February 2010

The work of a poet
is to collect the
wind on his skin and
the blue from the lakes
and the gleam of the sun
as it jumps from
the bows of winter pines
to the exact place
on the crystal air
where fireflies
wait for nightfall and
men humbled at last
by their labours
melt back into
the earth to die.
Poetry is not so much
a shaft of light
as a shadow that
declares there is one.
It cannot be spoken
without consent
or even heard
except in passing,
and it can never be
captured upon a page,
though now and then
it may sift like a
sweet mirage among
what we take for words.
Poetry is a promise
we are doomed to
believe even when
it seems to lie, and
the work of a poet
and of all creation
is to kiss the dew as
it melts with the morning
and takes one hand and
flings us into infinity.

© 2010

Blessed are the poor in spirit:
for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
  So many Christians
      so little Christianity

Blessed are they that mourn:
for they shall be comforted.
  So many Christians
      so little Christianity

Blessed are the meek:
for they shall inherit the earth.
  So many Christians
      so little Christianity

Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness:
for they shall be filled.
  So many Christians
      so little Christianity

Blessed are the merciful:
for they shall obtain mercy.
  So many Christians
      so little Christianity

Blessed are the pure in heart:
for they shall see God.
  So many Christians
      so little Christianity

Blessed are the peacemakers:
for they shall be called the children of God.
  So many Christians
      so little Christianity

© 2010 (from The Sermon on the Mount: Matthew 5:3-9 – King James Version)
- Photo Blog

Before we knew
what we know today
and spoke so freely of it,
there were kitchens
with wood stoves
where the air lay still
on pale afternoons
and men like my uncle
sat in old chairs
that creaked with time
and smoked pipes
that were packed
in a certain way with
tobaccos no longer
made or remembered.
And it was winter,
or one of those
settled seasons,
when new eyes
beheld old ceremonies
of murmured small talk,
beneath clocks imbued
with permanent patience,
- and light crept
in collaborative shafts
across the dwindling of the day.
I remember matches
flaring in the silence,
flames like honey
to the leaf, and vapours
sifting in supine dreams,
- and men who were wise
and unadorned
and did not fear quiet
or the hour they might die.

© 2010