Pixels

Digital chameleons,
Magnetic artifacts:
Red, Green, Blue.
(Sometimes Alpha, too.)

World-imitators,
Configurable mirrors,
Deep, dark wells
Of verisimilitude.

These shiny new gods
Demand no expiation.
Their yoke is virtual;
Their burden is Light.

Wages

The earth groans with inexorable pain:
Rape and murder, robbery and warfare,
Typhoons, tornadoes, and earthquakes,
Abandoned children and miscarried ones.

Our hunger remains despite our gluttony:
Hunger for justice and peace,
For joy and comfort
In a senseless, brutal world.

How long will this continue under the sun?
How long until our tears are dried,
And the clouds are rolled back as a scroll,
And Adam's old paycheck runs out at last?

Grace in Summer Rain

Sometimes heaven's blessing comes with lightning:
Welcome water drenching thirsty earth,
Slow, fat raindrops plopping into puddles,
Deafening cracks of thunder rolling over.

Howling storms that rip homes into shreds
Lavish life's essence upon a sun-parched world.
I think this must be how God's grace unfolds:
Commingled with reminders of just-avoided wrath.

Short, Sweet, Perfect.

Here's a fantastic anecdote, told artfully by one of my favorite story-tellers, Jonathan Rogers.

The Rabbit Room — Ball:

I smiled and cried, but you might not.

My Block

This prose poem was inspired by NPR's Morning Edition. 

My childhood block was a grid of gravel roads running through a newborn subdivision just outside of town. Red-tailed hawks and wide-eyed deer watched us bike down those dusty roads on long, hot summer afternoons. Crashes were painful. Decades later, I still smell the rusty tang of blood-soaked dust, feel the bite of antiseptic on raw palms, and taste the tart, sweet comfort of cold lemonade.