My father’s hands are rough and wrinkled.

The dark stains left from scrubbed-off dirt and grass and grease.

The little hairs, the ink from where he drew

with engineer’s precision

plans for the pastures on yellowed graph paper

at the kitchen table.

Once he held a bat with me and said,

“hold it like this, hands together, not too hard but like you mean it.”

My  mother’s hands are swelled and toiled.

The pink wrinkles on the knuckles from soaking in the dishwater.

The speck of dried dough she picks off when she notices,

the callus from the needle,

the lotion smell from the endless struggle against

the marks of struggle.

I remember days when she held up my hand to look at in hers and said,

“yes, you really did a number on yourself, let me wash it out and bandage you up,

let’s be more careful!”

My Savior’s hands are run right through.

Times are when reaches down and grabs mine, pulling me

from the rough chaos of the water

into light and air.

Someone smarter than me can tell me if this is a poem or what.

Proverbs 18:2

The Lord is my rock, and my fortress, and my deliver;

My God, my strength, in whom I will trust;

My buckler, and the horn of my salvation, and my high tower.

The horn of my salvation.

The horn of rescue.

The horn of the infantry are here.

The bugle of the cavalry coming over the hill.

Roland winding his horn and hearing, o blessedly near! the answering clarion.

The bell of the boxer’s round is done.

The church bell, the evening bell, the day is over.

The last trump.

Your surprised laugh when you find it all worked out in the end.

Your home greeting–Daddy!–at the end of the day.

The first sea breeze when you crest over the sand dune,

The smell of the pines when you come up from the plains,

The first ‘Daddy’ you hear when you step ‘cross the threshold,

These treasures rest in my goodly store.

Send me as envoy to the Great Cham of Tartary,

Invite me to dine with the underhill King . . .

What to me, Cham, thy peacocks and ivories?

What to me, elf, thy revels and lights?

My children, my children,

my jewels of my heart.

Time, death, and distance

will ne’er long us part.

The one Lord,
from the two branches hung,
three days in the grave,
the four quarters saved

I was reading D&C 1 and felt a General Conference Doggerel coming on.

Lord, I come to you with but 10 sins

Or if you press me, how ’bout just one sin?

A faint little sin, like it hardly had been.

And the Good Lord said, divide it by ten.

(more…)

Inspired by Rozy, I wrote a poem in the style I call General Conference Doggerel, though bluer.

(For you single people, sorry. Your display of the nameless virtue is honorable.)

Here goes.

(more…)

On the 29th of June
a foreman of my own people,
men at work of my own people,
and the great machines we built,
knocked down the pines

not for timbers
not for hearths
but for being in the way

They pushed the soil tumbling
down the slope,
leveling,
the pale dirt and stones
from far underneath
not meant to be seen
now spilling broken out and pushed
then compacted

Coming Soon! Your Dollar Store!
For consumption was
the consumption wrought

Is there no end to debt
and spending and
obesity?

Heaven, raise the mountains up
and make the valleys low
again

Old friend, old friend.

We knew each other best

when we first knew each other at all.

(more…)

Remember the reason

for the season

a reason you can’t forget

To get gifts beyond reason

his gifts that are legion

without limit or merit or let.

We did not pray for rain in vain.

The sun did not set, so thick were the clouds,

and at the night hour, the rain fell like rock,

massed like rock, and lasting like rock,

without ebb or throb.

It reached the sky, one great mountain

of water and thunder, and we were under.

It overwhelmed the soil–and the noise and light–

it overwhelmed the mind.

One electric blast stayed so long it was no flash,

a blow of light and not a lash.

Love and glory are of the fundamental attributes of God and reality. Love is unconditional whereas glory is earned respect, or conditional love. They are deeply intertwined and complementary. (more…)

The flower of the pear-tree gathers and turns to fruit;
The swallows’ eggs have hatched into young birds.
When the Seasons’ changes thus confront the mind
What comfort can the Doctrine of Tao give? (more…)

From mysliveroflife.blogspot.com

In Spring the gardener finds out death.
He finds which limbs did not o’erwinter.
Some stems twig and bud and bloom,
Some stems splinter.

I lost a limb some seasons back,
Of my flesh, my firstborn daughter.
Time dried the break, but I still lack
The fruits–a moiety of laughter.

(more…)

Heaven Haven, by Gerard Manley Hopkins: (more…)