Sunday, July 17, 2011


I try to write every day.  Sometimes there are true bits and pieces, sometimes only a little shine.   Sometimes it flows, beginning to end and I have no idea where it came from.  I think of the preaching professor at Seabury who used to say: Every sermon won*t be a sonnet.  And, of course, there are all the sermons or reflections which people hear or read in such completely different ways that a part of me wants to say: Why work on it at all?  But I do.  It seems I must.  

When I write
I collect the true bits
At the end,
Discard the rest.

When I write it flows true
Maybe blue
Perhaps it recalls the sky,
Maybe water dappled in reflected clouds.
Sometimes there are birds,
They string it all together
In flight
In song
In hop.
They cock their heads and listen
For worms

Only sometimes
Like rivers,
Like clouds blown
Like birds,
When I write
It flows true.

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