White Stone

Kingdom, phylum, class – there’s more:
Family, genus, species – names
Assigned on each and every shore
As creation’s breath exclaims.

Garden appellation sparked
This rise of naming beasts.
Ancient primal words for lark,
Elephant and wildebeest.

All these creatures great and small
Know nothing of their moniker.
What a man decides to call
Them, whether antelope or rotifer

Will ever be a mystery,
Even for the chosen few
Of us who don’t yet know or see
Our white stone names this side of blue

Skies and galaxies.

Revelation 2:17

Luci in the Sky

Virgin ink on dullish stock
Between two laminated heels –
Smothered voices in the shade
Of both my unmoved eyes and heart.

Pure river writing genius she
When spreading ‘likes’ and ‘as ifs’ or
pulling pictures from the sky
or sketching singing streams from earth.

But the long and wordy road
That should carry me on wings
Of angels to heaven’s holy shine
Leaves me gasping here for air.

There is a fallen disconnect
Between the creature and his God.
His words are clear and spirit breathed.
But when life’s death has died there’s joy.

I need more than clever phrases
When it comes to highest praises.
Shining doxology alone
Brings my aching heart near home.

On Luci Shaw’s Writing the River

Dragons in the Air

Cryptic cutthroats; wandering stars;
King of kill; queen of scars;
Savannah stalkers; burly bugs;
Short-lived snipers; merciless thugs.

They’re watching me as they dance and flirt,
They’re smelling my salted skin and shirt,
Eyes bulging in the scorching heat;
Wings flashing a frenzied beat.

They’re primed to eat a scrumptious lunch;
If they were giants, I’d be brunch.

July 26, 2022,
~ then a lot of changes the next day ~

Wabi Sabi

I wonder whose couch it was when it was new,
And where it lived and if kids jumped up and down
On it before it was completely trashed and tossed
Out in front with a “free” sign pinned on it.
The chair was maybe matching, but probably not.
Sheets and blankets drape a hidden frame
Of real oak pallets, or maybe light weight pine.
There is little of the lettered architect in sight.
Kanso defers to wabi sabi here,
And the Tesla has been traded for a Trek.

Who’s loitering when life is an adventure?


The Baying Burble Tree


In the silence of September
Where the gleaming grundles grow,
Beneath the Baying Burble tree
Across the hedging row,

There lives a codgered gentleman
Among the Crazy Cricks,
A man of mirth and melody
Who peddles Burble sticks.

His voice is heard above the heath
And down below the holler,
Singing, “Buy my Baying Burble sticks
For a dillar and a dollar!”

Well now, all the Cricks and Creaks and Croaks
That lived around the land
Felt that buying silly Burble sticks
Was more than they could stand.

And so they got them axes, gropes and graws,
Then vowed a villain’s vow:
“Tomorrow noon where Burble stands,
The plog will pull the plow.”

That night the old and codgered gentleman
Could hear their cruel cries
As Cricks and Croaks flew round their fires
That flamed the forest skies.

What will he do whose only joy
And job will turn to dust?
What could he do that could be done
Before the Burble busts?

Then as the morning billows blushed
Above the Tootle trees,
And yellow Yikes and Yolo Balls
Were swaying in the breeze,

The strangest sight that you could see
Was seen up in the sky —
A giant Baying Burble tree
And passenger sailed by.

There sitting on a lumpy limb
And holding on for life,
The dear old codgered gentleman
Notched a message with his knife.

And this is what the writing read
Although the tree grew smaller:
“Come ride the Flying Burble tree
For a dillar and a dollar!”

The moral of the story is
A short and simple saying:
“Enterprise works miracles,
But not without much praying!”




Delightful February sunlight plays
A winning game of hide and seek today.
Its warm embrace and laughing smile renew
Their sacred vows again – an “I love you”
From heaven, reminding me of pledges made
so long ago between us renegades.

We can’t forget the morning courthouse kiss,
“Just hurry up and get it over with!
We sure don’t wanna be late for work!” –
The groom – a perfect synonym for jerk.

But grace and years have chased the cloudy skies
Away and given us the sun’s surprise.
Let’s enjoy the loving arms of life
Together as we travel – man and wife-
In full devotion, care and lasting trust.
It only takes two perfect people – us!!!


What is That 12 O’Clock Smell?


We’ve all heard of the canine species.
You’re noticing the species’ feces.
It sneaks its way from shoe to nose
And ends your tentative repose.
The smell is bearable outdoors,
But taste it when your eating? Horrors!

Every bite takes on a flavor
Only starving folks can savor.
Of course, you could just smile and say,
“Isn’t this a delightful day!”
But I know better – you’re gonna yell,
“Get outta here with that disgusting smell!”

Hey, it could have been much worse for you.
I could have stepped in kitty pooh!


~ lunch with the folks at work ~

November Again


Here again the date in question flies
Across my path like solemn, silent orbits
Of planets and stars.
It’s always cold – the leaves
In death throes – hot breath making icy clouds
In winter air.
And sometimes the skeleton
Sings because the sky is going to weep.

And yet, a fire is laid to keep me warm
As smiles with words of grace keep out the storm.


~ tomorrow is the big 4-8 ~