The count of crumbled buildings in Haiti are outnumbered
Outnumbered by the premature widows, orphans, and the dying
Outnumbered by the endless rivers of tears falling from the eyes of those left behind
Outnumbered by the starving masses filling the decomposing streets of Port Au Prince

Pray with me

From a thousand miles away I can not feel their pain
Though the images are projected onto my mind I close my eyes and turn away
Thousands die before me and all I can do is turn away

Pray for me

Pray for those of us conveniently caught up in our own inconvenience
Too stuck in our now to think that we can provide them a better future

Pray for us

I saw a man with empty eyes–his arms full with the lifeless body of his child
I saw a child trapped in the rubble–tears muddied the lips that hadn’t tasted water in days
Then I saw an angel in blue reach out his hand to comfort the man filled with loss
Then I saw another of the crimson cross pull the child free–stroking her hair as she drank in life

Bless them

There are those who go when we don’t go–be it by circumstance, inconvenience, or fear
Fearless in the face of all encompassing death and destruction falling in on them like the walls of Haiti
Living as our hands, carrying our hope in their hearts, and crying our tears onto the shoulders of those who have borne too much
They are representatives of God–ambassadors of the royal kingdom prepared and willing to answer His call

Thank them

The crumbled buildings in Haiti are outnumbered
Outnumbered by the premature widows, orphans, and the dying reaching back in to help
Outnumbered by the endless rivers of tears falling from the eyes of those left behind as they rebuild together
Outnumbered by the starving masses filling the decomposing streets of Port Au Prince with hope

Help them

A train rolls down a wooden track
Guided by a child’s imagination
Journeying through time and places
Through a mind growing and molded
By every moment he is alive
Each word sinks into memory
Each adventure a building block
In the temple of adult maturity
Mold him; teach him; love him
Guide him; know him; trust him
Moments of understanding pass
Between exchanges of glances
Knowledge and wisdom and teaching
And the train continues down the track

A phone rings inside
An empty house. The
Sound bounces off of
Polished wooden floors
Seemingly searching
For somebody to
Answer it. The first
Ring calls out to the
Family room where
Children once laid on
The floor playing board
Games just before bed.
The second ring roams
To the kitchen where
The man and lady
Once Prepared dinner.
The third ring sounds in
The dining room where
Together they ate.
The final ring fell
Muffled from the phone;
drifting down to rest.

I need to read more poems
Long and short; Of love and pain.
The more I write the more I
Hear the poets calling me;
Encouraging me to learn.
The potter with no teacher
Is merely a boy with clay.
A mind full of creation;
Hands not taught to how create.

Drops of water drip from a leaking gutter
To a newly soiled flower bed ten feet below.
In a rocking chair he watches the destruction.
Dirt once combed over perfectly by hand
Lovingly smoothed by crooked wrinkled fingers
Has given way to a small but growing hole.
Memory stolen by old age and senility
Does not remind him that this had happened twice before.
Angry at the rain and his forgetfulness
He goes inside to cry for her once more.

Inspiration comes from staring
At blank screens with fingers on keyboards;
From pens frozen in hands while
The writer stares off into the distance.
In those moments of silence
God speaks directly into listening ears.
Words flowing into the mind,
The spirit becomes enlightened.
The heart beats with new passion
And the instruments of creation move
Pen across paper; fingers across keyboard.
Strokes spill the blood of sacrifice.
The isolation of artist for but a moment
Unleashes freedom for just a moment more.
In the end he rests and finds peace,
Reflecting on the words whispered,
Remembering nothing that was spoken.

A few remaining cars sparsely fill
The parking lot at evening’s rush hour
Their owners work a few hours more
For the luxury to drive them home

She stares at the hood of her’s
Admiring the beauty of yellow-green
Tree pollen dusted perfectly across
The candy apple red mirage

Forgotten memories of past springs
Spring back into consciousness
Thoughts of days of laughter, smiles
And hearts traced in fresh pollen

She sighs with a sorrowful smile
Gently opens the door of the car
Careful not to disturb the dust
And closes the door gently

Have you ever held your hand still
Just above a river’s passing water
Liquid rushing by reaching for your skin
Jumping up; eager to commune with you
Beckoning you to dip a finger in

A bird made the decision to build a nest
In the small tree outside my front door
Every morning, as I leave for work
It startles me with a flurry of wings
As I startle it by opening my door

With the nest set squarely at eye level
I wonder of the contents of the home
A cohabitation of nature and man
Constructed of twigs and pine straw
Strewn with discards of plastic and wire

Would a glance over the rim reveal
Little blue eggs nestled together
Drawing residual warmth from each other
Until the return of their exiled mother
Or would the peek reveal a partner hidden
Flying forward to protect the home
Warding of the curious prodding gaze
Of both hunter and human neighbor

I move on not knowing what to do
Not knowing which of us has the right
Which of us must decide to stand down
Nature protects its own from danger
Swooping down and pecking at prowlers
Who seek to harm its offspring
Mankind protects its own from danger
Reaching up and swatting at prowlers
Who seek to harm its offspring

I bought a lady breakfast today
In her dry, scarred hands she held
A handful of miscellaneous coins
She gathered from other patrons
That passed through those doors
In her eyes I saw peace and strength
Burdens and concerns weighed only
On her body like her ragged clothes
I told her I would buy her breakfast
That I would bring it out to her
Motivated by self-preservation of image
Not wanting to be seen in her presence
Pride dropped in the presence of pride
As she followed me in waited by my side
Upturned noses from workers familiar
With her kind, her face, her smell
Who is man to question God’s people
His blessings, his children in need
Who am I to judge my sister; my kin
Do this in remembrance of me