Lonely Writer’s Song

“When my spirit is failing within me,
still, Lord, you know my paths.” ~ Psalm 142:4

The middle of the day
is dead of night to me,
the evening even more;

But Lord, you know my heart,
my mind, my soul; you are near me
upon this desolate shore.

When everything is darkness,
when everyone has fled
and I am left alone,

You, Lord, are my comfort,
the rock
upon which I build my home.

And though you seem to hide,
to forget,
to care not where I go,

Each morning I awake,
I remember,
it is you whom I should love more.

For it is you who brings the morning,
brings the sun
and wakes my soul,

You who lifts my spirit,
calms my mind,
and makes me whole.

Lessons from the Baby Guru (I)

Flecks of black dirt dot
the skin beneath his bottom lip
as he holds aloft
the pink geranium,
by the blooms,
its white ceramic pot
nearly empty on the cement step.
He is proud: “Look!”
“Look!”

How many times have I grabbed a moment
by its bloom and yanked it
straight up and out of its cozy place,
letting the roots dangle in the air,
leaving the pot nearly empty
and feeling prideful: “See,
see!”?

Praying the Right Prayer

“You ask but do not receive, because you ask wrongly, to spend it on your passions. Humble yourselves before the Lord and he will exalt you.” ~James 4: 3, 10

I hold the steamer’s heavy base
awkwardly in my left hand
wielding the window attachment
in my right. Steam pours through the cotton pad.

From my tip-toes to a squat
I wrestle the steam-head
onto its squeegee edge and pull
it down the glass.

Again and over again I strive
to rid the surface of drips and droplets,
sweat-beads running down my back
in the afternoon sun.

I stand back from my work and see the filmy smears,
my spirits dampened by the streaks,
spots, and smudges; so I drive away for
different tools

and produce a concoction
to fight and shield against the nasty residue.
My new squeegee wicks away the drops,
the streaks, the smudges, and spots.

Sometimes my prayers don’t work
until I find the right one.