Pool of Serenity

October 20, 2010
You can look at this 3 ways.

I have an old water fountain
now filled with pebbles and rocks
that Serenity likes to play in.
She'll take the stones,
one or two in each hand,
and walk about turning them,
then tossing them,
then returning for more.
You can see the holes where she's been.

Wholly You (A Confession)

August 31, 2010
This poem is deeply personal. It is a metaphor of amazing grace in my life. I dedicate this to my God and Saviour, Jesus Christ; and to my wife Lynn, whose love and forgiveness saved me.

It was completely you
responsible for reconciliation.

The fault is mine for crouching out the door,
walking away from the dwelling
we both built with our bare hands,
down the street and around the corner
for a tawdry, no wait,
          sleazy is a better word,
affair with a strange woman;
make believe quote/unquote love, no wait,
          sex with three x's is a better word,
in the dark fabric of the quilted streets of the city:
certainly castration is a certainty.

Nevertheless you nursed me back
to your milk-laden breasts
with words
of passionate urging, loving guidance, tender comfort.
I stained your back with tears of sludge.
Turning me over
you crossed my heart.
I hoped to die.
I must have been speaking in tongues
when I cried out “Merci! Merci!”
because my lips don't know how to formulate foreign language by themselves.

And now when we make love, no wait,
          the better word is love,
your nails painted blood-rust dig my flesh;
Oh, God! I feel the pain you provide—pain not like yours,
in comparison a tingling, an internal cutis anserina.
The foreign tongue you mastered.

The reason we are becoming one
is wholly you.

Dr. Preacha Man

February 22, 2010


He done rip
dat bandaid right off
an' he done wash dat spot
wi' de water
an' he scrub an' he scrub
'til I want
dat he scrub no more
'cause de tears
dey come pour out
'til I feel
I 'bout drown.
Den he put de sav
all up on where he scrub
an' de sav
it feel so cool
an' it make dat place
dat he scrub feel right.

An' de tears
dey still be comin' down.

The Cleansing Power of Fire

November 2, 2009


I wept until I could weep no more.
          The rainbow did not
          appear in the sky.
          The ground was still rock hard.

I cried out so loud my vocal cords were raw.
          The wind did not
          blow or breeze.
          The trees did not yield their fruit.

I beat my fists bloody against the wall.
          The stars did not
          hold the answers.
          The earth continued to move.

Where else can I go?
Who else can I turn to?
          Let it burn.

Cobweb in the Church Rafters

August 11, 2009
The inspiration actually came from a cobweb in church. I kept seeing this cobweb from week to week in the steel beams and ductwork and conduit, all painted black, of our church sanctuary. Our worship service is fairly modern with stage lighting and songs/graphics on two large screens, and the lights would make this cobweb glow. And for several weeks it was as if the Lord kept pointing it out. It made me laugh.


A single thread
of dust clothed cobweb
cluttering a corner of the ceiling
     of the sanctuary;
stretched
from one indeterminate spot to another;
glowing in the spotlight
amidst the twinkling dust motes;
swaying in the breeze
     of air conditioning

in                                   the light             and out of
bending, curving                                   moving in the darkness
like an optic fiber                                 hidden, invisible
carrying the light                                  in the dark

this fine filament
eluding the scientific mind
     from being
     recreated;
its tensile strength and elasticity
unmatched in the material:
yet, the flick of a finger,
the wave of a hand
can cast it down.

Someone needs to dust.

Sheep Dung in the Upper Room

March 30, 2009

I suppose this could be categorized as an Easter poem. It takes place the day of the Last Supper. This is another piece that I want to include in my series concerning God getting dirty. The original inspiration came from one of our pastor's sermons (Cal Woods, Pointe North Community Church, Moncks Corner, SC) in which he related an experience in which he stepped in dog doo and tracked it into a church conference room.


Sheep Dung in the Upper Room

I jump out of the boat
and into the muddy water.
Dragging the boat to shore
silt and sand slide under my feet
and through my toes.
It has been a good day for fishing.
Hauling basket after basket
of flopping fish flinging
water and scales,
I think of the Passover meal
to be shared with the Master this night.

But the nets, dripping with kelp and fish crap,
need to be tended. Sand gnats
nip at my ankles as I hurriedly finish my tasks.
Running up the bank,
wet sand from my sandals
splat my calves. Rushing through
the pasture, tall field grasses slap my shins,
leaving their seed clinging to the sweat,
hiding in the hairs of my legs.

I push through the crowded market
of the multitudes making last minute
preparations for Passover.
The streets are covered
with discarded rotted figs and grapes
mingling with the dust of ages and
the urine of goats and dogs and sheep.
Heedless of where I place my steps,
I almost fall
when my foot finds the fresh leavings
of a sheep.

Vaguely aware of the odor
from my freshly soiled sandal,
I enter the upper room
and partake of the supper
with my brethren and the Master.
And though I try to ignore it,
the trail of dust and dung
I have imprinted upon the floor behind me
is evident to all.

Then,
at the end of the meal
after the bread has been broken
and the wine has been shared,
the Master girds himself with a towel
and washes our feet.