Who Will Serve?



and so the day
and the week
and the month


But the end of term was
ME! and
ME! and

Who can judge
to determine when mercy’s meted out
and when eviction’s apportioned?

Sometimes I think
there are too many ants feeding grasshoppers.

And then I see the fiddle I hold
behind my back
and am thankful

Drawn by Time


The seconds,
measured by hands covering faces,
burst out in uniform micro-eruptions,
then disappear faster than smoke rings.

Like a fly entangled in a spider’s web
so I am tethered to time,
dragged ever onward,
only able to glance back
over caliginous past.

Resignedly I stumble on,
picking up the signs of Cronus,
like burrs,
as I go.

The spirit longs to soar,
with the songs of angels
above the measure of metered marching.

I shall fly.
I shall rise above this flood of flowing Titan.
Some un-day
I shall fly.

Jars of Clay


Those words
branded you
as soon as they left your lips
and all manner of chaos
flew about our heads.

Unlike Pandora
you left the jar empty.

Cursing the groom,
you stormed away from the feast
and missed the finest wine
this side of heaven.



Notes on Clay Jars

Pandora’s “box” was actually a large jar (poor translation made it a “box”)
which was generally used for storing wine, oil, water or grain.

These same type of jars were used for water in Israel.  At a family wedding Mary confided to Jesus that the wine was finished long before the party was.  She told the servants to do everything Jesus instructed them to do.  He had them fill the large jars with water, dip some out and take it to the master of the banquet.  When he tasted the wine the servants brought him, he called the bridegroom aside and said, “Everyone brings out the choice wine first and then the cheaper wine after the guests have had too much to drink; but you have saved the best till now.”

And Paul, in 2 Corinthians, says “we ourselves are like fragile clay jars containing this great treasure. This makes it clear that our great power is from God, not from ourselves.”


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An image of myself,
captured like the Shroud of Turin,
is indelibly stamped across my mind.

Reflections challenge that likeness
and send me scampering up sycamore trees.

But there’s always a voice,
calling me down,
inviting himself to dinner.

The reflection I find in those eyes
helps me descend,
embracing the truth,
which is deeper than crow’s feet
and more substantial than double chins.



still small voice.
two small words.

and the thunderous storm
that batters and bruises me


dazzling dawn




Once again I was inspired by Whimsygizmo’s Blog and the invitation to come play with words at Play Online – Magnetic Poetry.

It is actually quite a soothing exercise.
Try it!  :)


My Brother’s Keeper


The first time —
the very first time —
the heartbeat of heaven stopped,
and creation gasped for air.
Earth shrieked in pain.
Surely it was the beginning of the end.

Today blood cries out to the Lord from the ground —
so much blood that it stains the soil
and drowns the sound of children’s laughter.
No one hears the singing stars.

And still we ask,
“Am I my brother’s keeper?”


A resident of our town was killed in a hijacking yesterday.
An elderly couple was robbed and then beaten to death.
A young man was fatally shot by his intoxicated brother in the heat of an argument.
And for the rest of us, life went on as normal.

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