seven quarters

i would like to drive somewhere

somewhere far away. maybe home.

but in an empty car so that i won't stay too long.

its amazing how the economy affects people's generosity

and how people's generosity, my ability to pay rent.

i woke up to the sound of rain.

the cold air seeking gaps in my blankets.

the mountiantops have turned a whitish-gray with the first snow

and look wiser because of it.

chamomile tea covers a multitude of troubles. it costs seven quarters,

but its worth it.

deep cycle summer

summer is losing strength, slowly

like a deep cycle battery.

fading predictably, unwinding like a rubberband powered airplane.

the mountains are blushing in anticipation of the snow,

the brush is turning red.

i enjoy the air in the evening,

flannel covering my arms.

i miss home this fall. this is my first fall in the west.

and i miss soccer games in the evening. frigid bleachers.

but the mountains are good to me. and utah.

i enjoy every minute i get to spend exploring their heights and valleys.

and if i can continue without committing to a monotone life of 40hr weeks,

then i will.

make ends meet by serving. teaching people about rivers and fish.

singing, writing, and dreaming for the future.

the worst

the worst feelings are...

cutting down a very old tree...

getting tired of a favorite album...

killing a trophy fish...

accidently keying your own car...

scaring a baby...

staining a favorite shirt...

being locked out...

losing your wallet in a new city...

all of which i have done unintentionally.

all of which i hope never to do again.

Battle Hymn

Mine eyes have seen the horror of the coming of the war

The wrath of god persuaded by a Government that swore

It hath loosed the fateful lightning on the innocent and poor

his truth is marching on.

I have seen the shells descending on a million hopeful hands

We build altars out of bodies that are lost in foreign lands

His righteous words on lips that scream - "the enemy be damned!"

his day is marching on.

I have heard a fiery gospel writ with ashes and with zeal

We have learned a faith thats penitent a brutal grace that's real

Let the hero born of woman crush his brother with his heal

Since god is marching on.

He has sounded forth a trumpet for the human soul in need

He is sifting out the hearts of men who claim his judgment seat

Be swift my soul to answer him be militant in peace

Our God, our God is marching on!

Loosely strung to the tune of The Battle Hymn of the Republic. In response to the original (written during the civil war). Because the original disgusts me. Because the original misconstrues the God I hope in.

Because I couldn't let words like those fall un-questioned. The first 3 verses are satire. The last, something hopeful.

It is hard enough for me to swallow the words religion puts in the mouth of God regarding faith, let alone war.

the river winks

the river winks at me, I'm pretty sure no one else sees it.
water stirs me. it eddies and churns the gravel of my soul.
if it weren't for dusk, and its grand decrescendo -
wind that is like grace blowing cool to my nostrils -
and the promise of music that is freed from my diaphragm.
then i might not try to be a brother and a friend, or at least not as hard.
i might fail more miserably at being a lover.
and maybe even stop. cease my wondering. cease my hoping.
but then the river winks. the ripples lick my ankles.
like a little dog who reminds me that life was meant to romp through.
like waist high fields and shining puddles.
someone finds the flat stones and skips them over pools between rapids.
everyday tucked perfectly behind the horizon, fading as they leave.
the freshness of grace filling my lungs, and i must return the favor.
so I look for seeds and kisses to blow.
I feel a promise, sometimes in myself, often in others.
I wait for it, anticipating the words and its melody.
I continue wondering and hoping. I watch for winks from the river.

holy water

oh my holy daughter

did you drink the holy water

from the bowl at san pablo's catedral

holy priest why do you bother

to let us always call you father

when Jesus bore the crosses that you wear

look up, look up, sing praise

call stones from their graves

sit up, sit up, get faith

stained windows illustrate

step up, step up, say grace

practice your solemn face

curious on tip toes

you reached up and then dipped your

fingers in the water bowl of stone

then your mother motioned

you cross your chest shoulders forehead

you kneel before you're buried in a pew

look up, look up, sing praise

call stones from their graves

sit up, sit up, get faith

stained windows illustrate

step up, step up, say grace

practice your solemn face

silly old grandfather

did you curse and then not bother

to repent before the crackers and the wine

Sunday candles thrill me

but this house just might distill me

harp then organ and the chorus year around

last day

we fished with our ears.

we fought with rods.

we wrestled scales in currents.