Refuge (Psalm 37:40)

“The Lord helps them and delivers them; he delivers them from the wicked and saves them, because they take refuge in him.”

The sky is falling,

horizon on fire,

all that can be shaken

is rattling at a higher frenzy

since these forty days began–

span of the rainfall

over the floating menagerie,

of the desert waiting

with the wild beasts,

of the unknown fate

on the terrible mountain.

When Lent has spent 

its seeping sorrow and I

 am lost with help long overdue,

I calm myself and

once again choose You.


Stronghold (Psalm 37:39)

“The salvation of the righteous is from the Lord; he is their stronghold in the time of trouble.”

When the rapacious river,

roiling brown and angry,

left its banks to hunt down houses,

drown the innocent countryside

and everything living in it,

the ninety concrete pylons

holding up my home

appeared as unconcerned as if

the day instead was setting up

perfectly for a picnic.




Cut Off (Psalm 37:38)

“But transgressors shall be altogether destroyed; the future of the wicked shall be cut off.”

Ripping up the third

overdue notice, he took a long shower,

and went about the rest of his day

without giving it a second thought,

until, having grown thirsty 

in the middle of night, 

the kitchen faucet mocked 

his wanton disregard 

by yielding nary a drop.




Posterity (Psalm 37:37)

“Mark the blameless and behold the upright, for there is a posterity for the man of peace.”

I can’t remember there

being so many foxgloves here.

Every year more and 

more appear, it seems.

The corner lot, shorn of its trees,

has exploded into color cacophony

from foxglove seeds long dormant

under the once shaded canopy.

I wonder where the first stalk

staked its belfry claim,

its lonely seeds catching wind 

at the violent shaking

of a summer storm or playful deer–

ancestor of all these foxgloves flourishing here.




Disappeared (Psalm 37:36)

“But he passed away, and behold, he was no more; though I sought him, he could not be found.”

The Thanksgiving feast

was days in the making:

dreaming, planning,

shopping, sorting, 

chopping, grating, 

pulling out the finest china,

washing glasses, special sauces 

marinating, kneading, baking, 

choosing seating, 

tasting, basting, 

pasting, calling 

all to come to

 the sumptuous meal 

with all the arduous 

detailed preparation 

finally finished!

(Every bit of it disappeared

in less than twenty minutes.)


Spread (Psalm 37:35)

“I have seen a wicked, ruthless man, spreading himself like a green laurel tree…”

The Himalayan Blackberry vines

have overwhelmed the alder like

a pride of lions gang-tackling wildebeest,

like sugar ants swarming an abandoned

piece of a piece of apple pie left 

behind under the table.

The daggered tentacles, able to force

branches down toward the ground,

alter their lifetime trajectories,

showcasing in the years to visit

the bullies’ power to do as they please

and get away with it.




Keep (Psalm 37:34)

“Wait for the Lord and keep his way, and he will exalt you to inherit the land; you will look on when the wicked are cut off.”

Come, sunrise, again tomorrow.

Tide, your circadian blanket throw.

Leaves, return this Spring, outgrow

the gray of winter sorrow.

Shuffle through your phases, moon,

another cycle, another tide,

another dawn coaxing bright

diurnal birdsong into bloom.




Defend (Psalm 37:33)

“The Lord will not abandon him to his power or let him be condemned when he is brought to trial.”

Invading microbes

in stealth mode

spread out

in a takeover bid

to destabilize

the health grid.


Helper T cells intercept, 

and send out a Cytokine S.O.S. 


A microphage calvary

descends upon 

the germ soldiers,

swallowing them into 

lysosome bellies,

spitting out

the acid remains.


B Cells alongside

memorize faces

as the evil company

 steadily degrades,

efficiently finishing 

the rescue job with

handy antibody grenades.




Kill (Psalm 37:32)

“The wicked spies upon the righteous and seeks to kill him.”

The hunter sits immobile in his blind,

alert eyes behind camouflage paint,

arrow notched in his Matthews bow,

waiting for deer to appear below.

The gray of early morning

passes into crisper light.

Alert for a whisper of a warning,

he shifts neither left nor right

in spite of screaming muscles, 

staying perfectly still,

paying the price for the pleasure to kill.




Slip (Psalm 37:31)

“The law of his God is in his heart; his steps do not slip.”

After replacing the carpet with wood

the stairs were as glossy as a roller rink,

as slick as the porcelain of a kitchen sink.

Descending in socks was an auto-death wish.

Even Sunday’s best lacked grip.

But court shoes and hi-tops and rubber-bottomed slippers

wore the magic of spiders and creepers and lizards,

were the wheels of a car on a hill with new brakes.

O the difference that a good sole makes.




Wisdom (Psalm 37:30)

“The mouth of the righteous utters wisdom, and his tongue speaks justice.”

Tina stopped after one mug of beer. 

The other three continued chugging 

prodigally well into the new year.

At closing time she confiscated 

their keys without asking permission, 

without saying please, articulating with 

conviction: “I will drive and I alone.”

After muddled protestations,

four women left the bar alive,

and alive four made it home.


Forever (Psalm 37:29)

“The righteous shall inherit the land and dwell upon it forever.”

Around the time 

of the Giza pyramids

a bristlecone pine

was finding its footing 

on the high climes

of the eastern Sierras,

setting its sights

on living forever,

its resin-packed dense wood

impervious to pest

and adverse weather.

Having survived

the millenia test

without ostentation,

it may well yet

achieve its desire

and pass through fire

to the new creation.




Justice (Psalm 37:28)

“For the Lord loves justice; he will not forsake his saints. They are preserved forever, but the children of the wicked shall be cut off.”

I don’t know your name, 

or how far away

in the world you are,

 but you have something 

that belongs to me,

treasure of your cruelty,

measure of my loss.

The cost as I try 

to forgive is high, 

but still I am sure 

one day I will.

But even when I do, 

know this to be true:

as long as you 

hold illicit things

and do your best to hide it,

the Lord’s exquisite eyesight sees

your hoard and does not like it.




Dwell (Psalm 37:27)

“Turn away from evil and do good; so shall you dwell forever.”

After the wolf had blown 

down the house of straw

and eaten bacon for breakfast,

he saw another house built

with thick sticks, the freshest

picks from winter’s deadfall.

He blew that down too with

breath all the more bully, tough

lung punch breaking through.

He ate pig two for lunch,

after which he spied a house

made of bricks fresh-fired in

the local kiln.  Confident from

recent success, he blew and blew

with visions of juicy pork-chops for

dinner. By midnight the moon

declared the mason pig the winner.




Generous (Psalm 37:26)

“He is ever lending generously, and his children become a blessing.”

Among our company no leader

had brought a match or gas or lighter.

But one odd duck had flint and steel,


who rained down a spiel of sparks on a 

tinder nest, nursing its flicker into 

the best grade of dancing flame,


about which we gathered, young and old,

to warm our hands in the cold night air, 

where even the shyest of us, 


mesmerized by crackle and hiss,

joined in on wistful story-telling.

Just how many slipped out of the dark


with kindling to play Prometheus 

I cannot say, but soon the whole beach was a

virtual fire-feast from the titans down to the least of us.




Forsaken (Psalm 37:25)

“I have been young, and now am old, yet I have not seen the righteous forsaken or his children begging for bread.”

Three weeks ago

on a camping trip

we lost our dog Otto,

in a freak thunderstorm,

the exhaustive search

that followed failed.


We awoke last night

to a familiar sound,

cheerful ring of a collar jingle.

We opened the door

to eager scratching,

and there sat Otto,

wagging his tail.


Fall (Psalm 37:24)

“Though he fall, he shall not be cast headlong, for the Lord upholds his hand.”

In the terrifying

nothingness

of the vacuum,

a brittle autumn leaf

falls as fast

as a heavy stone,

the shattering impact

fatal.

But break the seal,

let the world-mothering

air congeal,

and see that same leaf

float slowly down,

rocking back and forth

as gently as a

baby in a cradle.

World-mothering air is a phrase from Gerard Manley Hopkins’ poem The Virgin Compared to the Air We Breathe





Step (Psalm 37:23)

“The steps of a man are established by the Lord, and He delights in his way.”

All around were arms outstretched:

protective mommy’s in release,

daddy’s waiting to receive,

baby’s eagle-spread for balance

lurching over the carpet ocean, 

toy boat tossed by unseen waves,

actor-captured staggering drunk

by the improvising year-old boy

tacking toward the harbor-father’s

cheering voice’s tremulous joy.




Land (Psalm 37:22)

“For those blessed by the Lord shall inherit the land, but those cursed by him shall be cut off.”

This little wooded lot

holds a spell over me.

Old alder shade

on a hot afternoon

dapples the playful 

stream teasing tips of 

unraveled fern fronds

nodding up and down,

I along with them,

lulled into wonder 

by the sound of

mockingbird songs 

and wind in the firs.

I sit within sight of

 such remarkable works:

what nests, what webs, 

what mole excavations!

What a beaver dam masterpiece:

its stripped sticks stitched

together so ingeniously– 

just as I am to this

 land and it to me.


Pay Back (Psalm 37:21)

“The wicked borrows but does not pay back, but the righteous is generous and gives.”

See the mountains

give their wealth away!

Selfless snowbanks

empty into rivers

splashing green on

woodland brown,

song over pebble,

and frolicking fawn,

down to thirsty 

furrowed farmland, 

through the gluttonous 

ungrateful city, 

down, down

to the salty sea,

virtuous water 

paying back her

mother’s generosity.