Published on March 30, 2019 on the Ancient Paths Facebook page. The way is lonely and long, narrow and stony too, with potholes, pitfalls, crumbling parts. It goes through lonely valleys, darkened by low-hanging clouds. It goes up steep mountainsides where hardly a goat could pass. It’s terribly strange that in this wilderness I see neither man nor beast, only God. I know He’s there for He picks me up when I fall and start to bleed. I know He’s there when He chastens me

Published on the Ancient Paths Facebook page on April 6, 2019. Large As Omaha in 1958 My Fear visited for months My father every night In Saint Joseph’s Hospital My Fear wanted To speak to him In Latin Or Gaelic My Fear peeled the words Of every English sentence Floating inside my skull Sloshing around my heart My Fear feasted on that silence #AncientPathspoems #AncientPathsarchive

Published on April 13 on the Ancient Paths Facebook page. On the sidewalk, After the soft snow fell Over stark tree branches Bouncing neatly Over the white hospital walls, And caking outside the windows After I had sat smiling With a senile woman Moaning about her daughter’s Whereabouts And the anonymous footsteps That had passed in front Of her door and which did not stop The never ending silence Distilling her sad cry’s, I saw a crucifix Engraved in the conc

Published April 14, 2019 on the Ancient Paths Facebook page. Palms wave as the congregation sings Hosanna! Hosanna! Joel tickles his little brother’s neck with his tall palm branch. Cindy reaches hers into the aisle, dragging the tip across red carpet. I remember the year my daughter waved her palm wildly, brushing the hair of the brunette in the row ahead. After church the organist scolded her and turned anger on me. I hung my head and scolded all the way home.

Published on the Ancient Paths Facebook page April 18, 2019 A thought emanates from within gray-matter. See how the head cocks, first one side then the other. No recourse, fear, far or near makes mind chatter, constantly searching for fathers or mothers. Anxiety plagues the faint of heart, eyes downcast, they fear a forward gaze, downcast like Lucifer for they are faithless. The light of morning surpassed. What chance do they have in the role Judas suffered? In their fa

The old man stroked his beard Bent low over his texts Eyes grown dimmer Outside workmen are finishing some project The hammer blows seem loud as thunder A shudder runs through him with each blow He recalls a journey long ago Mile on mile Sore foot weary camels Frankincense gold and myrrh Chasing a singular star Today the stars show at midday The sun is eclipsed He wonders what it means Bowed low over his books Eyes grown dimmer A shudder runs through him Publish

Softly. On tiptoe I creep. Across his room; Each step takes an eternity. His bedside lamp glows a pale yellow illuminating the halo atop his head. And there, lying beside him our old pal Max, distressed because tonight (yet again) he will not sail in and out of weeks to visit A Land That Has Been Forgotten. Book replaced on shelf, I gaze upon my little cherubim soft pudgy cheeks, bright red, still moist. His eyebrows wrinkle gravely as he dreams

It is too pleasing. I tried to work Thanksgiving at the soup kitchen though I waited too long and they didn’t need me. I whittled Thanksgiving away reading; waiting for the big bus to come and scatter the dull yellow patterans that had repaved the road overnight; and waiting for the time to kill Thanksgiving, to knock it out of the air as the wind blows squirrel’s nest leaves out of the tree. Winter is the season for the dead, remembering, as in the mass at Halloween

In a Sunday morning meadow, the dewed grass bows to pray. The sun is in its pulpit to chase the clouds away. Swallows swoop like angels with gentle grace and ease, as a chorus of heavenly birdsong rises from the trees. Bees commune on nectar from the flowers growing wild, while a cricket chants a homily he eagerly compiled. A snake slithers across the grass to seek the promised sun, who pours down its golden rays to enlighten everyone. Published on the Ancient

—for Rajan Cloud and his Momma, 2016 All that time, you were in God’s mind. He knew you were coming before your Momma did. Still He knew her soul longed for a you. And there you were, so busy growing. Your little heart and its secret pumping still had so much work to do. You were folded in your mother, hidden inside her, as God has carried her throughout her life. What she wants for you now, such a precious blessing, is that you never doubt you were made in love. You

Arriving at the chapel gates come noon, Almighty He allowed a moment's rest To those who'd had to keep their Warm and best emotions to themselves. As gladly as arriving birds the folk had felt The Lord of Lords and Angels be; Accordingly, they'd give their utmost. . . . Appearances remain the kind of stuff A fool will go by, but the best believe Aright and give so as to love; They thereby nullify the core Of non-existence. Many days and nights are we allowed sometime

My thoughts feel cold and cracked today like brittle autumn leaves. My heart dries up and I’m afraid, and life is misery. My mind projects so many fears; I’m paralyzed and broken. Alone within my grim despair, I wander through emotion. My hopes fade into memory, and faith creates no peace. Now courage is the only thing that brings my soul relief. Each day is like the one before, and every dream is crushed. I seek to find an open door, so God and love will come.

I show my house the pictures of you ask it if it remembers when you lived closer when you were a frequent guest. I feel the ache and the strain of a house trying to uproot itself, as if it were some great, lazy dog trying to find the will to move twitching its tail in a futile attempt to attract attention to itself. I, too, wish I could find some way to reach you that doesn’t require the enormous effort it takes to get to the airport or make plans that involve weeks a

Michelangelo with steel balls and a wire brush wishing he was wearing motorcycle leathers, going wild and crazy, stares cross-eyed at the Sistine Chapel ceiling- nose touching moist paint, body stretch out on a plank, bones held by ropes from falling- delirious, painting that face of Jesus and the Prophets with a camel hair brush; in such a position, transition a genie emerges as a poet- words not paint start writing his sonnets, a second career is born- na

While waiting for the Greyhound bus, my dad and I, the two of us, recounted pleasant moments passed: the memories we had amassed, experienced, and oft discussed. Our dialog continued thus— light-hearted and extraneous— until we saw the bus at last while waiting. We said goodbye without much fuss; I stepped into the ominous, uncharted future from the past not knowing how my die was cast and feeling I grew up too fast while waiting. Published on the Ancient Paths Fa

"Whoever conceals hatred with lying lips and spreads slander is a fool." —Proverbs 10:18 We whistle the wanton wind And once unfurled, There’s no going back To a world before gossip. Tongues wag and flap with ease In the envious, polluted breeze Like flags at half-mast. And even some bystanders below Salute the contagious rumors— That fester and blister the soul, Malignant and blind as tumors. And so the disease spreads Like mold behind a shelf. Morticians, exa

Life finds a way. In boiling springs Bacteria thrive; And toxic waters Come alive. Life finds a way On ocean floors. In utter dark Biolumined creatures spark: Life finds a way. Life finds a way In solid rock, On wind-blown scree Clings stubborn tree: Life finds a way. Life finds a way. High, high on ancient peak, Mid snow-drifts deep Snow leopards sleep: Life finds a way. God finds a way. Through boiling springs; Through utter darkness; Through despair; Hi

If you watched him stand up and walk to the pulpit today, you’d never know. If you lingered and listened to him sing “The Anchor Holds” like a lullaby, you’d never know. If you sat with rapt attention while he waved about reaching out, you’d never know that a few years back, he fell off a roof, cracking his world open. A few years back, he lay in bed with long suffering. Light, constantly shifted about him. A few years back, a symphony of prayers, visible love and

Your advice makes sense to me, St. Ignatius. For I find that when I’m immersed in the raw materials of His creation, I’m most open to Him, most likely to pray; I prefer to imagine a laborer’s wife, clothed in coarse fabric whose chafing she hasn’t felt since the fisherman said her son was taken away. She fell to her knees, unable to breathe. When her son’s pain has ended she doesn’t know how hers will. His body wasn’t this long or heavy the last time she cradled it

A tulip poplar In my backyard was struck by lightning the sudden terrible crack covered its beloved trunk with a spider web of blue flame. the acrid smell of charred wood lasted for weeks. It stood, a withering ruin; Stark, lifeless- Smoldering. One moment began the rot that would consume it. I wonder what chance moment will come and cover me with a web of blue flame and reveal my molding self- Can what lies rotten in me flower again? And what of grac