The stories can be harsh
in the pervading gray of concrete
and rumbling thrum of traffic.
The young dad with a jitterbug son
waving his arms to the sky
while dad pushes sister,
the treasury of hope on stroller wheels
skittering over the ribbed sidewalk.
The manic boy juiced on sugar
proclaiming ecstasy like a burgeoning Blake
his message of unrepentant joy
sparking off the passing cars
to challenge the sun
from the marrow of aliveness
bright in the limbs of this wild-eyed boy.

At the heart of the world

an altar pulsing light,

crucibles of fire

where the stories of Earth

rise with fragrant incense

into streams of compassion

nourished by a single life

and all its mystery.

There is a well older than the earth;

when I fail this depth is my nourishment.

I know the animal in strength

the tooth and claw of many wars

and the way my arms can wrap

an innocent heart filled with grief.

The way to understand is to travel,

to discover the frightening possibilities

that come with being human

then with a thread of faith

and the assurance of stone

let down the bucket and draw

the clean water of forgiveness.

Over the unbroken fetch the southerly breeze
raises the channel in wind driven swells.
Passing through rumpled water
the wind forms surge in rounded layers
seeking comfort of the rock-bound shore.
Like those waves that traverse my soul,
where memories older than life
push to find form in the ocean
that rises and falls within
as surely as a beckoning sea.
Longing to step into the swell
and take flight with the wind,
I follow a surge to the further shore
on strength of the inner tide.