THE LITTLE RED ROWBOAT

THE LITTLE RED ROWBOAT

Maybe not too often a red wagon

but a rowboat appears in poems of

idea-faring poets. I painted mine

vermilion-lipstick red to link with the eye

of the oppressive sun, a vexatious

goose-neck lamp beaming angst at the poet’s heart.

Poetic inspiration is an empty

milk bottle, the proverbial monkey wrench

that jimmies the cogs through which dust bunnies

transform smoke screens into poetry.

Sometimes the red rowboat spouts hairline leaks

to panic the jejune poet so he stands

wobbly-kneed, quasi-demented, afraid to create.

But all at once the clouds mask the sun and

the poet retrieves his pen from the floor.

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FROM A FALCON’S POINT OF VIEW

FROM A FALCON’S POINT OF VIEW

From the heights, I can draw into my eye

the crawling sights of man and ant racing

toward their safe walls of wood and hills of dirt.

I, instead, soar towards heaven’s golden sky,

fearless in my search for all that’s gracing

from God’s good hands. There I will find no hurt.

These wings glide upward, driven by the rays

that pierce the crystal floor of Paradise

into the assembly hall where saint  

and angel scrape their knees in highest praise

and falcons like me whose vision is precise

need seek no prey nor reason for complaint.

In this Crystal City, God’s kingdom reigns

and life is never ending. Peace abounds!

These wings at last have set a falcon free.

All living things find joy here, never pain.

Hymns to God on His throne are the sounds

we sing to Him for all eternity.

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