For Hymn, the Bell Tolls



Toll, ancient bell,

Ring home my wayward heart;

Sing to my soul,

Lest from the truth I part.

Chime, ancient notes,

To strum my wand’ring strings;

Peal forth your hymn,

To give my spirit wings.

Once, When Looking Up

yellow aspen

I see You there, covering

me – a cathedral ceiling

of finespun gold, aspen-boughs

crowning my way with glory.


I hear You in the whisper,

silent assignations passed

from one trembling yellow throat

to another, gentle sighs.


I feel Your gaze rocking me sweet,

and I breathe, slow and deep, pause

mid-stride to rest in dappled

acceptance, cherished by shade.


You are here. You, Your essence,

Your presence – it sings, sunshine

in shadow, gold filigree

on an altar made of wood.


Splintered, I crack open. Your

notes rustle in my veins, seep

past knots, and I’m rooted here,

utterly, completely me.

Hooded Monks

Hooded monks with vesper views,

Marking time on evening pews,

Meditating on Good News,

Footsteps padding light.

Cloaks and Cloth at sunset hour,

Kneeling in monastic tower,

Soaking rays of heaven’s power,

Bidding God goodnight.


This gorgeous flower is ‘Aconitum‘, commonly called ‘Monkshood’…


I whisper, so as not to interrupt,

but your eyes see  Another, and my presence

melts into the recesses of the Cathedral;

my footsteps echo hollow on grass and stone.

Kneeling in reverence,

you rise above me to a secret place,

a cleft in the Rock;

and I am left behind, in this plane –

yearning, always yearning.

Even I can see

that in prostration, you achieve elevation;

you lift up your head

and bow your heart

and step over the threshhold