Separate Peace

Calm

I found a separate, loving peace,
Underneath the summer trees,
Listening to the cricket's song,
Watching white clouds drift along.

I found a separate, loving peace,
Near the river's restless shore,
Listening to the water rush,
Dreaming in the twilight's hush.

I found a separate, loving peace,
Walking down a country lane,
Listening to the rustling grass,
Letting minutes slowly pass.

Pungent scent of Queen Anne's Lace,
Warmth of sunshine's bright embrace,
A separate peace, an interlude,
A blessed touch of solitude.

Alone with thoughts,
Alone with Grace,
I found a separate holy place.
1999




Zacchaeus


Red dust rose in panting puffs
To hang as haze in shimmering heat,
As sunlight baked late summer's earth,
Parching brown the weed-laced turf.
Market morning disappeared,
Along with baskets, carts and jars,
Along with sellers' sing-song chants,
Loud bargaining and bickering,
Along with beggars' lonely rasps
And traders' raucous dickering.

A routine day of daily bread,
Of working, sighing lay ahead,
Until the mirth of children's cries
Caused laborers to raise their eyes
From toiling in the fields of grain.
A gathering crowd blocked the gate to Jericho,
There to await the cause of such disruption.


Some clambered onto stony walls,
Or squatted by the dusty road.
A stir, a murmur, rose and fell
Like ringing from some distant bell.
"Jesus of Nazareth passes by!"
The crowd picked up the rippling cry.
They pushed and shoved to better see
This Jesus come from Galilee,
Who preached of peace and brotherhood.


He stopped and for a moment stood
Beneath a graceful broad-leafed tree,
A sycamore, whose dappling shade touched all below.
It's sturdy boughs offered up a stout-limbed seat;
As Zacchaeus dangled grimy feet
Above the heads of those proceeding.
The tax collector peered around,
Looking such a curious clown.

Jesus laughed and reached his hand
Up to the eager, little man.
"Zacchaeus, you must come down!
I'll stay with you, now that you're found."
Zacchaeus grinned and jigged with joy;
He welcomed Jesus to his home.
A transformation brightly shown in his dark eyes.
Zacchaeus' greed had surely flown;
The seeds of love by Christ were sown.

Peace will come to those
Who search for Jesus' gift.
Those words of love will gently lift
The young, the old, the poor, the meek,
The sinner, the saint, the strong, the weak,
The outcast lost of humankind,
Need only seek and they shall find.
2002



The Lonely Path


Swiftly fading, purple streaks
Marked the sun's retreating flight.
A small group slowly made their way
Up the path into the night.
Birdsong's bright notes were replaced
By sleepy, random chirping,
While crickets in crescendo tuned
Their evening's presentation.
A murky dampness chilled the air,
Creeping from the valley's loam.
Peter tripped and cursed the stone
Unseen in gathering gloom.
Jesus turned and looked behind
At weary bodies following Him,
Trudging, stumbling up the path,
Heads bowed down and faces grim.
He heard the sighing of their breath,
And felt the fear of their confusion.
He longed to comfort and console,
To cast away their dread.
Yet, he knew he had to face
The agony that lay ahead.
They reached the garden on the mount,
As darkness settled in;
Each dropping heavily to the ground
To sit awhile with Him.
Fatigue and sadness took it's toll,
As one by one their eyelids drooped.
Jesus watched them nod to sleep,
Leaving Him alone to keep
The night-watch over these, His sheep.
He reached a hand out to His friends,
His followers, His companions.
They stirred but could not stay awake.
He was in need, but for their sake
Forgave them human weakness.
Like any man, He was afraid;
And suffered from the knowledge that
Soon, He was to be betrayed
By those He loved,
Nor would they stay
To ease His pain along the way.
He sought His Father one last time,
Begging to be spared the task;
Though He knew as He asked
The cup of sacrifice was passed.
His Father's will would be done
By this gentle, loving Son.
2002




Where Can We See Him?


His face is painted in cathedral domes.
It graces the gilded chapels of kings.
Each age portrays it differently
On tapestries and glowing glass,
As pious, precious offerings.
Chanting monks proclaimed His glory,
Symphonies for Him were writ.
Ancient texts and learned tomes
Were meant to tell His story.
And yet, I ponder in my heart
About this gentle man,
Who never owned an ermine robe
Nor smallest piece of land.
He spoke of love and tolerance.
He lived among the poor.
He fought no wars. He offered peace.
His message has endured.
Millions claim to follow Him,
With eyes that cannot see,
Unless they seek His face anew,
In suffering humanity.
2002


Ashes


It comforts me to know
This earthly body will return
To Mother Earth, to loamy soil.
Seasons will come and pass away.
Rains will wash and cleanse
What snow and ice must freeze anew.
Sun-washed days bring thaws to sod.
Grass grows green once again.
Summer's heat will turn it brown and brittle.
The tree above looks down
To offer cooling shade,
Then carpets the earth with autumn amber.
Songs of wind and claps of thunder
Make music on the passing clouds.
My ashes slumber in eternal rest,
While my soul continues on its journey
Toward the light, toward peace and love.
2003