poetry - n. 1: writing that formulates a concentrated imaginative awareness of experience in language chosen and arranged to create a specific emotional response through meaning, sound, and rythmn 2 a: a quality that stirs the imagination b: a quality of spontaneity and grace

Name: dthaase

Friday, June 23, 2006


After the rains a new green begins to appear in the garden –
Little of it is welcome; these new sprouts, the color of toil –
Invaders of all that is intended:
              Crabgrass, Milkweed, Purslane, and Creeping Charlie.

They crawl like time under and across the soil—
              living to choke life—nature’s neckties—
              wrapped around and into the fabric of existence.

Wednesday, June 21, 2006

Summer Solstice

The Earth has bowed her cap in the court of the Sun –
          Summer has begun –
The planting of the Spring will be met by Ruling King –
          What will Fall bring?
Rodents will enter the garden through gnawed fence –
          Disease will multiply the suspense:

          Of day when the King stood still;
          Making certain his royal will –
          Knighted Earth to bring rebirth –
          But not without the toil.

Tuesday, June 20, 2006


"Of the Seven Deadly Sins, anger is possibly the most fun.”
                                                                        Frederick Buechner

Pride goes only as far as a mirror
Gluttony leaves a dull pain
Lust is the horror of Sisyphus
Greed is the discontent alchemist
Sloth is a yawn never withdrawn
Envy ends in royalty’s tomb
But anger, the ability to be a fire starter –
                        Who can deny the appeal.

Sunday, June 18, 2006


a Father’s Day reflection

Let me look out and see the coming of the tide in the eyes of my child,
Let me hold out my hands, cupped, ready to drink-in his imagination,
Let me let him leave on the wings of a day’s horizon –
Let me imbibe the story of his passing—the story of my passing—
                                                                                                Let me be old,
Then, let me die in the evening tide of my grandchild’s wake.

Friday, June 16, 2006

The Nightingale

“No outward changes of condition in life can keep the nightingale of its eternal meaning from singing in all sorts of different men’s hearts.”                                                                                           William James

Since the time when time began, in the furrowed brow of man –
Squinting at the warring sun, the beating of our living drum,
Woke the warbling song of bird, the nightingale at last was heard.

Deep within the treasured chest, the frequent song from fragile nest –
A tired song and yet of joy, that knows of sorrow as a ploy
To turn the eye past what is seen; behold the song, of bird serene.

Listen, learn, and then adore the intonation there implored –
What matchless fire born of bird, as stunning as the spoken word.
Deep olive eggs in nest are lain where promise of a song remain.

Wednesday, June 14, 2006


Every war is a civil war –
We are all brothers and sisters.
There is no yours and mine.
The land and sea between us
Is simply land and sea –
Water and dust
to dust.

Every child laughs at the jester –
Whether the court is in Cabrini Green
or the Gold Coast.

Hands feed and hands take away –
Yet they always remain hands.

Can there be a Sabbatical City –
Where brothers and sisters will not break the bonds of unity?
Where children will care for the generation to come?
Where moth and rust do not destroy?

Tiredness crawls in the hearts and minds of mankind
And night is not enough to rest our weary past.

Friday, June 02, 2006



On a walk around the convent, during dawn,
                                                                He heard birds.
The whip-poor-will, reminding, “a new day, a new day.”
The morning dove, “slow, slow, slow you go.”
Then, as he walked, the sparrows scattered into trees –
Stilling rabbits and the mind of man.


Last night, while you slept,
dew settled onto the grass,
the trees stayed rooted, the flowers,
like dim lanterns, hung in silence –
Then you woke and began
the assessment of another day,
forgetting about dew and trees and flowers.

Thursday, June 01, 2006

A Planting

The mid-May rain has softened the earth.
The garden trowel lifts and turns the darkened dirt;
Rich in color of last year’s compost –
It smells of worms and roots,
Things that crawl in the shadowside.

I pinch and pull intruding infant weeds,
Flagged with two faces like most enemies.

Mine is the task of planting.

With bare index finger holes are spaced:
One inch deep, two inches apart –
Again, and again, and again, and again.
I pinch and place intending seeds,
Entombed with resurrection –
Cover with fine soil,
Warmth of wandering sun,
Then go to fetch the water.

The earth has been culled and cut.
With hose in hand, brown bleeds into brown,
Hands washed,
Land watered – small puddles form upon and disappear.
Things will settle into place –
Wait, and wait, and wait, and wait.
Seed and man will be made new.