Autumn Poem

The woods creak beneath their beauty.
Golds and roses tell a story
To each of us these mornings.
I run through the park,
Attempting to saturate my body
To prepare for the bare trees to come.
But the story I hear is not
One of decay, but rather fullness
Of color and being and play...

Horns and Oboes

Might I make music,
a hymn, a chorus, a symphony;
it would light up a hall
make it warm-colored, rosy
and would convey so much more
than my words.
But the audience
would lean together
and whisper -- in words –
about my music.
They'd say poems
or rush home
to write them...
I guess I will always
be part of the audience --

Winning the lottery

your jacket a jumble on my chair
your sock on my floor
us all a-rumple
aubade
back in bed
your penis a soldier
then up and at em
the peachy dawn
a secret i share with god
i know i won
i know i won
our numbers match
the prize is you

morning prayer

although orange
is not my favorite color
the fall is to me a special season

every morning this october
i pull up the bathroom window
careen and cry out

matutinal utterances
biblical phrases
prayers of praise

the sun glows
through the leafy branches
lighting the leaves

like stained glass
like glass stained
golden yellow

god dazzles me thus

Once Told, Told Again

the seasons roll on,
forward ever,
and I find myself
thinking of you
as a brother,
someone to give to,
in December, one to remind
that Christmas is near,
moving ever forward,
until the one day of the year,
when we shout with joy
that the one day is here
because on the day of Christmas
the incarnation of God
really happened,
and it wasn't so long ago
but then I look at you,
and see you are
just a human being,
one who can only pray,
as I do,
who can only rejoice
that there is one much higher,
much better, much finer,
and his name is Jesus
a babe in a manger

Jesus

Out of this wilderness,
Where you reside
(I see you everywhere)
I have come,
Lonelier than a cat,
To believe in you
My cat stalks mice,
As I chase after you.
Using whatever shoes
Might take me there,
Where you are,
An inability
To speak your name
Threatens my success
At prayer.
So instead I sing the hymns
I learn at church
Regardless of whether
I belong there.

Morning Cityscape

O lord my God
across the cityscape
domes eastern
glad for you
reminding me
of your presence
three crosses
every morning
I see them

instead of bowing
I pray, glad of them
hands folded
around a pen
and a pad

your sky so blue
simple, true,
birds, pigeons and gulls
streaming by
through the blue
so light
in the sun

thanksgiving 1996

the ingratitude

of lighting a cigarette
of casually kicking off my slippers
not caring that the sunrise has passed

is not really ingratitude

the pleasure

of smelling the rosy buds of drying flowers
of brewing a cup of coffee
of standing in a steamy shower

could be called ingratitude

and yet we take our pleasures
with gratitude

noticing ingratitude
could be called a form
of gratitude

and pleasure
is a form
of meditation

Stress on a Rainy Morning

to pray for forgiveness
quietly, and low
and in simple words
was what I found
today

I imagine my friends
and my big family
and Willy
forgive me
I do trespass
a lot

and then comes the hard part:
forgiving myself;
because that only comes,
for me, when I feel,
when I remember,
God's forgiveness:

then I move back
into adulthood

Prayer

prayer
makes even sunshine
seem like an answer
that general blessing
a sign of my personal freedom
freedom being something
that God gives
and I feel
that God has given you
back to me

you will come with me
to pray in the morning
as I came with you
in the afternoon
to Grace Church
where I prayed aloud
not caring if you heard
and when you asked me today
what prayers
have been answered
I knew you hadn't heard

but One heard, yesterday,
and his name is Jesus --