Hunter County.
That’s where I was raised.
Do you know where that is?
You see, I’m old.
I finished high school there.
My parents sent me away to college.
All my children finished school.
I used to sing the blues.
Then I got born again.
Excuse me, but can you
tell me where I am?
My children don’t know where to find me.
My home is in Hunter County.
That’s where I was raised.
Do you know where that is?
I’ve been born again.

 

Yesterday

Yesterday was a big day.
People gathered. Something to see.
Someone spoke. There was clarity.
Creativity. Inclusivity.
Folks had pain. Folks had hope.
The young wanted to learn.
To have a new experience.
The old wanted to share.
To make their stories known.
Yesterday was a big day.
Mary gave me a hug.
Gave all of us a hug.
Someone spoke. Mary.
She told all of us she loved us.
Loves us still.
Mary has Alzheimer’s.
Mary gave us a hug.
Yesterday.

Love Falls

Love falls like
sweet spring showers
nearly silent everywhere
soaking all elements
standing dumb
and mouth-wide
we absorb actually
thinking it can be
doled by the dropper-full
on our little pot of daisies

(art by Lester E. Potts, Jr., an artist with Alzheimer’s)

A Poem for Epiphany

Drawn by star light

we followed the lowly

to this long last death and birth day.

Moon and Sun. Mother and Child, we see.

Old eyes orb, stars in clouds of camel breath.

“These treasures will mean most,” we said, setting out,

yet give Him each a pearl pulled

from lapis skies of the soul

and leave hidden like orphans

in a throng of the village poor.