Acutely Awake

Such a peculiar beauty – winter, a
crystal white world wedding
the dream of sleep and
soft light affording
luxurious insight.
Winter’s wisdom is
generous. It sees
beyond fault – sharp
edges softened by snow;
hard surfaces now
dancing under the
play of sun’s illumining rays –
now from this angle
now from that.
This season of sleep is a
time of grace; of being
acutely awake to
other worlds.

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Veni Domine

A glimpse of You is
never enough. This
desire for Your Breath
flooding my lungs fills
me with more wanting You;
with more aching after You.

You, God, are
the Desire by which I
desire You.
You, God, are
the Hunger that is
sated with hunger
for You.
You, God, are
each kiss of life;
each touch of love;
each turn of the season
that turns me inside out
as Your reign surely comes.

Veni Domine.

Granite Hope

It is possible to hold this
poem in your palm, to handle
it even while you know that there is
no way you will ever
train it.

This poem will never
be domesticated, never
be tamed with our maimed
freedom. No this poem
has always been
fiercely free,
always soul,
always otherly
incarnate. It was
never mine.

This poem now palmed might
bite, or perhaps shape
shift into a stone:
in lithe liberty
it will then be
a silence that
demands my hearing,
that calls my ears to
attend to
granite hope.

The Present in Your Presence

Today You touched me
and I trembled – the world
slid a little to one side,
and adrift
I held to You in the
gap – Your eyes
holding and warming me,
Your heart encompassing
mine. You, God, You
meet me in so many
ways – now
with a glance – now with
hope: here a dream,
there a memory:
there, yes, there, when
the past kisses the future
and ushers the present in
Your presence.

After Six

Friends, I wrote this poem after a conference at The Six Nations of the Grand River Nation this summer. Here is a recently edited version.

They awe me, these suffering
ones, enduring

our colonial slips,

our empire eyes.

Oogling their land, and
straightening their circles, like

gluttons we grab and ignore and then

we fetishize and tokenize them

for our justification

for our failure

just to be.

They have much to teach us – when

our fists finally loosen

our eyes softly open

our hearts beat still –

when our voices find silence.

After the Manner

Someone called me a poet
the other day,
but I don’t know: all
I feel is my
poverty, my
reticence, my
lack.

Still, I wager a
word now and then;
some wheat to the wind.

I’m not sure what
to make of those
seeds I sow, but I
know that any
omens are not my own.

At times words accost me,
and I see fire above,
and cannot but report.

I am not so much a poet,
but after the
manner of Luther,
a beggar.

Infected Hope

Not so very far
from hope dwells love,
where time is stopped
with this gesture and
that glance. Each
is but a breathing
that this is enough.

Some say God is
love and so it seems;
but hope too is infected
with the divine; this sacred
contagion spreading
like wild fire, like a
virtuous virus,
causing
me to see
trees at prayer
skies in rhapsody
and you, yes You.