Poetry

Reflections On The Way To The Compost Bin — An Urban Meditation

December 28, 2018 0 Comments

O Ground beneath our feet, 
what realms of life await us?
All bodies like to eat
but the compost bin disgusts us.

From your dark and meagre crust 
come the tastiest traded fares.
Yet those who return to dust
would rather put on aires.

We are better than dirt
and our children would be lucky
to wear a white shirt
than get their hands all mucky.

Such highbrow notions
train us not to see
how the farmers’ motions
are worth more than their fee.

Without the faintest care
we devour lavish plates,
leaving your ground bare,
and sealing our common fates.

But here among those
who moil for rusty gold
are some who dare propose 
to give thanks before we are old.

Thank you God 
for the carrot on my plate
and the sod 
from whence it came to date.

Grant Dear Sue good rest.
May her tribe increase.
May her soil be best – 
with unseen creepy crawlies never cease.

O Ground beneath our feet
let us not forget,
our dusty destinies entwined shall meet
for God for sure redeems this set.

Early to the bin a bowl of scraps I take
soon upon your face to spread.
Yes, indeed, all will shake,
but together, may we break more bread.

–Watch Living Soil, produced by the Soil Health Institute.

Creation, Poetry, Prayer

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To Impersonate a Lion

October 11, 2018 0 Comments

To Impersonate a Lion

Dress up a donkey.
Limit donkey’s exposure.
Assume the divine right of kings.
Be a public figure on behalf of the lion.
Talk a lot.
Distract folks with urgent demands.
Give violent commands satisfying old grievances.
Question the inquisitive.
Eliminate truth-tellers.
Reward collective amnesia by threatening to unleash shame.

Leadership, Poetry, Relationships

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City Garden Scapes

June 12, 2018 0 Comments

good fences

good neighbours make

but now we build walls

great cedar walls

now the neighbour

owns the sun

’till middle hours

shorten shadows

and the garden

joyfully awakes

— – — – — – — – — – — – — – — – — – — – — – —

Six Foot Notes

  1. good grief
  2. good fences
  3. permeable are made
  4. so neighbours joyfully awaken
  5. to fruit sown long before
  6. dark shadows fall

 

Creation, Poetry, Relationships

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Grounds for Play

October 31, 2017 0 Comments

Eeny meeny, miny moe; catch a tiger, by the toe.
If he hollers, let him go; eeny meeny, miny moe.

Samuel Grisdon Grey the Third went down the stairs to play. His
Nana watched him from the stoop and longed for peace today. All
souls played well in deed and word till Dean’s disproving scowl, called
back his happy children close to hear his whispers foul. He

sent the children out again and Nana breathed relief. She
chatted with his mother saying, “No need for ugly grief.”
Joining hands the children spun their circle fast and tight, till
with a wink, a chirpy shout, their secret plan gave fright. To-

gether on that fateful hour two freed their hands from his. Their
unsuspecting mark flew back and banged that crown of his.
Grounds for play turned red and damp as all turned pale and quiet. Dear
Sammy did not move until his Nana said, “Let’s fight.” “Let’s

fight this scene in prayer and praise the only Holy Name, the
One who knows the wink and cost of every deadly game.” And
so she prayed and so she sang until dear Sammy stood.
“Let’s forgive them Nana, they don’t know what they did.”

Eeny meeny, miny moe; catch a tiger, by the toe.
If he hollers, let him go; eeny meeny, miny moe.

 

 

Poetry, Relationships

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Mountain Preacher

October 28, 2017 0 Comments

In eight quick strides he left his nook.
In three he ascended the steps.
Surveying the room he eyed the lineup
And massaged his leather book.

 

Reverently turning its golden pages
He began his usual windup.
His pitch sounding low like a far-off train
Whose Conductor has eyed the gauges.

 

‘Till words. Words from the page slow and steady.
Words from the heart hot and heavy.
Then words pouring forth like staccato banjo.
Words knocking on my heart but I gotta go.

 

‘Till words. Words punctuated by shrill breath.
Words lost in the wonder of red-faced death.
Then words painting pictures of heaven’s delight.
Words loud enough to wake the dead just in sight.

 

‘Till words stopped and the righteous waited.
The man heard an “Amen;” the fish had been baited.
He drew us in with punctuated pauses
And called the song leader to save us for glorious causes.

 

Then it was finished; we could sing along.
Just as I am without one plea.
At verses seven, eight, and nine you can’t go wrong
If you run out as a kid, who needs to pee.

Poetry

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