Angels Desire

1 Peter 1:12

Was there a window to the womb

set up in the throne room of heaven those nine months,

the Father and the angels gathering to watch

the maker of the earth and heavens


and suck His thumb,

the Spirit enfolding the Savior in peace?

No wonder the angels couldn’t contain their joy

when He made it safely through that narrow birth canal!

How they must have stood in awe

as He took His first breath in the stuffy stable air.

How Gabriel must have longed

to tickle those perfect, tiny baby toes

as the callused carpenter hands wrapped Him gently in swaddling cloth.

It was Joseph burping Jesus,

Mary tracing her finger on His soft cheek.

Ah, this fragile creature Creator

brought into our world

where, even without a cross, all die

through tragedy or slow cellular decay –

what He has done

even the angels desire to comprehend.




Acts 7


Stephen knew Jesus, and that’s how he stood.

Mad men arrested him with hell’s own lie,

but God turned over evil with His good.

Stephen started with what they understood,

Abraham’s calling by the Lord Most High.

Stephen heard Jesus, and that’s how he stood.

He spoke of Joseph, betrayed by those who should

have loved him, sold as a slave, how by and by

God still turned over evil with His good.

He spoke of Moses before the burning wood,

when God said, “I have heard My people’s cry.”

Stephen saw Jesus, and that’s why he stood.

He showed his accusers their true brotherhood,

idolaters with murder in their eyes,

warned that God turns over evil with His good.

What merciful vision! Stephen knew he would

inherit a glorious kingdom though he die.

Stephen saw Jesus and knew that He is good,

and evil was overturned because he stood.

All Things Will End

May 6, 2011
A response to the tornados that passed through our area on April 27.

Disaster moves more quickly than we know.
In fifteen seconds, with a deadly roar,
a storm splinters a house from roof to floor,
leaving only the basement intact below.
Why do we think destruction will be slow,
leaving us time to run and lock the door,
when it beat other people there before?
Who can forsee when it’s their time to go?
Dreams are just dust, and easily swept away,
no matter how much energy we spend
protecting them. Time is a tricky thief.
Moments are precious, but they cannot stay.
Until eternity, all things will end,
and no one pass through life without some grief.

Dreaming of the Beach in January

Jan. 14, 2004

The clouds stretch wide across the blue sea-sky,

not thick, but thinly spread out over miles,

and small and round, but pulled—so distant-high

in scattered groups of hundreds, almost files,

yet random just enough so that they seem

a white and bubbly sea-foam without roar.

They catch the edge of sunlight dull and gleam

as just below the surface, off the shore.

How I would like to be there jumping waves,

Letting the slow sun press me to fatigue.

But it is January. She who craves

the beach is only fooled by sky’s intrigue.

The winter wind is not always so kind

to bring a summer-picture to the mind.

Extreme Hypothyroidism

Aug. 12, 2010


How to explain

this process…

all I am is slow,

watching and hearing

            all the world whiz by,

while I

            but shuffle-walk,

do little,

            rest much,

never catch up,

learn that it takes

energy to clean the house,

            enter and exit

                        the car,


            hold a book

                        or even lay it flat

for more than five minutes,

brush my teeth without those battery-operated bristles,

will myself to roll

            out of bed

                        or force my head

                                    to overcome gravity

and sit normally?

It’s like those times

when you know you’re about

            to black out,

                        but you’re walking in the

                                    hall, propelling

                                                yourself weakly, urgently

                                                            to the nearest chair.

How to explain

motionless butt, rut-sticking

like being duct-taped

by your own muscles

and watching as a captive

the strange patterns of geometric shapes

that swarm about your eyes

on the edge of sleep

like mathematical demons

feasting on fatigue?

How to explain

the eagerness for freedom,

            yearning for the pills of life,

                        prayers for a short interval,

the returning of vigor,

            slowly filtering back,


easing away the swelling,

banishing the sharp-pointed triangles

and restoring

            everything we take

                        for granted?


Please do not go, though I’ve no more to say

and words wear out their welcome at the door.

We stand in awkward silence, but I stay,

searching to justify one moment more.

The hallway looks inviting, home-like, and

the promise of discussion yet to come

tugs at me with an unseen power, grand

and irresistible. Yet I succumb

to social pressures, urging me to move

when words are finished for a time, no chance

to let a deeper friendship grow, or love.

I fear and hope to meet it in your glance.

Postponing the inevitable threat,

I pause—I do not want to leave you yet.

The End of Velocity

From 2003. Really, who doesn’t know this feeling?


The velocity stops.

I hang in outer space in my machine

and slowly swing a little down

and forward

but not toward anything—

a slow, directionless kind of spin

that could carry me

to the outer edges of the galaxy,

too big—the universe—

to drift so slowly.

Fire up the jets.

I need to go somewhere.