Midges are mere little specks,
Swarms of annoying flecks
That bug you all to heck,
Taking tiny vampire bites
Of blood as they alight.
I’ll warn you to beware:
They dash and dart in the air
When conditions aren’t quite fair,
So you flap your arms in a fuss
As you complain and cuss.
Bugged by behavior roughshod,
Squashed is your pious facade,
You can start to question God.
For these fleeting up-to-no-goods
Steal your joy of the woods;
While you are busy obsessing,
You miss all of the blessings.
I Need Conversations
When you are in a foreign land where you don’t speak the language
you still must communicate:
pointing, nodding, and shrugging,
attempting sign language,
finding any words that might be remotely common…
There is no way you can’t communicate something,
so you do.
Then both smile when the mission if finally fulfilled.
If you are hungry enough you will find a way.
Feed the Birds
On the steps of St. Paul’s
I heard the beggar woman call,
selling her crumbs for crumbs,
to feed the precious birds who come.
I began to sing the song—
and, if there, you would sing along—
“Feed the birds, tuppence a bag,
Tuppence, tuppence, tuppence a bag.”
But if you feed the birds,
you will find your lyrics slurred,
the romance lies in crumbles
as you watch their greedy jumble.
They transmorph as little pigs,
self-indulgent great big prigs.
With their single focus,
they descend like clouds of locusts.
They never learned to share.
Try to help them? They don’t care.
Each bird snatches its bequest;
each bird feathers its own nest.
They come to church to get grace
and fly away an unchanged race.
I climbed the hills of Omaha to seize my first look
at the inheritance left for me.
There I gazed at the manicured lawn
made green by water mingled with blood.
Silent white stones glimmered
as a path to this endowment entrusted to me.
I never knew those who resided there
but I heard their voices in the wind,
“Expand this estate
with such hospitality that even your enemies feel at home.”
I found no words to respond,
choked by the tears of pride and humility and awe:
There is no greater love than this.
Viva la revolution has been confused with viva la devolution:
ragged and tagged,
these esteemed shrines underappreciated.
Where once high-minded philosophy
lost its head and lost its way
until it constituted itself as a true tour de force,
now the libertines have become vulgar purveyors of cacography
as a lazy lash against authority
without design or conviction,
just careless trivialization.
Despite such graphic violence, the walls stand strong,
the blooms of conversion,
the glimmering waters of transfiguration,
the altars of new birth.
The Sweet Life
I never tasted strawberries until I went to France.
There the flavor erupted, as sweet as it was red.
No sucre, no glace, rien could enhance this chef-d’oeuvre.
You should have told me—even if I couldn’t understand.
Give me more…
Give me more!
I want to taste and see how good life really is.
I Am and I Am
I am in heaven
I am on earth
I am thundering
I am wondering
I am speaking
I am listening
I am making
I am waking
I am commanding
I am harvesting
I am judging
I am not budging
I am spirit
I am flesh
I am crying
I am dying
I am bleeding
I am crushed
I am forgiving
I am living
I am arising
I am bowing
I am caring
I am sharing
I am three
I am one