Birds

On that first day We woke up restless Stillborn, bleak, dry and dark Blood dispersed in the water black Ink without paper Language without form Absence without grief It was all ours And ours alone Hear the scalpel-sharp intake Of a baby’s first troubled breath On a day like this, there are no words Yet our voiceless cry, it must be heard For our wings, they are tired And there is no land in sight...

And I said…   “I want a spirit that is calm I want a spirit that swims In the heavens I want a spirit that makes A sweet, sweet song I want a spirit that preys With exacting precision I want a spirit that crows at dawn I want a spirit that flies by night I want a spirit that will fight And give its life To protect its young I want a spirit that...

There was a song my father sang Not really a song at all Just a rhythm of syllables Rising and falling With every step And a pause with Every breath   There were never any words Neither for the song itself Nor for the way It brings me home   It would often be sung Out in the wilderness Surrounded by wonders Sometimes emerging From an ice cold pool Formed by a beaver dam In...

The ship has sailed And with it your life Your family Your lover Your faith Stolen away So you live like a pirate now Steering your terrestrial warship Your vessel made of sand Writing these lines on the tide With your angry little hand Stealing only what you need Like a seagull In need of everything And needing it today Stealing whatever you can Stealing one last glance At the bigger picture Before your world...

Let the new year begin And let the last one end As the keys punch the headlines Into your skin Burning hot like cattle brands Will you have a choice Or will it be out of your hands? Will you see what is written? Will you read your last rites? Will it be everything black Or everything white? Everything day Or everything night? Is it all or nothing? Just this or just that? The record...

When the ones and zeros No longer add up And the printing press Runs out of flesh And the ink Has nowhere to run   I’ll pick up the pieces Build a temple of song Made of discarded words Metal vowels and consonants Foraged from fields Like seeds for migrating birds   And the truth that reflects On these mirrored pages Will cut deeply down to the bone Like mist and like light Like all...

The word that I am Was first spoken fifty years ago To this very day And when I entered the kitchen this morning Groggy from all those years of stumbling through life My wife greeted me With a truthful embrace And with a loving smile And asked if I felt older today Or if anything felt different at all Just like one would ask a young child And immediately I blurted out without thinking  ...

Look out of any window… Dividing the morning And the evening And the day into thirds   What’s a window but a box for the sky? And what’s the sky but a box full of birds? And what’s a bird but a box for our dreams? And what’s a dream but a box full of words?   And what’s a word but a box full of meaning? And what does it mean to be a...

What is the kingdom of God like? And to what can it be compared?   The kingdom of God is like a father who built his family home on the upper banks of the Platte River in Nebraska, where the sandhill crane migration took place in the wetlands and riverbanks just outside their family room windows.   The father loved to watch these birds every year and kept a pair of the finest binoculars beside...