I have soared and sailed away
on fickle and feisty winds,
fluttered and fallen in exotic places.
I’ve slid on the downdrafts
and crawled up the currents,
climbed over mountains,
and waved the wide meadows.
I’ve loved the wide ocean
and isles of the sea.
I finally found my own little nest
tucked in the treetops,
high, looking out over
the valley and town
where peacefulness feathers
a beautiful rest.
I think that I never
shall light out and over
the currents and swellings,
wild trails in the sky.
Contentment may cure me
and stifle the call,
the burning, the yearning,
the deep and remorseless
demand to return…
Games in Transition
Games in transition, passing as if unnoticed.
Sudden death, tie breakers, the shot clock,
and majestic dunks.
Actions of authorities, changing conferences,
Dribbles no longer counted,
five can play better than six, full court, overtime,
drawing the three point circle line.
Bringing changes to sports and asterisk can’t fix.
Innovations to which we now add fast pitch.
That Name resounds in high cathedral halls,
and flutters in a whisper underbreath.
It is that final Name the martyr calls,
and carries like a banner to his death.
It falls in vain from thinly curling lips
of men who trust in pale philosophies,
and in an even sadder setting, slips
from mouths of men in crude profanities.
Still, man has never stained it with a curse
nor added to its glory with a song.
No poet justifies it with his verse,
no king or judge can rule it right or wrong.
Though man can never change it, he can claim
A transformed life by whispering That Name.