But the wicked will perish; the enemies of the Lord are like the glory of the pastures; they vanish—like smoke they vanish away.
We sat together
in the hot afternoon.
I felt a trickle of sweat
tickle as she pulled
out another cigarette.
I watched each
exhale-plume rise
like a writhing flower,
eager to bloom but
finding itself in
the air ill at ease,
expanding in search
of room to breathe,
vanishing into the
next wisp of breeze.
“They are not put to shame in evil times; in the days of famine they have abundance.”
In Kerith ravine
cooled by shade
Elijah went hiding
to ride out the famine.
God sent ravens
to come to his aid
with a daily ration,
these creatures who
neither sow nor reap
bearing gifts of
bread and meat,
and this with water
from the trickling brook,
morning and evening.
and it was good.
“The Lord knows the days of the blameless, and their heritage will remain forever.”
On this moonless night
the forest floor is alive
with covert ops:
skittish rabbit hops,
voles emerging
from the ground,
tight-wound frogs,
timid field mice
scurrying around.
High above on
a granite crag,
the Great Horned Owl
sits like a king,
his keen eyes
and swiveling head
watching everything.
“For the arms of the wicked shall be broken, but the Lord sustains the righteous.”
The Dark-eyed Junco
sits serenely on
the leafless branch,
swaying in cold drizzle,
looking this way,
then that,
over winter’s
haggard handiwork.
A sudden wind gust
rustles the dead
leaves piled
up against the
chain link fence,
while she perches
undisturbed
at this dull sheen
of scarcity–
vain veneer
over today’s
as yet unseen
sustenance.
“Better is the little that the righteous has than the abundance of many wicked.”
The thief’s pockets were
packed with plunder
from a busy night
on the Lido Deck:
diamond bracelets,
strings of pearl,
rare coins swept up
in the theft.
Within the hour
a freak reef strike
quickly brought
the old ship down.
Of all the passengers
floundering about,
only one of them
was drowned.
“Their sword shall enter their own heart, and their bows shall be broken.”
The spilt brown sugar
went everywhere.
It took an hour
to sweep it up,
the plastic dustpan
mounded high.
She tossed it out
the open door
into a gust
of wind that caught
the cloud and flung it
back inside.
“The wicked draw the sword and bend their bows to bring down the poor and needy, to slay those whose way is upright.”
From one tree,
from one good flitch
of wood laid
on the artisan’s bench,
comes the riser
and limbs of the bow,
comes a dozen
shafts of perfect arrows,
comes the target with
fresh painted rings:
kin estranged
from each other on
the archery range.
“But the Lord laughs at the wicked, for he sees that his day is coming.”
Plenty of laughter
going around:
grasshopper at the
leaf on the ground,
meerkat at the
hopper’s brisk rub,
hyena at the
black-eyed mug,
lion laughing
at the laughing pack,
behind him the hunter,
gun on his back,
mounting his trophy
head high on the wall,
from heaven, the loudest
laughter of all.
“The wicked plots against the righteous and gnashes his teeth at him”
His sorry seems genuine–
familiar refrain that spins
you in circles: making love
to violent shove and vicious
squeeze, me hiding bruises
beneath my sleeves. And
now this note of apology, an
ink-cloud perfect to screen
the hiding octopus waiting
to grab from his camouflaged
lair some hapless crab.
“But the humble shall inherit the land and delight themselves in abundant peace.”
Majestic cedar,
tower of green,
shading the palace
mezzanine,
adorned around
with lights on a string,
the plaque beneath it:
Tree of the King.
On the lip of a cliff
near the summit with neither
flora nor fauna
stands one scraggly cedar
whose crown touches clouds,
whose view reaches seas,
who laughs through storms,
king of the trees.
“In just a little while, the wicked will be no more; though you look carefully at his place, he will not be there.”
I spied the wasp nest
at the end of October
nestled into the
crook of an alder
crowded with lichens–
a mummified head
shrouded in silence,
nothing moving
in the failing twilight
over the ghost-house,
save a tremor of leaves
and memories of war,
the terrorist attacks
from the summer before.
“For the evildoers shall be cut off, but those who wait for the Lord shall inherit the land.”
My friends went in
after an hour
to escape the cold,
disappointed in
the meteor shower
no show. Huddled
in my old sleeping bag,
I stayed to fill
the empty space
of night with hopeful
eyes until the skies
exploded with
a Perseids storm!
Underneath it
I was warm in wonder
and alone to see it.
“Refrain from anger, and forsake wrath. Fret not yourself; it tends only to evil.”
The white wolf
has worn away
the grass behind
her prison fence
with a plodding
back and forth
that never ceases.
At feeding time
the keeper throws
her meat. Before
she eats she rips
the chunks to pieces.
“Be still before the Lord and wait patiently for Him, and fret not yourself over the one who prospers in his way, over the man who carries out evil devices!”
My hope rises
with every headlight
breaching the horizon
and falls as fast again
with every morphing form a car.
The posted schedule
helps me trust the bus
cannot be very far
and must have valid reasons
for it being late,
none to which I’m privy
as I shift my weight
and wait.
“He will bring forth your righteousness as the light, and your justice as the noonday.”
Haman hated Mordecai—
smug beggar who refused to bow.
Sometimes in the morning I
see the silhouette of gallows
built for me. But here’s the thing:
it is God Who will arrange the strange
road with twists so shrewd as to bring
forth who lives and who hangs.
“Commit your way to the Lord; trust in Him and He will act.”
I tried to put my thoughts in order—
a flock of sheep far from the stall
scattered on the pastured hillside
unresponsive to my call.
My Aussie bolted at my bidding
the moment that I grabbed my pen.
Setting it to paper— how
the whole herd quietly filed in.
“Delight yourself in the Lord and He will give you the desires of your heart.”
a man in the desert
without provision
merciless sun
endless terrain
all his desires
collapsed into one
stumbles upon
a shaded ravine
hearing within it
a trickling stream
the cold to his lips
the rushing relief
“Trust in the Lord and do good; dwell in the land and cultivate faithfulness.”
From among the shards of glass
she picked up the intact flower pot,
its compact soil safe within,
and placed it on the splintered sill
(where the kitchen window had been
before the Russian missile blast
destroyed the school across the street)
and on it dribbled water from
her butterfly mug
with which she’d scooped
a little bit from underneath
the thin skin of wrinkled ice
fragile atop the rationed store of
what little was left in her bathroom tub.
“For they [the evildoers] will wither quickly like the grass and fade like the green herb.”
I found the tangerine that had slid
some months ago behind the fridge
withered like a wrinkled walnut,
a sad dark globe which had upon it
continents of green-white mold,
a runaway planet, lifeless, cold.
“Do not fret because of evil doers; be not envious toward wrongdoers.”
I wake restless with
an unsatisfied sense
staring at the house
across the fence
and spot a
yellowjacket cone
tucked in the eaves,
busy about
the golden warriors
flying in and out
of their dimpled
waffle-paper home.
Suddenly I desire
one of my own.