A Different Kind Of Speaking

Following the example
Of the prophets
And the old church
Fathers, I plan to
Make German psalms
For the people—
That is to say,
Spiritual songs,
So that the
Word of God
Is also present
Via the singing
Of the people.
Therefore,
We are looking
Everywhere
For poets.

Up a canyon
Eucalyptus grove,
It’s a back entrance
To the mission.

More contemporary
Than Catholic, but still
Tile steps, roses
Smiling, lining
The garden. Hedges
Encircling the holy
Of Holies. Brass
Candlesticks, a
Black piano
Himself a reverend,
Starched suits
Perfectly pressed
At the knees, and
A flickering glow in
A world of faces.

And my childish excitement,
A bold boredom,
My sweet memories
As such, still today,
Are nothing more
Than the donuts.

I could lose her,
A rising tide
Up on my chin
A new epistle
Keeps me up
After the night.

I will lose her.
Awash on the shore
A new breath
In my lungs-
A great grace.

The golden rods and reeds,
The prairie states
And stakes its hold
In the real.
The sunlight stands
And in its gaze
Under gargantuan
Willows, the mists
Graze the tops
Of fields and
Farmer’s furrows.

One can see now
All is feral
And fallow,
And weeds
Are a wonder
Which none need
Or shall erase
Once allowed.
Follow the fear,
The story,
Left alone
Unpaved and
Unproud
Not a stone
To be seen
Or saved—-Glory
To the near.

For sale
Years
Tears
Grandma Gail.

Upkeep
Hard work
Handmade
Afraid.

OK
Survey
Relive
Delay.

Visit
Resisted
Farewell
Listed.

Too old
Family
History
Memory
Legacy
Sold.

They look:
A throne
A holy mountain
Found in
The Great King
Grand, standing
For the Joy of
A whole earth.

They look
To the citadel
To surrounding
Walls, built up high
As the heavens,
They wonder:
Will He come.

Above her and
Beyond her and
For her He is
Within her, the
Very ground
On which
They walk:
Fortress
Everywhere.

Any excuse for it.
A still night
A cool night
Company.
It’s been too long
Need time to myself
More than enough wood.

Or the light, a low
Flicker of yellow
And orange, warmth
That kisses my knees,
The smell of crackling
Smoke. Or the reflection
Of my naked face
In the flame,
Confronting me
With the hot blue
My ancestors had,
That holier men
Than I have,
But that I never will.

Rain like pebbles
tap the window.
The thunder breaks
as the sea on the shore
over and over again.
The wind beats against
these deeds, weathering
their wooden shingles,
dampening all hopes
of outrunning erosion.
Hallowed is the house
standing on this bluff,
over and over it looks
the silver, stormy sky.
Rest returns, a refuge
remains. Washed
yet not washed away.

And crying
And praying,
Toddling through
The small town
Of my childhood,
Picking up twigs
And fallen leaves,
Holding them up
In childish wonder
To the outreached hand
Of my Father.

Seeds lie
Beneath the surface
Die certain
Of defeat.

But simple dust
In silent trust
Takes its seat.

Until the rain comes