We Be Sheep

We be sheep,
this phrase echoes inside me
 a mysterious chant like thread
through my thoughts
these days.

We be sheep,
at the mercy of shepherds
some who care and suffer
in their search for safe pastures,
green and fertile
where we may safely graze.

We be sheep,
who often are led
by harsh shepherds
who treats us as goats,
leading us to sharp ravine valleys
up to finger hold rocky slopes,
left to the elements
beating us, often drenched
shivering and deserted.

We be sheep
found by the Good Shepherd
He calls to us in our distress,
we will not be lost,
it is ours to endure
sometimes dying and sad
always loved and
carefully cherished.

Even The Cat

Even the cat grows old,

 no longer darting out

a just opened door,
or sneaking like a shadow
too quick for the human eye.

Always pressing

for constant freedom

to be in the garden

from dawn until long after dusk.

Now she merely lifts

an indifferent eye

curled in her comfort 

zone kitty basket.

Even the cat grows old

and bothered by the heat

or visitors in her domain.

For unknown reasons

she licked her belly bare

looking pathetic

from the rear view end.

These days she wears

purple pajama pants,

sentenced until

her hair grows back

in hopes she will have forgotten

her neurotic ways.

Some days the cat escapes

this human-like bondage

until she, who

was the girl dressing her cat,

puts them back on

despite indignant feline protest.

Even the cat's life

is captured

by the aging ways

of days.

Some Days Road

So often it seems

I am road kill

on life's highway

hit from behind

blind sided both sides

ending in the ditch

face down in the mire

of my own frailties,

a bundle of rags

surrounding a bruised heart

that still insists on singing.

What is it to love

a stranger that you know?

Be forced to watch over

the enemies' fires

or rail against the limitations

found behind, it seems,

every turn in this road.

To be still long enough

will gather the silence,

slowly to fill the void

gaping hole in my heart

having bounced against

life's reality,

now sighs with resignation

in search of ways

to see over ditch walls

blocking the sun's warmth

I would go beyond

these shadowed and mired times.

Inside The Dawn

The view from the Cross

gets clearer now

 these years have

trained me to its embrace.

The fiery pain

uniting my soul into

its eternal reality

sustains my aching heart

left bleeding by the

darkness of sinful states.

From this vantage point

I can see the dawn

rising clear and quiet

upon the horizon

where only my inner eye

watches from

this place of repose

upon the wooden beams

far beyond the scene of

mortal crimes

our race is so intent upon.

One day this death of self

will step inside the dawn

I see moving in

 tender fingers of sunlight
caressing downward

these mountain slopes to

whom I will bid farewell,

and, as the song says,

 be gone

like the dawn turns to day.

Where Magic Dwells

We are created

to be hungry for stories,

told and treasured

in myths, fairy stories,

unto parables and proverbs,

(to ponder in our length of days)

given as

food for the wayfarer's soul.

There are those who

cry out against imagination,

condemn Harry Potter

as bad magic

yet, it is these very people

often in high places,

who would treat the Holy Eucharist

as magic.

Don't get me wrong.

It is the wayfarer's holy bread

when in the state of grace.

Indeed, it as a magic potion

transforming death to life.

However,

in the sorry state of sin

it will poison the soul

with condemnation and grief.

Unworthily eaten

it cannot save your soul.

Be careful, you who are guardians of

this greatest Treasure,

the words of St. Catherine

might be pronounced against you

for she says

God will use you to feed his flock

then send you into that fiery darkness

imagination could only hint

in stories told.

Harry knew all about these evils

fought constantly in battles

unasked for.

Even he had to practice

magic's hard daily work of living,

finding love where there isn't any.

Autumn Cloud

I would be that cloud

spread grey upon the mountain top

lounging along the ridges

like Cleopatra herself

surveying this valley

on a sight seeing excursion

in autumn.

There from the heights

I would gaze into this valley

where first I opened my eyes

in a time of peace and plenty,

and one day to see with final gaze

all that is born must die.

Sometimes memory takes me prisoner,

it makes me step into

the warmth and brightness

found in that childhood kitchen,

 the gathering cold of season changes

once more creeping with icy fingers,

leaving the country darkness deep around,

excluded from that warm and safe abode.

There are times when Time is a bus

whose steps I descend

to slip quietly away

like that cloud

into memory filled

with light still shining bright.

Dots

The crows fly home as evening

spreads them like black dots

against the fading light

falling as darkness dwells

with stars in the night sky

reflecting so many points of

light our gazing eyes

are drawn to.

Upon the printed page

the music notes wait patient

their turn to sound those

mysterious marks, dots on

a page written

not unlike the Impressionist brush

dividing color into single dabs

across a vision on canvass.

All these small marks, even

those that divide words

into sentence and phrase,

symbol my life,

a single dot in history's

long and arduous way.

It is easy to be overwhelmed

by this reality

of small and finite being.

There is a sacred space

found hidden in the marks

deep on hands and feet

outstretched upon a cross

where I find refuge

and meaning

To the insignificance of this self.