Bottleneck

We are like that sci-fi guy speeding through galactic sky
in a ship shaped like a phone booth,
all phone booth-sized upon the hull,
but bigger than a house within.

Indeed,
we are all like grand-inflated ticks, arms
waving tiny from our grand inner-selves.
We are Macy-Day clowns the size of icebergs,
with a bitsy-valve for a mouth the size of a dime.

They say
the tongue is a fire,
a rudder on a ship,
and Oh, …..the things that slip,

but you should hear
the things it doesn’t say.

If we could flip our innards out,
WHAT a mighty-megalopolis we’d see …

You hold inside your opaque head
a map of a thousand streets
in a dozen different towns,

You are:
a trillion trivial-pursuits
a thousand books, a billion dreams,

You hold ten-hundred faces in your head
No face within my face has ever seen.

For all the LPs in the store,
multi-many-millions more, never found in print.

For all the paintings on the wall,
a planet spinning like an eyeball bank,
with optic tubes and vacuum brains
ever draining and detaining the outside world.

INDEED, we are
the geriatric planet —

active inner selves … clamped shut like the Dead Sea,
hanging on a rope —

our passions,
dammed, by inability
and stroke.

Or… an even better image:

Six billion souls
in a mammoth prison - call it the Walmart-Hilton,
each person in a private cell
all decked in shag and stereo,
wall-to-wall computer,
Smell-a-Vision, Panavision, Taste-a-Meal, Terra-Feel,
streaming video, thermostats, and dials,
Memorex,
EGO-REX,

AND …

a tin cup for banging on the walls.

Kelly Hellmuth, a friend and fellow Substack writer, recently asked:

Poets. Do you ever find that the things you feel most deeply about you cannot put into words?

To which I offered this response:

Of course!

(Then I followed with:)

Okay this next story will sound really weird.

Like many evangelicals, I’ve tried to come to grips with the practice of speaking in tongues, asking: Is this of God…Is it for today… Is it for me? etc. To make matters more complex…I’ve discovered that this is something I can do, if or when I choose.

I have, in moments of private bliss, given myself to ecstatic utterance. While this has coincided with moments of great joy and an awareness of God’s presence, I have also wondered…Is this a work of the Spirit, or-- is this me just doing what I can do?

Then one day I had a small epiphany---Why play mind games? If I am not engaging in this practice with confidence or faith, perhaps I should shift gears…and attempt to put real words to the state of my heart.

I am not sure I have ever fully realized it, but I now feel like I am on a faith filled quest to use words (however inadequate) to describe what it means to give oneself to mindful-ecstacy.

(End of response)

Take two, Amplified Version.

Dear friends, I am told that Substack exists to facilitate long form writing. With this, I put that--and you to the test.

I did not grow up speaking in tongues. My Dad was a nominal Methodist, my mom a lapsed-Catholic. Together they forged an identity as folk-singing, non-charismatic, Episcopalians. My life as a non-tongues speaking Episcooplain lasted until I was about age six. I remember the dark wooden pews, the kneelers, and the people with funny hats and robes walking behind a flowering cross. I remember donning an eyeliner wiseman goatee for a Christmas pageant. I remember colored patches of light from stained glass windows dappling my body with patches of red, but never descending flames of fire.

Then, (in what seems a reverse trajectory for many writers) we became “Born-Again, Bible-Church Baptists.” It all started when at age seven, I was invited by a neighbor to attend a five day, Back Yard Bible club. It was there, flannel graph style, that I learned of a pilgrim named Christian on his way to the Celestial City. We learned of the dangers and distractions he faced as he progressed on his journey. We learned of a burden he could no longer bear.

And so, when the evangelist asked if I would like to join Christian and the foot of the Cross, and give my burdens (sins) to the risen Christ… it seemed like the only rational thing to do.

That same day, I went home and asked my mom -- Are you born again? She in turn, wondered what they were teaching at the Highway Bible Church, then dropped in. She was baptized three weeks later. And that is how we began our ventures as a fledgling, fundamentalist Christian family.

All of which is setting.

I would not become aware of the practice of speaking in Tongues, until my middle teens (middle 70s) as our brand of fundamentalist Christianity collided with yet another cultural revolution…the Jesus Movement.

My parents were not real hippies. And I was young. But we did host a Wednesday night Bible study in our home where real hippy kids came adorned with their maxis, sandals, big beards, guitars, and tambourines. It is there I first learned of tongues. Not because anyone there did it, but because the idea was in the air. People were reading the book “The Cross and the Switchblade” by Pentecostal Pastor David Wilkerson. We liked him. We understood that Pentecostals spoke in tongues. And people in our circles were talking about whether this phenomenon was real or good, necessary or nice…and should we be pursuing this peculiar practice.

My first dally with Glossolalia happened on a different note. By the time I was twelve (1972) our family unit had grown to be six members. We were Mom, Dad, me, my natural-born sister Casey, my added sister (who now goes by Jordan) from Korea, and my added brother Tien from Vietnam. In keeping with our new international flavor, I learned to speak a little Korean. I can still remember select words… (Peeangee(?) -- for airplane, or “Op-oh in the Magajee” (for you are… a pain in the neck!).

Then, a year or so later when Tien (also age 12) entered our world, we heard and learned snatches of Vietnamese.

I was, at that time, reading a young people’s edition of Edgar Rice Boroughs - Tarzan of the Apes - featuring an official “Ape-English dictionary. Oh My! The dictionary included a range of English words and their equivalent words in Ape, most often some form of a grunt, growl, or hoot, yet still, amazingly elastic.

All told, I may have memorized a dozen Ape words, but mostly, I learned the sound of it. Together my brother and I would run around, dragging our knuckles, hooting back and forth in Ape. We would--bad little boys that we were--use the “official” Ape word for ugly….then throw in one of our sisters names right behind it.

At the same time, I also heard enough Vietnamese that I could kind of mimic its sounds. And so it goes, by age 13, I could speak Pig Latin, Ape, and fake-Vietnamese. And when I spoke that way with my brother in public, it really freaked people out.

--

Among both traditional evangelicals and tongues-speaking charismatics, there is a body of discussion about just what glossolalia (tongues speaking) is… Is it (as suggested by the book of Acts) a miracle in which people who do not speak an existing human language are suddenly enabled to speak a real foreign language. (Or is it more like the gift of “Ears” so that each person hears what is spoken in their own language?)

Still others (many modern charismatics) expand the definition of tongues to include speaking in any kind of unknown, alien, or angelic language. (Sometimes called a prayer language). In which case, the Apostle Paul recommends that such, if it is done in public, be matched with a public interpretation. Which in turn is a whole other discussion. How does the interpretation of a tongue work? Should a private speaker of tongues work to interpret himself? How might an offered interpretation be evaluated? etc.

But back to me.
I did not mean to be a tongues-speaker. It happened, kind of naturally as I learned to liberate my mouth in the aforementioned context. Indeed, I learned to dance with words, make them shimmy off my tongue. It might start off sounding like Vietnamese -- then morph. By my way of thinking it really did roll off my tongue like language, not just halting, anything sounds. And it was fun.

Over time, I played with my newfangled ability. I might sing in tongues while riding my bike. Even (because I wanted to know all God’s good gifts-- Pray that way. (So there I was, a closeted fundamentalist bike-rider, emoting to God in secret praise!)

But it was not until a decade or so later than I came to speak in tongues in a real church.

--


Her name was Wren Elain. We met in a (non-tongue speaking) Presbyterian church, in Tulsa Oklahoma. We were both about twenty-five. She would be my first real and reciprocated love. Her own church history came in both high and low forms. She claimed a pedigree that included high-church Anglican, and low-church Charismatic. Christ Pres was our newfound shared refuge, even as we sometimes sampled other platters. I went with her to a nearby Pentecostal assembly “Beams of Light Tabernacle” to hear a traveling preacher. And pray. We got there early and headed for the prayer room.

I am not exactly sure how it started, but at some point, I decided to simply follow form and “let go.” For the next twenty minutes or so, I poured myself out in ecstatic prayer, using words I did not know or understand. All I know is that I was filled with joy. I was beaming internally. I thought big and good thoughts and poured out my heart in freedom to God.. I did not care what any of the people around me thought, I was enjoying His presence. I was not performing. I simply wanted to know, and be known… in Him.

--

This may sound odd.

For all of that… I still do not know what to make of what happened in that room. Was I overwhelmed by the Spirit of God? Or … did I simply disengage from part of my brain, and liberate some hidden part? More importantly, Did what I did there, please God?

--

Since that time I have learned more about the theology of tongues. I have friends who think all current manifestations of tongues-speaking are human fabrications or worse - demonic deceptions. A larger number are open to the idea of it, but not participants. Still others enjoy and practice speaking in tongues, usually in the form of private prayer language.

I have heard (second hand) stories of people, mostly missionaries, being enabled to speak real languages that they did not know. (I remain skeptical.)

I have also learned that tongues speaking is not limited to the Christian world, and is (in at least some form) practiced by people who do not call upon the name of Jesus.

Finally, I have critically observed that there is no correlation (that I can see) between the practice of speaking in tongues, and quality thinking, holy lifestyle, or sturdy doctrine.

In short. I am not convinced that the phenomenon that I have observed in myself and others is a work of the Holy Spirit!

Oh my!

Big Bunny trail:

Have you ever taken the Myers Briggs Personality test?

I have, and it seems I almost always toggle between INTP (the logician) and ENTP (the debater). I fluctuate between loving alone-time and my exhibitionist ham bone.

But what really splits me are the test questions that pit feeling against thinking. I want to be both--a critical thinker and a poet. But when push comes to shove, I bend to my head. I’m wary of my heart.

Now, I figure that emotions can help challenge thinking gone bad. But even that is a thought led by my brain!

In short, I want to be free to tap into the sub rational parts of my being…but I don’t want to be deceived. Which in turn sets up a climate where I can speak in tongues…and not know if they are real!

And yet.

On occasion, in rare places, traveling in the car, sometimes when I am overtaken by beauty, or peace….when I am whelmed by the very presence of God…,

I leak.

I burst.

I break out in uncharted rhapsody

And I don’t even ask. Is this me, is this You, is this learned…

But what I do do….

is to shift gears,

into words, that I know and understand,

that involve

labor and thought,

that look and feel more like poems.

That feel like translated tongues.

To be continued.

.

July 3, 2026

What is the sound
of a toppled mountain
mushroom cloud---

Tectonic thunder rrrrrrrrrumble,
grumble, wet and gray
rolling overhead
or under
tilted nimbi

With fireworks and crickets
to come.

What is July
but a tectonic sky--

A vibrating sonic emporium
A consortium
of rapid flexings timbals,
cymbals,
bowlines, buzzers, and beaks,
shrieks, sizzling Johnson grass
stridulating wings, abdominal rings
barking bubble throats,

and
clouds….
LOUD with vibrato and rub.

What is July
but a splittering sky

A sonic subwoofer
A decibel twofer:

Screaming trees and
Spitting light.

A question for my ears

Is the polyphonic field
I hear when I step into the buzzing,
belching, syncopated night
comprised, like rain
of independent dots -- A white noise
made of a quillion
separate beats, compressed?

Or,
is the tilt-a-whirl-tamborine
I hear in my head,
with its ebb, flow and rotating swell--
the song of an emerging mind,
like birds in murmuration:

Peepers,
creepers…crickets and cicadas—
Clouds, in frictiony
collusion.

.

.

A: Terror

Q: What is that thing I feel when I open the door on a bird-sized
kamikaze cicada, dive-scorching
my porch light


A: Nimbus

Q: What is a ginormous,
gyrating thunder tube, filled
with wonder and peel.

In six months I will end my relationship with photography (as a vocation) and retire from the formal employment that has shaped my life for the last half-a-century. Not counting a small number of teen jobs, or a couple of sustaining janitorial jobs, most everything I have done in life has involved some form of light and memory management.

Start age 17 ---

1977-81 Selling cameras at Looboyles Camera store, Tulsa, OK, while spending half my check back into the department!

1981-91- Darkroom and Lab work (concurrent with school and janitor work)

91-94 Newspaper photographer with the Southwest Times Record of Fort Smith, Arkansas.

95-99 Self employed, commercial, wedding and portrait photographer

2000 - Photog with Arkansas Business Publishing Group, Little Rock, AR

2001-2006 - Photographer serving Governor Mike Huckabee

2006-2014 - Photographer serving Governor Mike Beebe

2015-2015 - Photographer serving Governor Asa Hutchinson

2016-2026 - Chief photographer with Arkansas Parks, Heritage, and Tourism.

Of my years as a photographer, the last decade has been pretty much my favorite. While I deeply respect all of the political leaders under whom I worked, the photo part was really glorified grip and grins with occasional journalistic blinks. And while the current gig comes with some convention, meetings, and bureaucratic hubbub, the greater part has been a decade marked by unbridled artistry. Who else gets paid to take your vacation! Who else gets paid to wade into waterfalls! I love documenting the glories of the Natural State.

But now, a slow creeping realization--And this is not just about the end of my job. It coincides with getting older. Bad knees (one replaced) bad eyes (molecular degeneration with bi-monthly shots) kidney stones, diabetes. And a growing love of naps. In short, my body is breaking down.

God willing, I still have a couple decades ahead of me, but at 66 I feet the downward plunge. I am closer everyday to my forthcoming death.

Right now, I am about a kind of macabre check off list. Call it a backward bucket list as I check off the last time I do certain things.

The list started some years back. As a kid and young adult, I could throw a standing back flip. Really! Then somewhere in my thirties I attempted one and came up short. I knew then-- that was the last time I would ever hurl my body back in the air. Voluntarily.

A year ago I made the somewhat arduous hike up our local Pinnacle mountain by dawn. People with families and young kids climb it all the time. But coming down I could feel every step in my wounded knees. With wobble to boot. I said then, that was my last time.

This last year, I have been doing a range of final things as I close out my job. Some of these things I could do again, others, probably not. Indeed just a few weeks ago, I climbed down a rocky ravine, to photograph a rain swollen creek with a tumbling waterfall. I tried to remember my wife’s advice - don’t do anything stupid…even so, I inched out on some ledges, knowing these would be my last shots from this vantage. A little later I stood downstream of Nebo falls in a tumbling jetty, letting water pour over my braced legs. (I even accidentally dropped my glasses into the swirling water and thought I’d be stuck -- but I found them!) Then I just stood there, in the water, in the mist, in the quivering shake and white noise rumble ... .taking it in. Storing every ounce.

And now -- what do I have: One, five, twenty more years? -- who knows! God hasn’t told me.

And yet, I still have this sense of wanting -- needing to do something… anything vital for the kingdom of God. (And my wife reminds me of my kids and grandkids)


So, I slosh forward into the future, knowing time is short.


---


So -- what say ye.

Are you on a similar trajectory? Do you have a sense of our dwindling time?


--


From what I understand, I am on a time-worn trajectory. People in their later decades often take an inventory of their lives, wondering -- Have I made a difference? Did I do any good? How will I be remembered? What have I to give?

LORD, Let me be of value!
To my family. And friends. And neighbors far and wide. Let me love you

With how I use my remaining years.

Let the funk do its work.

---

Open questions.

Do you feel the weight of your own mortality (or, are you punch drunk with a thousand lesser distractions?)

Do you have a forward facing, or a backward facing check off list?

What things do you suspect you will never do again?

Okay folks, this one my ring a little strange. I typed it, pretty much as I thought it -- Live.

I am not a smoker. I do, however, indulge in a cigarette maybe once every other decade (usually when camping around a fire.) I smoke a cigar a little more frequently… maybe one every four or five years.

Recently I was given a small set of mild (?) cigars. I was waiting for a time to indulge. My wife is out of town, and it seemed like a good night for an outdoor smoke.

(Beyond that, it’s just a little strange to air personal worship for the world to see. Let’s pray this is useful to someone.)

Here then is a prayer I entertained while sitting in my backyard by night, bathed in humidity and moon light, cricket sounds, and billowing clouds proceeding from my mouth.

---

Fire Prayer

LORD

Make my mind a place that pleases YOU.
Make of my thoughts, an offering.
My tongue, a fit place for praise.

May the thoughts I entertain of women
be a tribute to the glory of my wife.
And to Eve, and to Mary and my

many sisters

And my daughters
Both by flesh, and of spirt,

May I honor my mother and my mothers
and the one now under may care.

May my mind be a fit sanctuary
for the maker of my mind.

May the sounds i pull into my ears
be music to YOU

From the crickets, to the distant sounds of cars.
And (May) the white noise trickle of the fountain

Be like a sliver from the River of Life

May this smoke, gliding
over my tongue, and into my nose
(even if I am in error)
Be like an incense of rest.
My I rest my soul in you

Wash me
Wash me

Clean me, clean me
Transform and fill

May the sights I see,
in these days i have left, be
Bigger, deeper, more full of light
than my fading eyes can see

May I taste of your goodness in the land of the living.

Carve into my being
a cavernous temple

Fill it with your light and glory

Let my tongue and typing fingers speak
what is true
and good and noble

May I, like the moon
wading through the sky reflect

Your light and kindness

May I be a light
in a sea of lights
make of me my namesake -- a Kirk

A church
A refuge for the Saints.

Make me a holy bride.

(Note:) I just listened to the sound track. It DIDN’T work. Apparently there is some kind of hiss canceling technology with the Substack recorder. But this is all about the hissing shhhhhhhhhs! It even shorted my shhhh’ing. What’s that all about????

——

Start,
by placing your finger to your lips
and saying “shhhhhh”

Next, open your mouth
and say “augh” for the doctor, but

keep it in your throat--
More like a steamy “haaaaaaa”

Finally, make the sound
of air escaping an inner-tube—
higher than a normal shhh. More like a hissing ssssss.

Now, with sound trifecta
in hand,
mouth the alphabet
in a hissing, open form:

Aĥhhhhhhh
Buuuuuu
Cssssssss
Dàaaaaaaaahhhhh
Eeeeeeeeeeh
Ffffffffffffff

(Now complete the series, using your best ingenuity and sound craft.)

---

Congratulations!

You are
the sound of a quillion dew drops
draining the folded hills

You are gathered waters,
running, racing, rubbing,
plunging

You are mountains
spouting fountains
in a white noise jubilee

You are the sounds
of Spring in the Ozarks.

—

Okay. Not sure how that went! Some of those sounds sounded like I was channeling the devil!

I might try something other than the alphabet.

I am trying to come up with a short form tune, with a range of sounds that isn’t too long.

I thought of Twinkle, Twinkle

or Three Blind Mice. Even Old McDonald, but none of these had the range I wanted.

Any ideas?

Answer: President Nixon signed legislation protecting this cherished American asset, in 1971.

Question(s)

Of what gorgeous real-estate
did famed British influencer,
“Jase - the Accent Guy” say:
“This may be the best place I have ever eaten lunch.”

What is an archived violence
softened by millenia?

What is the end result
of a quillion dew drops
dabbing a thousand hills?

What is pulsing a duodenum,
lean by Fall, fat by Spring

Where is a great place to capture
fireflies, ascending sparks, and the roving Milky Way
in a single frame?

What is a flowy, singletrack, multi-use trail
with high banked berms?

What is the shape of a horseshoe
welded to a horseshoe
welded to a medical snake

What is
a spangled dragon--
a lopsided canyon--
a stretched Ramen noodle. or
a winding millipede
with creek-beds for legs
waterfalls for knee pads?

Where might we hear
”HOooo Hooooo”, “Cowabunga”, “Oh Crap”,
and the glittering laughter of children in a single mile?

What big bluff has nothing to do with poker?

What is a corridor for bats, bass, elk … and
(historically speaking) bison?

What is the Buffalo National River?

———————

Addendum: Added verses with potential pics.

What is a color shifting mood ring:
turquoise, jade, translucent avocado skin,
mirrored sun and flicker-white,
copper rock, and limon.

What is the feel
of my body bobbing through a patchwork
of melting ice and tepid tea.

What is a 2000 foot Mike Drop,
(should Mike float the whole thing).

What is
blackish, mineral mascara
streaking down a broad white face

What are
multicolored aluminum minnows
and plastic water bugs, skimming the surface,
in a general direction.





What

is a three-dimensional Rorschach test, turned on its side.



What is

the song of less seen orbs,
obliterating constellations

What is a river of
undulating cotton candy
like a flat fluffy tree
held in the folded hills.

What is a Vincent Van Gogh starry night
dresses in the din
of crickets, cicadas
and the screaming trees
bejeweled with frogs.


What is my heart
on Love.

Answer: President Nixon signed legislation protecting this cherished American asset in 1971.

Question(s)

Of what place did famed British influencer “Jase - the Accent Guy” say “this maybe the best place I have ever eaten lunch.”?

What is the end result
of a quillion dew drops
dampening a thousand folded hills?

What is pulsing a duodenum,
fat by Spring, lean by Fall?

What is an archived violence
softened by years?

Where is a great place to sample
ascending sparks, fireflies, and the Milky Way
in a single frame?

What is a flowy, singletrack, multi-use trail
with high banked curves?

What is a spangled dragon—
a lopsided canyon—
an undulating forever tapeworm —or
multi-curved millipede
with dribble-creek legs
and waterfalls for knee pads?

What big bluff has nothing to do with poker?

Where might we hear
“Cowabunga”, “”Oh crap”, “HOO HOO” --,
and the glittering laughter of children in a single mile?

What is a corridor for bats, bass and
(historically speaking) bison?

What is the Buffalo National River?

—-
Notes:
I am having a hard time knowing where to place photographs, because I kind of want the end to be a slow reveal.

Some of the word-images only make sense with added explanation or visuals.
For example, the Buffalo River is roughly 151 miles long, but far shorter from start to finish by air. It really does look like a wriggly tapeworm!

Note: this poem puts forward my dreams for my daughters at the time that I wrote it - in 1991. My prognostication skills, however, are limited--my daughters have taken to maturity in astonishing ways, sometimes quite differently than how I might have imagined. They are indeed Titans--and their very own women.

In backwards birth-order: Anna, Edith, and Kayla 1991.

(Preface)
I am the son of Titan women,
Born of water and of blood;
Born of Heaven’s will
and of the burning sod.

I am born of Terra
and of Sarah too,
a son of Adam, and
our “Father” Abraham,
included in the loins of faith.

I am the son of strong STRONG women
and the sire of the same,
I have tasted fire,
and added to the flame of life.

Trace me back and you will find
Irish maids and Cornish lords,
scallywags and dumblewits,
pagans, saints, and tumbled hordes
mighty pillars, bloody swords,
and a fire that burns back to Eve.

And now…what’s this?
Would I throw my little spears
until I hit (as if by chance)
some distant planet on the run?

I read some guy who says that we
are but the natural end
of very natural means:
The sexual love of our earthly parents.

But, if he means no more than this,
I kindly disagree-
God works his artistry
through media of matter and the crave;

He put this fire in our bones
and placed the beauty of my wife
within my eyes.

The fact that it was physical
or that our brains were blazing hot,
would not delete His plan in any way.

Indeed,
We would borrow from an ancient code
lifted up like surging magma—
Ever breaking, splitting, twisting
in this tree of man;

And so we join that twist and play,
mixing like epoxy, information-laden parts until:
three new Titan women stand,
made of half a Titan, made of half a Man;
and the wisdom of the Master Artist.

And God steps back from his canvas pleased.

Kayla, my first born--
you came into this world
with a perfect pumpkin face.

And I can see that first-face still,
stretched and welling underneath,
staring lovely like the moon at me
with timeless eyes of moss.

Ireland was good to you.
You wear her hair and spunk.
But does it seem
that you were meant for different times?

I picture you in France
beneath the brush strokes of Monet,
the little redhead girl beside the gate,
holding a water can…but No,
even that’s too current.

You were made for castles and for knights,
or for some distant timeless time,
kinder to small kids
who walk around in dreams,
and nurse heat-dazed hornets back to health,
even as you pour compassion
on a worn-down mom and dad.

Indeed, we sometimes wonder where your mind is,
half-an-hours’ homework pressed into two hours!

But, when you place your pencil to the sketchpad
weave poetic line, or put your heart to ivory
I think we know where your brain’s been…
between the stars!

And now, My beloved Ede:

Your name, colored in the essence
of three women:

Edith, mother of our Charles -- Granddad McGinn,
Edith, wife of Francis S., a hero in my life,
and Edith, a little Mennonite girl whom I remember
with fondness, as she laughed
in her long dress and bonnet.

It appears, there is only one thing
that may eclipse your very direct beauty
and blue eyes …

A mind that races quick
and dishes wit, even as you live with nose
buried in some five-pound book.

We call you the brain kid,
but I know an even bigger heart
that drinks in love
or spreads it like a mop.

(And now, you stand behind my shoulder
reading, wondering, will you get your fair share?
Did I say, more or better things of you,
Or what can you run off with, to rub in?)

You are our queen of drama.
Quick with verbal sword, or quick to take the hit.
You cackle, laugh, and weep, command, charge,
or screech with Shakespearean ease.

May I recommend a future as conductor?
or (as often joked), the President.

Or better yet (my dream)
Missionary for the cause of Christ.

And now

I turn to Anna,
our banana (sorry)
Our little muscle kid.

You know we sometimes say
that Kayla and the Ede, got the genes of me
in thicker distribution.

But Little One, my Love…
you got your Mom.

You are strong and tenacious, pretty and vivacious,
stubborn and alive, with a tough sense of “funny” to boot.

You find humor in the black/white of language
and demand we mean what we say. “Okay, one second’s up!”

Who taught you to tease, or to climb the rope with ease?
Charge the soccer goal with fearless speed.

Who taught you to be stubborn, or endure
most every knock (or missing teeth) without a tear.

My only fear for you is that you make it to adulthood in one piece.
My only fear for “them” (These men of tomorrow)
is that they survive their broken hearts.

Mom and me, some 66ish years ago.

I know that it’s a prejudice
born of being born to you,
but when it comes to you
(or Momma Ellie as she goes)

I see a broken titan patched with gold.
A woman of rare and enduring beauty.

My first mental picture, photograph derived
shows a little girl with hand-tinted lips
and red brown hair.

They say ou favored Dorothy
from the Wizard of Oz.

or, Audrey Hepburn in your senior picture.

Oh, what an image.
Gentle slope of a V-neck draped cross your shoulders,
elegant pearls and hair cut daring short.

Classmates would
remember the Knuckey girl, top of class
and editor, with a cutting edge
and wild-side.

Next mental picture shows you, just before you met my dad
breaking from the surf with scuba mask
thin cigarettes balanced on your lips, spooned hips
packaged in pencil leg jeans.

At eighteen you bought a one way ticket
AWAY From tradition and old church ways
to a California of convertibles and gold dust.
seagulls and stars.

Three years later you would wed
a young engineer and outdoorsman.
sturdy with a zest for life—the music of the Kingston Trio
dancing in your heads.

I see you there
rushing from the pines of the Wayside Chapel
up the ragged coast
to the boats and rivers
to your own pizza business
two kids
and a small farm
rich in childhood memories.

Next mental picture has you asking me (age seven)
“Whatever do you mean, ‘Are you saved?”

As it is, I’d gone to some kid-hood missionary campaign
replete with sword drills and flannel-graph epics;
We learned of Pilgrim and his burden
emptied at the cross, and though I had yet
to visit either the Vanity Fair or the Slough of Despond
I said “yes” to the Celestial City.

Some weeks later you did too.

Conversion, for you
was never like a shift in sentiments,
No – it was like the first day of creation.

And that light
has been your life
every waking day.
and night.

And what a night it’s been.
I hope you will not mind, If I skip the glory years
when you stood strong
as wife and mom to four

or, as missionary to the street-crowd,
Carrie Nation for the cause of Modesty--
Healer of other folk’s marriages.

Nor do I think you’ll mind
if I skip the greater part of night

(Though, how long it lasts).

Two husbands down, and no one now to share
your dreams of aging into godly grace and ministry.

Distant children,
Distant dreams,
and distance
sometimes even for us.

You take your wine, right off the vine; I like mine with age.
You take your kingdom in the future, past apocalypse and caged
in a thousand years. I’ll take mine – right now, albeit slow and growing like a mighty tree throughout the earth until the final day
when heaven crashes through the walls.

You take your gospel southern,
I drink mine pure black.
You walk in the spirit of conviction
’bout some of things of which...we are not convinced.

But even with our differences
You have born
the hard humility
of giving everything to Jesus

Only to have him take you at your offer.

Dignity – His.
Family – His
Pleasure in the present – His.
All your hopes and dreams – His.

I see you now sometimes,
burdened down and gray
like a full-bodied version of Mini-Pearl
replete with Hawaiian drape-dress,
funky hat, and walker decked in ribbons.

I see you hitting the tambourine with streamers,
or doing the soft foot jig
before Baptists ever dreamed of such.

I see you--Oh this is funny--
throwing litter back into the open window
of an offending motorist in a parking lot.
You say: “I think you lost this.”

I see you walking up to laughing black-men
dressed in suits and telling them how “gorgeous” they look.

I see you at the jail, or on the plane,
in the lanes and byways,
asking folks what they would say to God
if they met him tonight.

I see you walking into strip joints
past the surly hard-eyed stares,
and naked flesh to find
some gal who’d like to leave the life
but has to make a living.
And she’s thinking about Jesus.

I see you on your knees
every night, with sobs
like Monica weeping for her son.

I see so many hearts,
now broken into, by the Savior of the world.

I see a woman
spit, chewed, and broken
like the fine Art of God.

I see some Titan, on
the other side of life
taller­­ than a Redwood.

I see a woman
of whom the world was not worthy.

Rendezvous at the Purchase
Louisiana Purchase State Park near Brinkley, Arkansas. USA.

(a poem by Kirk)

We can meet, I suppose
anywhere that time and space permit:
the house, the car, a traffic jam --
Anywhere I am or can be, because

there --

You already are
enabling my breath, these thoughts, my
very being.

That said,
when it comes to meeting up
might I suggest our favorite
plain of mystic intersection

where --
light, line, and vector,
shimmer and shatter,
shadow and pulse
vertigo and vat
vertical and horizontal
wet, moist, and dry,
history and present-tense

tupelo and cypress
converge--

ten thousand sun-dial tees
set like quills
lifting from a black mirrored sky--
Make that a dark-water swamp
with bubbling decay

It’s here, given
the blessing of a boardwalk
I mimic You for one brief moment,
walking on the water, or
better yet
dancing on the skin of an ancient sea
dancing on the clouds
dancing in shafts of undulating shimmer-light

And I whisper-shout
(before a watching owl)

I love You
I love You
I love You

---

Art E. Fishal replies:

What does the poem say about connection? (V1)

The poem portrays connection as omnipresent and deeply intertwined with nature and the speaker’s very being. It emphasizes that the connection with “You” is not limited by physical space or time, suggesting a profound and spiritual bond. The speaker feels this connection everywhere, from everyday places to mystical natural settings, highlighting its all-encompassing nature. The poem conveys a sense of longing for a moment of intimate connection with “You,” underscoring the depth of the speaker’s emotions and the significance of this relationship.

Me: while I do indeed seek to develop my sense of YOU, in all places, the poem specifically identifies this as a physical place for connection. I wonder how Art E. moved it to the universal?

What does the poem say about connection? (V2)

The poem portrays connection as a profound and omnipresent force that transcends physical space. It suggests that the speaker’s connection with “You” is not limited to specific locations or moments, but is instead a constant, underlying aspect of their being. The speaker feels enabled by this connection, which inspires their thoughts and emotions.

The poem also conveys a deep sense of intimacy and longing for a moment of connection with “You” in a mystical, natural setting. The speaker invites “You” to meet at a “plain of mystic intersection” where natural elements converge, symbolizing a desire for unity and transcendence.

Ultimately, the poem expresses a deep love and connection that is both spiritual and intimate, suggesting that this bond is essential to the speaker’s existence.

—

Me: I rather like most of this but wonder if Art. E Fishal has an aversion to the word “God.”

But then, I too avoided it, going instead for the capital YOU. Beyond that there is the trinitarian reach with walking on the water.

What is the symbolism of tupelo and cypress?

Art E Fishal:

Tupelo and cypress trees often carry rich symbolic meanings in literature and poetry.

Tupelo trees are known for their ability to thrive in wet environments and are often associated with resilience, adaptability, and the connection between life and death. In the context of the poem, tupelo might symbolize the speaker’s ability to find strength and beauty in challenging or uncertain situations.

Cypress trees, on the other hand, are commonly linked to eternal life, mourning, or bereavement due to their evergreen nature and association with cemeteries in some cultures. However, they also symbolize wisdom, spiritual growth, and connection to the divine.

Together, tupelo and cypress might represent the intersection of life, death, and the spiritual or transcendent, which fits the poem’s themes of love, connection, and the mystical. The specific meanings can vary depending on the cultural context and the poet’s intentions.

Me: I was glad to learn all this. I simply had no idea. I was not referencing tupelo or cypress in any symbolic way. They simply are the trees that are physically in this place! But I will take the layered meaning if you give it to me!

I understand
the fundamentals:

Water is a sticky molecule--
It sticks to itself.

Water runs downhill;
It seeks the lowest level
as it takes the path of least resistance.

Water is the universal solvent.

And so it goes -
with science at hand,

we understand
(as one can) the curvy dome of a dew drop, or
the arching of H2O
as it jettisons from a hose,
descending to Earth
in relative unity.

We appreciate
the roundness of rain
and its subsequent pooling, sliding and
down-bendiness, as water everywhere
attempts the center of the Earth

With water in mind
we attempt to explain typography--

Swishy rivers and ruts,
towering buttes,
grand canyons and fissures,
spitting cascades, round molded rock,
caves hollowed
by centuries of flowy-drip, drip, drip.

Even water
welling from the ground
as it encounters shelfed resistance.

That said,
there is something fundamentally
weird about water pouring
like a beam of light through a ceiling of rock
like a spigot
on the road to Damascus.

Glory!

I understand
the basic math:

Water molecules
like birds of a feather
flock together -- cohere.

Water -
like a tumbling drunk,
seeks the lowest level.

Water -
like a petulant child,
follows the path of least resistance.

Water -
like water
is the universal solvent.

And so it goes -
with these maxims
in mind, we understand
(as one can)

the curvy dome of a dew drop,
or the arching of H2O
as it jettisons from a hose,
plummeting to Earth
in relative unity.

We appreciate
the roundness of rain
and its subsequent pooling, sliding and
down-bendiness, as water
(like Jules Verne)
journeys to the center of the Earth

Indeed,
with science in hand
we attempt to explain
rivers and ruts,
plateaus, grand canyons and fissures,
spitting cascades, moldy-round rocks, and
caves hollowed
by centuries of flowy-drip, drip, drip.

Even water percolating from the ground
as it encounters shelfed resistance

That said--
Will you tolerate my incredulity
as I stand like Paul on the road to Damascus
in shaft of liquid ambience--

water fauceting through a ceiling of rock
like an unfettered beam

and I mutter
How --- in the WORLD ????

GLORY!

You bloom every year
in or about Holy Week.

Your outer branches break
in the form of a chalice

Your floppy dogs…ie
four white -bracts
with featured ruby notches

emulate a Coptic cross,
with bloody seep
at head, hands, and feet,

while your blossom’s center flourish
manifests a crown of thorns

As for me…
I’m more apt to see

a billion back-lit butterflies,

or
fractal nimbi
coursing through the woods,

or
a million mini-manta rays
in snowy murmuration,
floating on their flapping wings

OR
(as pertains to your autumnal iteration)

The whole -- a garnet torch

Or
a swirling backlit,
stained glass, corpuscle cathedral

Or ….
a burning bush,
testament to the
ever-always
I AM
of being, and maker of
light, leaf, and form,
thorn, blood, and brow

and
the bloody dogwood-wood
on which YOU died

before the foundation
of the world.

Dogwood

Q: How can you tell a Dogwood tree?
A: By its bark


Some say they see in thee
coded nods to sacred things --

Your outer branches fork,
framing the lines of a chalice

You bloom every year
in or about Holy Week.

Your four white floppy-bracks
(with their ruby notches)
emulate a Celtic cross, with
bloody seep at head, hands, and feet,
While your blossom’s center flourish
manifests a crown of thorns.

As for me…
I’m more apt to see
a billion back-lit butterflies, or
fractal nimbi
coursing through the woods, or--
ten thousand mini-manta rays
swirling in snowy murmuration.

But
don’t read me wrong.
It’s not that I’m immune from
finding Christological ambience
in funky places

Indeed,
I trace YOUR storyline through
lamb and lion, lily, vine
ox, and eagle,
Rose of Sharon, apple tree,
pelican, and passion flower,
sand-dollar, pearl,
the multi-eyed, all-seeing peacock tail,

a serpent on a stick--

even
clefts in a rock.

But when it comes to seeing
Christ in nature
why should we stop there?

For if
(as John proclaims)

All things were made by him
And without him was not anything made
That has been made.

Then --

might we, with proper eyes
behold YOUR signature on
everything.

Call it tautology

Does a thing exist?
It bears YOUR name
your mind, your art, your will,
your flamboyant flex and unrivaled imagination

Indeed


((The following is where I’m working. It’s soundplay and whimsy. Question is it too much of too little? Does it distract from the central idea etc.))

Your glory
blasts through chloroplasts
and quasars,
kumquats, and quills
saber teeth, and rattles
Wombats and weevils
bears, and barracudas
vulvas and vultures

You colors manifest
in abalone and sunset
Northern lights and toucan bill.

Every rhino wears a steeple
Every dragonfly, stained glass
Every badger wears a vestment
Every platypus your laugh

……..

((Fragments))

Swan neck and neck line

To praying mantis

Paradactyl’s, pandas, paramecium

Your wisdom in the owl,

Or, for you more difficult compositions

Your wrath displayed

Razorbacks a Tsetse flies

T-rex and amoeba

------

((This is where it picks back up))

(not the proper picture)


or, as befitteth your presence--

the autumnal Dogwood
with its back-lit leaves, lifted up molten flame
like a burning bush

Testament to the
ever-always
I AM of BEING.

--

How did anyone wear shoes?

Some people think of me as a photographer. A smaller number think of me as a poet. But what I really am, is a person who is highly skilled at listening to music and enjoying it with all of my being.

I know--Not much of a talent. But if you were me, you would have a sense of just how powerful a gift this is! In keeping, I want to share twenty-five-plus artists that astonished my ear this last year. You can hit the links below, or just follow my Spotify Playlist “Kirkwood *25 for 25.” With just a few exceptions my playlist features one song per recommended artist.

Follow my Spotify List Here. Kirkwood *25 for 25
Note: My Spotify playlist showcases individual songs--The list below, largely albums and EPs.

----

(Old picture, same joy)


know, I know, almost three months late. I had most of this list worked out at the end of the year, but am just now getting around to polishing the details. But there is another reason for my lateness.

Sometimes I ask…Is any of this worth it. Is anyone reading -- or listening? But then, I figure, if only a couple of you hear these things which bring me great joy… I will be delighted.

I love music with my being-- from Americana to blues--classical to jazz --R&B to techno to punk, even a little country. That said, when it comes to my heart, I am most at home with artists who craft music with an underlying awareness of God. Sometimes that work is devotional, sometimes not. But almost none of the music I most enjoy is played on Christian radio. My hope -- you will listen to my offerings and be surprised in the best of ways.

---

1) Andy Squyres: Miracle Service (EP)
1) Punk Poet extraordinaire.
2) hypnotic string of consciousness
3) listens to Jeff Buckley


2) Jess Ray: Matin (4 EP series, completed)
1) intimate, personal, devotional
2) one of the top 12 albums in the History of the World!
3) minimalism meets ambient

3) Bob Bennett: Everlasting Day
1) Enduring Jesus Music Troubadour
2) Coffee House folk to happy liturgical
3) firm grip on our forthcoming demise

4) Jon Guerra: Jesus
1) modern day Tiny-Tim or Neil Sedaka
2) sounds = trippy, resplendent, cosmic
3) anchored in the life, words and ethos of Jesus.

5) Rachel Wilhelm: Hosea
1) queen of righteous melancholy
2) anchored in themes of sin and judgment, justice and the ravishing love of God.
3) Rachel likes the sounds of Radio Head.

6) Andy Gullahorn; Winning Streak
1) Songwriter extraordinaire
2) Dives headfirst into our modern political pathos and division
3) Highlights a way of seeing that could heal our divided nation.

7) Sandra McCracken (with Ben Shrive) EP: The Still Point Volume 2
1) Sandra trades her delightful twang for delightful velvet
2) Is this not the sound of longing-hope?
3) Is this not the sound of perfect rest?

8) John Lucas (song) A Thousand Times Again
1) Could this be the most beautiful love song in the history of the world?
2) Probably not, but a chief contender.
3) This song makes my heart ache in a beautiful way and reminds me of God’s grace to me through my wife.

9) John Van Deusen: As Long as I am in the Tent of the Body I Will Praise the Lord.

1) jubilant multi-mooded grunge pop
2) abandonment before the throne
3) the song “Jesu of Nazareth” makes me want to dance like a crazy man.

10) Jeff Johnson: Is-land EP
1) instrumental -- ambient orchestral
2) complex, brooding to bliss
3) suggestive of a heavenly hope.

11) Cosmic Cathedral: Deep Water
1) supergroup composed of Neal Morse (Keys), Phil Keaggy (guitar), Chester Thompson (Drums), and Byron House (bass).
2) dynamic prog rock jazz rock extravaganza, brimming with abundant joy
3) I am not traditionally aLOUD-music person HOWEVER, this was my number one album for Spotify plays in 2025. Go figure. Great for speeding down the highway!

12) Greg Loffolette: Holy Week Volume 2
1) As suggested by the title, given to the last week of Jesus’ pre resurrection life.
2) Properly minor -- and at times scritchy and discordant.
3) How is it that the Anglicans so often have the corner on sonic depth and beauty?

13) Ellie Holcomb: Sing: Spring Songs
1) Nashville darling Ellie Holcomb delivers a children’s album and book.
2) radiant Spring (and feminine) joy, brimming with the glory of the resurrection.
3) I want to share Ellie’s book and Spring Songs with my granddaughters.

14) Aaron Strumpel: Album: What Love
1) Fresh presentation of hymns and spiritual songs with a lite-electronica vibe.
2) sounds a tad like Chris Martin of Coldplay
3) song-Seventy Seven-- what a way to build a big fat ear worm in my soul!

15) Poor Bishop Hooper: The Serpent and the Seed
1) An utterly trippy, frightening and expansive 35 song metanarrative, spanning themes from Genesis to the closing pages of Revelation
2) this from the couple that gave us all 150 Psalms set to music.
3) consider my ears blown…WHAT SOUNDS!

16) The Gray Havens: This is Not the End
1) Name borrowed from a Lord of the Rings reference. Music with a literary bent.
2) husband and wife duo, but I the melody forward voice of David shimmers with emotion and vulnerability
3) This album seems a slight move toward a radio friendly sound, but I would be elated if more radio sounded like this.

17) Chris Renzema - Every December
1) story-telling alt-country troubadour,
2) Does this man know how to sing a hook!
3) A Christmas album with slant, gonna be a yearly staple.


18) Poems of Grace (Peter and Grace Assad) (Full discography)
1) PoG features a pastor husband and nurse wife, given to worship life including song.
2) While ostensibly given to the corporate worship hour, Peter and Grace dally at the edges, exploring parlor piano and metal-lite!
3) Peter is a visual artist and even borrowed one of my photos for a striking water color

19) Russ Taft: Cover Story
1) Yesteryear’s mega star belts covers w. old man grit and sinew
2) Top notch Modern/old-school production.
3) Attitude reminds me a little of Johnny Cash in his final laps.

20) Billy Crockett: Sing Down the Sun (EP)
1) Yet another veteran of 80s Jesus Music, once known for his jazzy high tenor, now saddled with old man wrinkles and a beautiful old man voice
2) This song is part of a forthcoming album that Billy is putting together in his own home studio. Look for an album release in 2026.
3) Here’s to Billy and Bob Bennett crafting an album together!

21) Tenielle Neda; The Way of Love
1) A delightfully scripture based album, anchored in the Psalms and Beatitudes
2) Tenielle’s voice (along with Joanne Hogg, Kelly Willard, Christine Dente, Danniebelle Hall, Victory, Eliza King, etc… may just be the most beautiful voice in all of Christendom! :)
3) I am hearing Tenielle pop up routinely as a background vocalist, she brings the beauty spice.

22) Liz Vice: The Call
1) Consider me a little baffled by Liz’s newer sound, evolved out of old school R&B, to something modern, complex and psychedelic.
2) my first thoughts were than the gospel elements were less pronounced, then I listened again, but differently
3) Am I right to think that Liz has been through a chapter?


23) Wilder Adkins (Resurrect Volume One / Song of the Birds)
1) Is that a stage name, or did Wilder’s parents set him up to be a folk singer?
2) This song is part of the Cardiphonia release, Resurrect Volume One. If I had to listen to the products of only one creative house, Cardiphonia would be it.
3) Teamed with the ever beautiful voice of Aussie Eliza King

24) Victory: Song: A Love Song from God
1) Victory (Boyd) and family started singing in the New York Subways. Now she could rightly sing in cathedrals.
2) It’s hard to imagine more supple passion and power in a single voice. I pick Victory to sing the book of Revelation.
3) This Song appears to be part of an emerging album -- Confessions of a Lonely Girl, due for release in 2026?

25) Fox, Palmer, Zach: Fox, Palmer, Zach
1) Accousta-Anglican Worship Leader Paul Zach joins with singers Jessica Fox, and IamSon (Palmer) to craft a sound blending old-school, black, and southern gospel harmonies.
2) elegant, rich, jubilant
3) My mother would have loved this.

Extras: I meant to stop at 25 but just couldn’t throw any of these out.

Aaron Strumpel: (2) Hope Interlude
I really liked the sound of this little galloping instrumental

Andy Gullahorn: (2) Anger’s Gonna Take You Places
I already featured Andy above, but this “ugly” song is just so potent I had to include it. Beyond that the song writing is brilliant.

Leslie Jordan: The Agonist
1) the female voice of the devotional worship duo, Sons and Daughters
2) Sound: New grass Americana with some modern production punch
3) It took me a bit to wrap my mind around what this album(The Agonist) is. Namely an art-concept album in which Leslie grapples with the poetic fragments left in a box by her estranged father. (Read more here.)

Jonathan Ogden: Blue Feathers (song)
It looks like I will have more to say about Jonathan after the release of his working 2026 album “Life”, but until then, thin man packs more bright, seamless, melodic ambience into verse than about anybody. The polar opposite of 90s dissonant grunge.

Ellie and Drew Holcomb: Memory Bank
1) sanctified “mainstream”
2) professional couple with different styles and audience, given to romance and yearning
3) I know I already featured Ellie by herself, but when joined with her husband Drew, they are a different locus and sound. Great for a cuddle night with the wifee.


Paul Zack (2) Covers
I featured Paul as a part of a trio above, but now see he has just released an end-of-year album featuring chill, hypnotic covers of others’ work..

The Choir: Translucent
1) known for its edgy-melodic alt-rock, the Choir drops the edge and vocals for straight up ambient fare. Like Hearts of Space with sax and kick.


The Seventy Sevens - 7/Be Still
1) While the album 7, is heavier than most anything I’ve featured here,”7” is surprisingly melodic and restrained. It seems like the old guys are chilling a bit.
2) I chose my Spotify song because it is just a little closer to the general mood of this list.
3) I also chose this song (Be Still) because it highlights a solution to the division of our days.


Sara Groves: (Song) Take It All In
1) “old” album, new single
Jesus music veteran revisits the beauty of music now 25 years old.
2) voice: plaintive, elegant, simply, yearning, lovely
3) Thank you Sarah for 25 years of heart aching beauty, and edification.

Sandra McCracken (with Ben Shrive) closing instrumental to Still Point 21) a variation of an earlier song but without the excellent vocals,which in turn is excellent in a different way.
2) this is the sound of my being in wonderfilled rest.

Sarah Sparks: Songs for the Anxious (Voice Memos)1) Former songcraft given to all things Narnia, now lullaby spirituals.
2) I should have put this up at the top, but I just discovered this little album in 2026
3) A friend once said.. You really like that minimal stuff. -- Yes! I adore this. Thank you Sarah.

Follow my Spotify List Here. Kirkwood *25 for 25

The first, I call “Gen-Z Apartment Complex”.
The sky is newspaper white … and grey
The weeds, flaxen beige … and grey
The trees, cardboard gray… and gray
And everything shimmers like a worn battleship

A second, sister palette is somewhat like it, but --
less colorful.

Call it - “Dismal Soup”.
All the sundry grays of Gandalf’s beard are replaced
by nicotine spittle, moldering burlap sack,
decaf coffee grounds and anemic stool,
and I feel like I’ve stepped into
the Slough of Despond.

By way of contrast, our third color pallet -- jumps!
Call it -- The Outskirts of Heaven -- or Summer in Juneau.
The sky, once universal-sog/bog is now universal crisp.
The sycamores with their alabaster bones break
like lightning on azure skies,
The oaks scatter pewterish light,
and there are more lumens per square inch
than the brightest day of August.

(Hmph…They call this thing winter?)

And now-- forgive me, a fourth.
Palette that is…

I’m driving on a duotone day
through the Arkansas Delta.
The fields are lion-gold
the skies, hummy blue.

I see before my eyes, great swaths of farmland
and bands of trees like giant fuzzy swatches.
The sun begins to drop
spreading marmalade hue.

The trees, with their twiggy branches
turn pink, then whisk
rhubarb and ruby from the setting day…
Wine is in the wind,
Shadows stretch, turn purple.

Then for one brief moment, the world glows
tangerine on turquoise

Starlings
in their peppercorn clouds,
lift from the ground to murmur and wheel

And all the laughy (but still hidden) daffodils percolate
in their sheaths
ready to pop.

Today I think of myself as Adam. What would he look like?

For some reason I have always thought of him looking like me – but a whole lot better. Or something like what I will look like in the New World. He, or I – look like a kind of Robin Hood or Viking Lord. We are muscled and tall with rounded chest and washboard abs, and when we laugh the cedars shake. My face is ruddy with sun and my beard big-red. I saunter with hair all over and look like some Viking Lord apart from clothes and wild with sun and sand and salt. I behold my bride. Does she look something like the woman that I should marry?

I see her with my mind’s eye. I don’t see her so much as Anglo. After all, we should in time need to spin out skin as dark as midnight tar, or skin white like porcelain. I see her somewhat olive, eyes leaning brown and hair a redded-black, kinked a bit but flowing. Maybe she has a nose that is sharp and thin like some of the women from India, or maybe it is broad and Polynesian. Her eyes are big like cow eyes – How is that for a description? It reminds me of the time at Booker T. when we closed out our senior year with a description of the perfect woman. She would be parts of all the different popular girls at school. She had Natasha’s nose or Heather’s eyes, or Yo-Yo’s legs. Of course by the time we mixed all the parts, not to mention hues, the thing created would be quite peculiar.

So I consider my Eve. Her breasts are full of life and she has more weight on her than our gaunt models. Her hips are wide…but Dear, I pay my respect to those Victorian vices; Her waist is small—or maybe not. Perhaps her belly pours like a belly dancer or the woman of the Song of Songs, all round like a goblet. I still think those Old World painters and folks in India have something on us. She laughs and grins and looks like she should pull out of the water with dripping …

Oh when, WHEN will I have a bride?

She doesn’t need to look like this thing. That woman has vanished and filtered out. And maybe even faded in her force with the Fall.

On one level I am amazed that we continue on any level to be handsome or beautiful at all. The Fall has marred us, not only in our souls, but I imagine in our genetic profile. Even so, I marvel at Eve – poured out in Irish queens with pale milk skin and red hair and freckles…Or I consider skin as dark as night with teeth that shine like the new moon. A shadow waiting to enfold me. So, what will it be? Will I marry a woman who looks like me, or stands against my skin with a different kind of loveliness? Will her hair fan up and out like coral, or cascade down like a cataract? Will the grace of her skin and form be fragile and oriental, or will her stature be firm and heavy, even Germanic? What is this thing in me that is continually moved by Beauty? I want to possess it. I don’t always want to live in these dreams of holding.

When will I hold real flesh, or feel her curl with her warmth into me?

Dear God…You know this longing of my soul. I so want to be married. I’ve given You so much latitude. HA! Call her from any race or culture. But then, where do I belong? I can’t even figure to which world I belong.

So, will my bride wear a covering, or will I myself wear the

*jacket and the hat?



—-


*I was, at the time, contemplating what it might mean to join an Old Order Mennonite community. The men of that “club” were readily identifiable by their jackets and hats.

The picture is of my wife. From about 10 years ago. I am married to a woman who doesn’t like pictures of herself, and here I am, a hopeless romantic with a lens. I like the way the mountain mirrors her strength.

As for the poem. It may be the first I ever wrote … age twelve. I set the bar high, with themes to follow.

As for the Spotify link. It is called “The Beloved” and features 90 something of my favorite love songs. Tell me if the newly added first song by John Lucas and Cayla Fralick isn’t the most beautiful thing you’ve ever heard. Beyond that, let me know what songs I should consider adding to my list.


—
First Poem

To hold her hand would be so grand
and meant for only a king…
but alas,
I am a pauper.


—-

What is Holiday prep
but a Herculean effort to create
one fleeting moment of perfection
for imperfect people.

We begin a few days out,
starting with the big stuff--
We tip the couches in pursuit
of quarters, pens, and hidden debris.

We wash every window,
front and back,
change the litter for the cat,
scrub the shower, wash the dog

Every surfaced touched with
Pine-sol, lemon mist, or mint
Every catball kapoofed.

The cat with its flatulence tucked inside
Me, not in raggedy shorts
Every whisker trimmed.
Little flowers, little soaps, washcloths matched
to hand-matched to towel-towels, all precisely layered.
Toilet rolls in pyramids
lest anyone live in fear

Leafless driveways and walks,
Trash cans without trash
Towels without wet
Tissues gently pulled up and out of the box
All drops of uric acid obliterated.

Last minute dog nose, wiped from the glass
Every hint of human effort
covered under Old Spice
Every whiff of human excrement
concealed under burning tallow

The table set,
The music set to the second track,
low and festive

You knock on the door.

We open and
for one brief moment
the Second Law is suspended
The oak tree stops raining leaves
No one sheds or flakes away
Pretty breath fills the air
as our teeth
properly whitened gleam in the
luminescence of recently replaced bulbs

We smile-shout Merry Christmas--
Hug--

Heaven descends and for
one brief moment

We bask in the candle
glow of loving illusion.

------


Note:

I have wondered about a different ending:

for one brief moment we bask in
the glow of Heavenly perfection.

The problem -- I am not quite sure what I want to say. On one hand (I think this comes through) I think some of this cleaning is ridiculous. But it’s also part of loving my wife and loving our guests. And if I admit it, I do like the end result, even if it is unsustainable.

.