Peeks Through Clouds

An effort to brighten darkness with gentle humor and loving truth... a desire to discern both love and truth more and more clearly when I gaze toward Glory... and a spirit-name, properly descriptive, unrequested but received, my own.

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Monday, June 29, 2009

When I Get Old

When I get old
I'm gonna drive real slow
in a big old car
on a bright sunny day.

When I get old
I’ll park a tennis ball on my antenna
just - like - you!

When I get old
I’m gonna drive real slow
stare at the houses
remember who lived there.

When I get old
I’ll put my wheels right on the center line
Just – Like – You!

When I get old
I’m gonna drive real slow
make extra wide turns
ignore all the signs

When I get old
I’ll leave my blinker on for miles and miles
JUST – LIKE – YOU!

When I get old
I’m gonna drive real slow
wear stupid plaid shorts
with tall black socks
get a goofy white belt
and some plastic teeth.

When I get old
I’ll get my doors blown off
by some young punk
when I get to a place
where the road is straight
and nobody’s coming
he’ll go ripping by me
and flip me the bird
and shout “You dumb geezer!”
when I get old.

Just... like... THIS!!

Friday, June 26, 2009

Life by the Golden Rule

He enters alone / She enters alone
as always, and
sees her alone / sees him alone
as always, and
sits beside her. He / sits by herself. She
longs to engage her / hates to disturb him
longs to be engaged / hates to be disturbed
by anyone, really, but especially
by her. / by him.

Tuesday, June 02, 2009

Mourning Song


The wrens are back,
singing over the little cedar house
that dangles from the swing set,
singing, where the big tree used to be.


The wrens are back,
singing over the gravel
where the car was driven into the ground,
driven down until glass shattered,
metal crumpled and springs collapsed
under the weight of leaves and wood,
singing, where the big tree used to be.


The wrens are back,
singing over the sunny yard
where broken limbs and massive trunk
buried the space they had shaded
before the twister laid the giant low,
singing, where the big tree used to be.


The wrens are back,
singing over faded shadows of sweaty men
and the tracks of powerful machines,
singing in air filled once with howling wind
and deadly flailing branches,
then growling chain saws,
then silence.


The wrens are back,
singing over and over,
where the big tree used to be.