Upon This Rock

Hard bones rise from edges of the sea,
slippery descending walls of stone,
smooth, rounded, grooved
refuge for tenacious life,

underestimated by iron hulls
wrecked upon them,
by waves of centuries
smashed upon them,
they rise, skeleton of the world
at low tide.

Not cultures, nor cities
in all their fine millenia
sail through them undestroyed.

What countless waves,
scouring sand,
wear of weakness away,

leave sculpted bones
skeleton of one unchanging,
original word.

Villa Montalvo

a Spanish estate
sculpted from California adobe,
red tiled roofs,windows deep set against the sun,
tiny panes, walls unpainted, golden,
tiles brick red, rough hewn oak beams
blackened by the seasons of one hundred years,

baking under the Saratoga blue canopy sky,
sun bathing along shores of manicured lawns,
peopled with valley oaks, junipers,
pyrocantha and sage;

marble sculptures, vineyards, arbours,
secret courtyards with fountains,
landscape terraced, climbing
into the Los Gatos hills,
slanted roofs resting at ascending levels
along winding brick paths,
every turn another page,
another aromatic scent
of boxwood, eucalyptus and sage,

leaves rustle, swelling in a monastery chorus
carried reverently by cool breezes
in the always burning sun;

every turn another echo of song,
music played, pictures painted,
chapters written.

Here a grand piano seen through
vine-framed windowpanes
in a darkened room,
there, an easel holding
work in progress;

Urns of stone,
overgrown with foliage,
sweet olive, purple plum,
stone benches for sitting,
wrought iron gates,
and fences ten feet tall;

Lemon trees laden with yellow fruit
stand on either side of a brick walk
framing a romanesque temple,
traces of the old empire even here,

a marble fountain,
four marble patricians
holding it between them;

a place of long history
rooted in Europe and native cultures,
the dreamlike story of old California
envisioned first by a teller of tales
in old Spain,

then dreamed alive
every generation again.

When Troth And Living Sacrifice

Everything in the following poem I personally witnessed last fall.  I was driving home from a nearby tiny country church in my motorhome.  Both the transport trucks and I came upon her at the same time at the bottom of a dip in the highway.  We all swerved and missed her and each other by some miracle, for which I am very thankful.   Friends ran out and hauled her away.

 

　
An old wooden church with a steeple
in a small village by a river,
Sunday morning, and a faithful five
attending.

One hauls on the bell
while stainglass windows
sing praises in beams of colored light
to the Good Shepherd.

The pipe organ swells,
bellows anthems
as it has for over one hundred years.

On a busy highway nearby
a fifteen year old girl in a white sweatshirt
spread herself face up
in the lane of oncoming traffic
waiting for a careless transport truck
to take her any way he would.

Two came growling over the hill at sixty,
she shook her fists to the sky--

Five saints attending,
some Sundays only three,
remembering when the church
was full of families
with fifteen year old girls
all dressed up,
and transport trucks
kept solemn troth nearby,

When one living sacrifice on Golgatha
had been enough.

By Importunity

Quick as in the flicker of a candle flame,

carried down your street,

darkness leaps from hidden corners,

overtakes, then retreats again.

You will not refuse

the homeless who begs

for your Holy Spirit

more than for bread,

a lamp filled
with unflickering oil
diminishing not,
bannishing hunger forever,
at the last, you will not refuse.

Sea Stroll Request

When you walk along the beach
on the shores of your universe,
and you see a small stone,
rounded in waves and sand
from years of tumbling
in the surf,
polished a bit,
some colors showing,
I know you pick it up,
I’ve watched you,
rub it with love
between your thick fingers,
pocket it,
saved for your collection.

Someday when I have tumbled about
enough in storms and waves,
become a bit more rounded,
perhaps better polished
in your abrasive sand,
may you walk by,
and may I, lying here among
other stones and drying seaweed,
still catch your searching eye.

Your Words

    tip toe rain

        drops on silent dark water

          woodland pool dancing

            slippers lighter than wet

              going nowhere but in circles

         and random eights

      skipping more rapid than sink

            shimmering upon the pool

             stars in tremelos of light.

           so your words to my ear

           your brush bossa dusk

             your silver hallelujah morning.

Three Little Ones

All rivers run

All rivers run into the sea,
where dwells
the Storm Of God,
and Jonah
and treasures deep
of poetry.
                                                                           Altar Ram

　Abraham faltered not
nor blinked
when the ram upon the altar
caught his eye
and winked.


　
　For You

just a white dove

flying under a rainbow

against black threatening clouds,

wings twinkling

in the setting sun,

a promise for your eyes only

crowds around you

never saw a thing,

looking down at their feet,

as if someone may have

dropped a coin.

　

Hold Me

Moses cut a slender tree

for his shepherd’s staff

polished it with tending sheep

in desert sands

held it at the burning bush

presence of the Lord

when cast down after

from his rugged hands

it became a snake

when taken back into his grip

it became a slender tree again

I am a staff

a slender tree

cast me not

Lord, hold me.

　

Looking For Home

　

Where northern sea meets western land

purple starfish clump on rocks

exposed at falling tide

people, gulls, and eagles crowd

higher rampart bluffs among

sacred cedar trees

build hidden get-aways

hunch elbow to elbow

at the nautical neighborhood bar

claim every winding inch of shore

buy and spend

make love to ancient lore

spirits that rule in mist and rain

mystical bears, birds, and trees

whose sacrifice their children are

whose priests beneath a totem frown

in sweetgrass clouds intone

to sweep of feather, rattle of bone

gospel of death by gods

of elemental stuff

that Jesus died was not enough

he had to rise again

can this truth come

would there be room

to birth the God of light and love

without a virgin’s waiting womb

an empty lot along a cove?

　

　

　

Get Us Ready

I
A shadow fell this perfect day,
get us ready.

We know sometime that we must journey,
get us ready.

Rumors of a mountain, river, cross,
Everyday we make a choice,
get us ready.

Repentance is for losers,
get us ready.

That one must lose to win,
take us to the end,
get us ready to begin,
get us ready.

II

Do you hear the shout?
across the world it cries out
“The bridegroom coming!”

arise, trim your lamps,
the night of sleep
is far past,
see a river of white robes,
each with an oil lamp,
coursing the rejected way,

a tide of glittering light,
silent feet
ascending tendril of shining mist
following a narrow road
none but the chosen know,
those who see it,
they will go,
get us ready.