Jet-lag faith

Maybe it’s jet-lag 

Crossing half the world in half a day;

Time zones, date lines, Meridian markers.

In one night you wake up on the other side 

And you believe anything is possible

So of course we would hear angel’s songs 
In the late evening living room.

It’s not a too far off sort of miracle,

It’s just a flight away,

A ladder’s width to descend.

The dreamer Jacob saw this,
The Son spoke of it before ascending 

In fact He was welcomed by the such voices 

So the song hasn’t stopped, nor ever-

“Glory to God in the highest,”
Arises, same strains sonneted 
From Bethlehem to Istanbul.
Was it the jet-lag to so easily accept 
The praise that came from mouths unseen?
Simple faith to agree that His flamed-tongued ministers are deployed 

For times such as these? 
To acknowledge by faith
Supernatural song belongs in my vocabulary. 
Awake or jet-lagging
Here or there or in between,  
We say, we hear, we agree; glory be.

Intercession and poetry

My son,

I see your eyes;

Weary and restless.

My son, are you patient enough for poetry? 

To sit for a meal, not just a bite?

To gaze and behold, not just look?

To listen for tones, not just orders?

My son, you have been zealous

Release your bitterness from long waiting
Repent your frustration from circumstance 
Restore your heart to first love 
Out of your emptiness I invite you to My rest.

Critics

Who else does this

Puts their precious words out 

Like bread for ducks 

The flock quacks, bites, squabbles 

Until they are gone 

Just 

Crumbs 

Travelogue

Queued bodies
Shuffling between lobbies 

Ground to sky cadence 
Transference or transcendence 

Body’s creases 

Mind’s semblance ceases 

To be under dateline conventions

Air-pressure tensions

Gaining, losing 

GMT arithmetic proofing

A Chronology of before, now, and further seems
Forever dreams 

Was it the end of the world or 
The beginning 

Lemon Verbena

Nicole’s garden, past Damascus Gate

Tranquility abiding in the midst of the bustling and honking; striving 

The sun filters past the branches, a shifting mosaic of shadows 

By season she taught and loved the precious children, ones broken and set aside, disfigured, hurting She blew a refreshing breeze over them, 

And they grew in her care

Now she grows herbs, flowers, 

Cultivated beauty, stacked pots meandering

Shaded by Lemon Verbana

She makes tea from fresh crushed leaves 

For old friends

She grows peace in Jeruschalajim

May she know Peace in Jeruschalajim

Waiting bones

Kidron Valley lined with bones upon bones

generations in tombs of stone 

Facing the gate for the coming One

We wait for the waiting to be done

In the desert

The worst is the ‘shoulds’

The swollen feet

The impatient glares 

The graceless margins, famished for kindness

How can you grow love in the desert? 

One tear at a time 

Palms raised

One understandable phrase, ‘Amerika’ from the driver’s radio

Rumbling of Central Station buses exiting the ramp

From the third seat, my eye level with rooftops where

The fan palms raise their laughing branch in unceasing thanks

Awoken day by day 

Sun’s rays gathering from fragments of night, 

Sideways past the pain with clever perk 

Kneeling, out stretching 

A green plate of contoured grace.