Clear water plunges through the sandstone basin,
tumbles over lead-gray limestone. Fragments worn
smooth, edges rounded.
He stands amidst the stream, surveys the bottom
between the ripples all the way to where the sky
edges the water’s mirror. He kneels in the stream bed,
rifles for pebbles matching caliber of the sling-pocket
of his leather-thronged catapult. His fingers search,
One Christmas morning, I remember the soft-needled pine towering, as if through the spackled ceiling, its angel brushing the clouds.
Blessed are the pure in heart: for they shall see God – Matthew 5:8
Random acts of kindness
Can be found just about anywhere.
Can I get an Amen to that? I suppose
Even the cutthroat rich
Can be philanthropic, but more likely
The barely-above-poor will give his only shirt.
I heard it on the news: Nor’easter pummeled Baltimore last night,
wondered if you were okay, son, or if you were wrapped up
in some alley corner trying to keep warm in an igloo you might
have fashioned from those snowdrifts. Or maybe you stayed warm
in the county jail after backtalkin’ a policeman before he searched
your tattered clothes and found Jamaican hash stashed in your jeans.
My backyard was a launch pad
for my dreams in ’58. I thought
the Hardy Boys were the smartest
kids in the world. They taught me
engineering, rocket science, love
of exploration. I scoured their books
for blueprints; junk yards for parts
later to become my rocket to the Moon.