The Word is a Seed

The word is a seed, 

sown in beset heart 

that hears it. 

Give it water 

and work;

A bloom in the garden. 

Otherwise the seed 

Is dormant 

In gardens full of weeds.

Time and tears come.

We must work in the word;

Not abandon the dead. 

Errant Blue

Errant Blue

Grasp that glimmer of
errant blue light,
Eons old, a child’s vision,
fully capable of flight.
Take it in.
Place it on the open horizon
where it belongs in full view,
wings and heart,
In the palm of your hand
Offer it as alms
Let its’ glow
from hidden chambers,
old, still, eternal,
A pure blue and warm.

A warmth of blue familiar to
Ones mind’s eye,
Familiar, never cold.
Silent music
Pantocrator, that is
A healing balm.

#poem #poetry #micropoetry

Foreign Shores

There are beaches
hidden from
other world’s
where old men
in the evenings
go to be,
where they go
to be alone,
and sit on fallen stumps of trees,
to hear and watch
now gentle waves
of streaming water.
lapping ,
shallow on the stones.
And there’s
a subtle scent of sulphur
that wafts across
the waters of Aegean shores,
filled with sounds
of heaving sighs,
and the deepest
blackest cries.

And the horizon is lit
by the light of burning towers
that are glowing,
far and distant.

My friend
where are you?
I hope you’re not alone.
I pray you now have company
of at least another kindred soul,
or of a mother of your own.
On the shores,
In the East
where you have journeyed,
a silent sailor,
Drifting on your own,
except for your
Assailant water,
Who took you down
so deep,
and turned that certain heart
to a lost,
and sinking,heavy stone.

#poem #poetry #micropoetry
Photo by Rudolph Getel

Papa Hem

walking down a snow filled street,
with his white beard,
And a Santa hat,
in a bold red plaid shirt, swinging a shopping bag.
He knows the meaning
Of Christmas spirit,
In all its various forms,

And Papa Hem is good with that.


To be carried down the road
With that object
That will be your end,
and measure.

To meet death
Without a reservation,
But one single complaint,
Accepted but not fully

These are the signs
And paths
Of forgiveness
And self evident.

The Boatman Has Grown Thin


The Boatman
has grown thin
He has shaved his head and beard,
limbs are very slight.
And he is wearing rolled up pants
a kin to Gandhi.
He plays his ancient
Oar and mandolin
With an even greater passion
Seen only
In his eyes and
Quickly nimble fingers.
As he plays an eastern tune
by a placid river shore.
The journeys seem
Fewer now.
He doesn’t sing,
Yet his gentle smile is there.
He stops to rest,
puts his strumming hand on heart,
Thankful for another
on one side of the river;
A benign lump
in his throat.

A Gilded Summer Meditation in 3 Parts

So many summers

A rejuvenating
Laying of a gentle
Touch and waste
To skin.

Summer days,
When the heat
And the light
rise white
on city pavement,
And persistent
the mind,
Without the
luxury of repetition;
Simply a lingering taste of
The summer wonder
Of green childhood.

The poplars wave
And clap
A flickering Gold and green
A rustling sound
In balm of sunlit wind.
The grasses
Bowing tasseled
To ground,
And high up
green and
Sky bound,
Boughs sway
In overarching
The boundless brilliant sun.