The joyous days

of past Novembers

ring silently

in my waiting heart

as the early chill

deepens in this

season

of early goodbyes.

black cat leading me,
half asleep, to the food bowl
midnight snack

Where are the stars, Lord?

They used to hover

in the sky,

scintillating, moving,

as though alive

Huddled together

in numberless throng

like angels

orchestrating an eternal song.

They are not there--

I've searched for them at night.

We've frightened them away

with self-centered, artificial light.

We animate our nights with

artificial glare

until we can not see

that You are there.

Teach us to see the stars again, Oh Lord.

Help us to find them

and our faith

restored.

Holy Soul

Weep if you can.
Mourn if you will,
but pray,
pray,
pray.

Pray for me
for I will be gone
to fight my demons
one last time.

To do the work
I would not do
on earth.

I cowered in fear
from my own imperfections,
preferring instead
to hold them to myself
like a tattered blanket
soiled and torn;
useless yet oddly comforting.

I will not be able to
pray for myself

and yet I will know.

I will know
to the core of my being that
I am not worthy
to come under His roof.

I will know
like a thirsting man
yearns for water
that I need God.


The illustration for this poem is All Soul's Day by William Bouguereau. To purchase this picture, and see others by Bouguereau, visit the Art Renewal Center.