Midnight Miracles Make Quiet Mornings

Midnight Miracles Make Quiet Mornings
Midnight miracles make quiet mornings.
Even God sleeps peaceful on the breast.
Restless nights result in dreamy dawnings,
Revelations ripe for sunlit rest.
Years of love lie drowsy, slug-a-bed.
Choices seem to snuggle, sleeping in.
Holiness is happiness instead,
Rich in all that gathers grace within.
In love of God or man, the Earth must turn.
Songs of angels come in troubled times.
The miracle of witness one must earn,
Moving to transfigure one's own crimes.
As faith and love require restful sleep,
So, too, must they their midnight vigils keep.
Mind Is Not the Medium for Joy
Mind is not the medium for joy.
Each word should be a bell within the heart,
Ringing like a wind-tossed, wave-tossed buoy,
Restless in the grip of polished art.
Years should be a cry of sculpted stone;
Christmases long past, an oak-voiced choir,
Harmonies that hollow out the bone,
Rich with longing, reckless with desire.
If meaning but had meaning, words would be
Salient as the resonance of brass,
Tearing chunks of glory from the sea,
Melting steel with love for things that pass.
All I would, I could to you convey
Should I find words that might such non-words say.
Miracles Have a Way of Making News
Miracles have a way of making news.
Even skeptics stare at parted seas.
Religious or not--Christians, Muslims, Jews--
Resurrection brings them to their knees!
Years ago, miracles were in vogue:
Christ and Moses wowed the willing crowds;
Holy icons healed both saint and rogue;
Rare wonders were ascribed to cups and shrouds.
In our time miracles are everyday,
So few can hope to grab us, or astound.
The mysteries that clutter up our way
May seem much more perplexing than profound.
And yet life is miraculous: to be
Surpasses any wonder we might see.
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The World Is Not Sufficiently in Order

The World Is Not Sufficiently in Order
The world is not sufficiently in order,
However much one wishes it were so.
Eros is sincere but rarely loyal,
Yearning for a joy that cannot be,
Even as I cleave to my design.
All I want and do is by design,
Reducing what might sing to what might be,
Offering the hope that, if I'm loyal,
Fortune will be fair, and what I sow
Today I'll reap in proper order.
Heroes are the sentinels of order,
Ever vigilant to live just so:
Dependable, consistent, honest, loyal
Overseers of what ought to be,
Given the chaos deep in the design.

The Point Is Just that I Don't See the Point
The point is just that I don't see the point:
However much one wants to be turned on,
Ecstasy can put things out of joint;
Yearning is for what will soon be gone.
Each can choose content or discontent;
All are happy, if they would be so.
Revelation isn't Heaven sent;
Out of what you are comes what you know.
Forget, then, the pursuit of the sublime.
There is no thing that's needed -- all is here.
Happiness will settle in, in time,
Enduring, though the weather may turn drear.
One must plod to plow, and plow to plant.
X marks the heart, where lies all one could want.

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