she was a day-sailor designed for

sounds, bays, harbors, lakes, not

open ocean, and indeed, she was not

in the open ocean, but instead well

within the sight of land when the

fog fell like a thick wet blanket

obliterating any possibility of sight

his left hand on the tiller, his right

holding the mainsheet, he could not

see her bow, nor the top of the mast;

even the jib was shrouded in grey

she had no motor, carried no compass, 

no radar, no navigation aids of any kind,

not even a bucket to use as a sea anchor

only the airhorn he blasted at the 

top of each minute as he luffed 

her into irons and waited, drifting

with the tide, which he knew would

eventually suck him through the hole – 

the narrows between the islands where

the current rushed with strength that 

put many a large vessel on the rocks

he hoped the fog would lift before the

current gripped her in its clutches, but

it did not. helpless to do anything except

don a life jacket, lash to the boat,

drop sail and cling to the gunnels, she

spun like a bubble swirling down a drain

bumping rocks like a pinball, jarring,

dizzy and dazed, surreal as he observed that,

contrary to nature, he had no fear, but

instead was almost able to stand beside

himself observing with curiosity as the

salt spray burst through the fog to soak him

he licked the salt on his lips as a strange

joy washed over him, still spinning, still bumping,

Until 

as suddenly as it began

the waters calmed and he knew he had

shot through the hole from the sound into

the bay without harm, but yet still

cloaked in thick fog, and now, with the

current against him, without possibility of 

sailing back to the harbor, drifting, drifting,

as if veiled from 

Reality, 

sensing an unreachable connection, adrift from identity

the glass through which he peers is warped,

thick, wavy, malformed, scratched by 

abandonment, smeared by envy – only

shadows, glimpses, hints of 

Truth, yet

Enough 

Enough to reveal the sunrays of

Perpetual Love

Vast fields of ice

Pure white, blinding

Endurance wedged,

Groans as she’s crushed

The miraculous trek begins.

Through war-ravaged shambles

Across homeless encampments and

Hospital wards where respirators

Gasp and saline drips; 

Past ice-cliffs of struggle,

Through foreboding canyons of grief

Among the starving children and 

Newly baptized saints in the cages that

Overlook the cemetery where infants join

Old men and widows, and where reckless

Teenagers sleep and young widowers wail as they

Stumble for words of explanation for sobbing children.

Trudging on over blazing deserts 

Snake mounds and petroglyphs

Where cactus wrens and roadrunners worship

Under the watchful gaze of the ram

Perched confidently on enigmatic assurance.

Sailing now on lashed barges with

Cotton sails, through inky seas of chaos,

Racism and fascist hatred; seas filled with 

Macropredators slicing waves that 

Can swallow the most massive ship.

Onward through sorrow, pain, grief, and loss,

Indominable women, scarves pulled

Tightly about their heads, sheltering 

Babes in ragged coats in groups of four

Or, are there five?

“I know that during that long and racking march, it seemed to me often that we were four, not three.” – Sir Ernest Shackleton, South

“Who is the third who walks always beside you?

When I count, there are only you and I together

But when I look ahead up the white road

There is always another one walking beside you.”

–  T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land

“Were not our hearts burning within us while he was talking to us on the road, while he was opening the scriptures to us?” (Luke 24:32)

The carpenter made them both

Out of a fine piece of oak 

That came from an ancient tree at long

Last felled by gale-force winds

Stirred up at the poles by

Rising temperatures elevated by

Human greed. 

So, in one sense, they

Were both redeemed out of death.

The stately oak volunteered to be

Sacrificed for this cause.

Two fine pieces of artisanship planed and

Chiseled, carved and sanded

Both designed for one adult size human body

Both of wood; both made in the same shop by

The same craftsperson with the same tools.

Both stained in natural oak; both notched and

Pegged rather than nailed or screwed.

Both from the same source.

A door and a coffin.

A door hung at the entrance to the parish manse

Opening its whole self to welcome

Dignitaries and hobos alike

To a blazing hearth where warm stew and

Hot ale whisper gospels.

A coffin draped in cloth in the

Kirk storeroom waiting to 

Open its whole being to welcome 

Dignitaries and hobos alike

To the blazing throne where bread is

Blessed, broken, and given, and 

Cherubim choruses ascend.

One candle

Just one

Wafting the fragrance of

Spring apples throughout the room

One candle

Just one

With three wicks

Three identical flames

Burning in tender synchronicity

Harmoniously focused

Singular purpose

One candle

Just one

With three identical flames

Now cloven into multiple

Tongues of fire

Dancing, joyous, spreading

Light, love, beauty

Sweet bouquet to savor

Often, we have walked this shore

Felt the sea breeze

Watched the sandpipers stab translucent sand crabs

And the ring-billed gulls glide across the surf.

But this morning there’s a strangeness in the air

An odd glow on the horizon

An unnatural unnerving wind in the eel-grass

A cold inverted vortex lifts us aloft

The dark myth unfolds

As ineffable as it is unfathomable.

Swirling in the thickness of illogic

It makes no sense to speak of 

“Time before time,” of something

Before nothing, yet there it is – 

Before infinitely condensed space-time,

Pure ethereal spirits, flames of fire 

Created with free will.

(But, why? Surely not that the Omnipotent

Alpha-Omega had needs, or wanted slaves;

Nor would Divine Love be so aggrandizing as to

Narcissistically fashion beings just to adore the Divine Self.)

Unknown, unanswered, mystical and mythical

Creatures (if spirits can be called creatures) 

Some of which choose pride, rebel, and,

By so doing, self-isolate into terrible aloneness.

Grace becomes malice

Love becomes hatred

Order turns into chaos

A thick fog in the dead of cold night

Darkness upon the face of the deep

A cosmos without order or beauty or music

Great God of Goodness and Love – heartbroken – 

Loved these strange creatures, these shape-shifters,

These wraiths, these flames of fire.

Though humans were created in the Imago Dei, 

All of creation bears the fingerprints of the

Divine – snake and eagle, toad and puppy, orca and damselfish.

These fallen dominions, principalities, powers – 

Are they irredeemable?  

Can created beings place themselves beyond the reach of divine love?

Being eternal, are they indestructible?

Is it impossible to annihilate them?

And, if not, why allow them to continue 

Their spoiling of masterpieces?

They are dissonance, confusion, cruelty, heartbreak.

Did the Omniscient One not know they would choose

Havok, death, chaos, and cause merciless anguish?

Did not Perfect Love anticipate wars and burn units?

The whirlwind tenderly sets us down

As the chill dissipates and the sun – 

Blessed in its normalness – 

Rises to spread a warmth across land and sea.

With gentle strokes, we wave the warmth

Onto our faces as the portal softly closes

And feel the warm sand under our bare feet

And hear the lapping of the waves on a golden shore.

We are content with mystery.

We no longer need answers.

We bask in Love.