Everyday Poems #18, “With A Few Clicks”


“Deprivation is for me what daffodils were for Wordsworth.” – Philip Larkin

Of course, what Larkin meant was that inspiration came from being deprived of something desired. And poets, time out of mind, agree. Larkin, like many 20th century poets was a jazz music fan and critic, which I think you can hear in his poems. He also eschewed fame and did not enjoy it. He even saw that as a deprivation.

In “Aubade” he contemplates the inevitability of death and how everyone must face it. It’s a dour piece of writing but then at the end, he points out more often than not, the ordinary requirements of our work rouse us from such thoughts –

“Work has to be done.”


Five or six years ago I was working as a banker. I was the guy who put in loan applications and opened checking accounts. I was not a great banker, at least not at first. I got in trouble a lot for not selling enough financial products.

At one point, those of us who were not selling enough credit cards had to go to a remedial credit card class, in which nothing was remembered except one thing. There was one young man who was very good at selling credit cards. And his “trick” was to call up customers, who had introductory offers, under the guise of just checking in on them. Then he would exclaim, “Oh wow!” and exclaim to them what the offer was.

We had to practice doing that “Oh wow.”

The bank was not always dark. But there was enough soul-destroying moments that I often found myself searching for poems online during work, just to catch my breath. I always felt like it was my own private rebellion. I knew they would not approve. But I would search for one like living water. Often I would print them out and hang it on a cork board to the right of my monitor.

The irony is, by the time I left the branch, I was becoming very successful by not doing what they wanted and by simply being honest.

I never did the “Oh wow” thing.

With A Few Clicks

With a few clicks you built a canal
for your wandering bark,
with unfurled sail. To wonder in
another stream altogether –
away from the stagnant pool
of numbers and bottom lines,
ties and a crease on the leg –
to that land where Heaney reigns
and Auden jests and Berry rails –
where Bradstreet’s lines are fixed
like Eliot’s point. What water
to dive in and swim on through!
But first the dark and dank
of the tepid pool shaken off.

Everyday Poems #17, “Joy?”

dylan thomas

“These poems, with all their crudities, doubts and confusions, are written for the love of man and in Praise of God, and I’d be a damn fool if they weren’t.”       
– Dylan Thomas

Amidst all the funny memes and lists and posts of Bible verses, I am assuming there is a lot of disappointment out there. Lots of cancelled plans. Life coming to an almost complete standstill. You can only binge-watch so much to hold back the emotional tide of loss. Laughter can help, but before long it feels like a band-aid on a growing tumor.

Dylan Thomas said poetry “makes you know that you are alone in the unknown world, that your bliss and suffering is forever shared and forever all your own.”

With a wink he points out that poems – like songs – remind us that in our unique suffering we are not alone. It is ours, yes. But by force of logic, the poet has captured what we have felt and known. “I know that feeling!” We realize the poet has seen what we have seen before we could. The same light dawned on them.


There is much to be had.
This is why the debris field
of broken glass hopes
is so hard to walk over.

We see in those shards –
ought to have been.
Could have been.
But are not.

And so a dream unfulfilled here,
a failure there,
and life cut short
right there at your feet.

You’d kick at the pieces in anger,
but for a shining glint
when the light turns just right
on jagged edges.

If there can be dancing
in a valley of dry bones,
then all these too
can now be made new.

Random Thoughts for the Weekend


1. The world markets fear. It trades in anxiety. The world wants you to worry. But the King says, “Don’t be afraid.” Furnish the home of your mind and heart with passages that remind you to not be afraid. Arrange the rooms of your soul with passages and stories of God’s provision and protection. Fill your life with reminders that the unseen realities are the highest realities so that you will be content and have confidence in your King.

2. I used to not understand David in the Psalms when he would talk about how much he loved the law. Made no sense to me. I did not love the law like he did. But Willard helped me see something I had not been able to see – the law is the path toward the best life possible. Obeying the commandments of our God requires faith that he knows what he is talking about. I had no problem with placing my confidence in him for the afterlife. But I did not have much confidence in him for this life.

3.  If grace is not the modus operandi, it’s not a ministry, it’s a business and grace is just marketing.

4.  I love being isolated with my family.

5. The only political perspective that is helpful and needed during this global event is that we have a King and a kingdom. This is also true during the normal times.

6. In the midst of a harder situation for believers, Peter says, “Fear God. Honor the Emperor.”

7.  (Laying out in the yard listening to Bob Dylan with my son, Dylan)

Dylan (11): Do you like this Bob Dylan song more than “Where I Belong?”

Me: Nothing is better than “Where I Belong” buddy.

8. Sometimes confidence in God will look like to others you are not taking a situation seriously.

9. Blaise Pascal said, “All of humanity’s problems stem from man’s inability to sit quietly in a room alone.”

Lean into that.

10. Everyday Poem #16, “While Everyone Else Was At Work”

While everyone else was at work
I reclined in a hammock
under the towering oak
that stands
like God in full glory and majesty
and which we know
could fall on us at any moment.

But I drank red wine
from a mason jar and
read Donald Hall poems, as birds
sang or talked, I couldn’t tell.

In early April you can smell
the privet and cut grass
(and red wine too)
if everyone else is as work.


Everyday Poems #15, “A Will For When I Am Dying, But Not Yet Dead”


I must’ve been thinking of my parents when they were dying when I wrote the following. My dad in a hospital room. My mom in a sad room – facility where they did some therapy but had all the trappings of a nursing home. Hospital rooms can be sad. But nursing homes are almost always so by default. At least that place where my mom was.

And every room had a TV on all the time. As if that machine was as important or more important than the ones helping them breathe and get up. We had to go get a wheelchair. But the TV was always present. And I felt like it was a poison no one else could taste any longer.

Carl Sandburg said, “Poetry is the journal of the sea animal living on land, wanting to fly in the air.” I have found that poetry happens when either I do not understand or am not understood. And even when I understand but cannot get anyone else to.

A Will For When I Am Dying, But Not Yet Dead

Whatever you do,
do not
sit me in front of a television.
Banish the screens.
Kill my television
and play for me
the B Minor Mass
and the Intermezzo.
Let them only be interrupted
by the voice of Billie Holiday,
lest I die before I’m dead.

Everyday Poems #14, “Have You Ever Not Feared?”


I’ve got a sermon to work on so not much writing for today. But I do keep coming back to Wallace Stevens’ idea of the poet being “the priest of the unseen.” And I wonder if Eugene Peterson, one of my favorite writers, knew that quote and had it in mind when he asked, “Isn’t it interesting that all of the biblical prophets and psalmists were poets?”

If Stevens is right and Peterson is right, then maybe pastors and teachers within the church would do well to ignore the business leader manuals and marketing strategies – at least for a while – and listen to Hopkins and Dickinson, Berry and Radnoti.

Just a thought.

Have You Ever Not Feared?

Have you ever not feared?
To stand there in all that mercy,
if only for that split second
with nothing to fear, is heaven itself.

Everyday Poems #14, “Willie Nelson’s Guitar”


Some of my earliest memories are of vacations with my parents, either to stay at that house right behind the Thomas Donut Shop in Panama City Beach or to stay with my Aunt and Uncle up in Gatlinburg. They owned an auto parts store in town.

On those trips, we listened to Kenny Rogers and Neil Diamond and Willie Nelson. “Blue Eyes Crying In the Rain” moved me even as a kid. Old country songs remind me often of some of the best things about good poetry and often veer into the country of poetry. They talk about normal things and help you see them differently.

Percy Bysshe Shelley, who wrote “Ozymandias” – which we all had to read at some point – said, “Poetry lifts the veil from the hidden beauty of the world, and makes familiar objects be as if they were not familiar.”

I like that quote. Most people appreciate a poem every now and then if only for that reason. It helps us see beauty in something we might have missed. Poetry helps us with perspective. A poem’s value might be gauged by how well it changes the way we see something we already knew was there but did not see it for what it was.

Like a beat up guitar.

Willie Nelson’s Guitar

It’s hard to write a poem
about Willie Nelson’s guitar.
It’s not like flowers and starlit nights
or my wife’s curves and smiles.

No, his guitar is beaten up
and has a hole in the wrong place.
It’s covered in scratches and
looks like it’s been around forever.

It’s not like the beautiful body
I saw hanging in a store once –
perfect red, and silver shown –
I can’t even play, much less own.

It’s ugly and brown and black
and looks like it could fall apart
but really nothing sounds better
than Willie Nelson’s guitar.

Everyday Poems #13, “This Morning I Did Not Clock In.”


On the day Seamus Heaney died, I went to the library to find a volume of his poems, of which they had none. So then I went to the used bookstore down the street and joyfully found his collection, Seeing Things.

I think it’s the first poem of that collection in which he writes, “A 9 to 5 man, who knows poetry.” Now I did not yet understand that poem but I was a 9 – 5 man struggling as a banker and poetry was a way of grasping at beauty in a world in which only numbers and profit ruled. Since then I have learned the line may be a sly criticism of a particular person. But no matter.

Heaney’s poetry has always had this ancient and modern sound in my ears. Ancient, probably because he grew up outside of Belfast on a farm that was in his own words, “medieval.” But Modern, because his poetry became popular in a world of modern machines and modern ideas about the world.

He is intensely likable. I have listened to every podcast multiple times in which he is featured. And one of my favorite books, Stepping Stones, is just one long interview and that kindness is on every page.

One of things I like about his poetry is the lack of cleverness. Now, I like a clever poem. But his are never that. They shoot straight, even the ones that take a few readings to get your head around.

Poetry is always slightly mysterious, and you wonder what is your relationship to it. – Seamus Heaney

He is from Belfast. So you must expect a beautiful sadness behind whatever he writes. Below is my favorite poem of his. I do not have a lot of complete poems memorized, but this one I have and will keep. It is one of the poems that hung like a beacon in my last cubicle at my last job at the bank.

Requiem for the Croppies

The pockets of our greatcoats full of barley…
No kitchens on the run, no striking camp…
We moved quick and sudden in our own country.
The priest lay behind ditches with the tramp.
A people hardly marching… on the hike…
We found new tactics happening each day:
We’d cut through reins and rider with the pike
And stampede cattle into infantry,
Then retreat through hedges where cavalry must be thrown.
Until… on Vinegar Hill… the final conclave.
Terraced thousands died, shaking scythes at cannon.
The hillside blushed, soaked in our broken wave.
They buried us without shroud or coffin
And in August… the barley grew up out of our grave.

I can remember the joy of driving into work on my first day as a teacher after leaving the bank. Little did I know I would be working with people who knew the work of Seamus Heaney and prized it. They also knew the work of Mozart and could discuss it. This would be a new and beautiful world. A world I miss.

This Morning I Did Not Clock In.

I listened to the Clarinet Concerto
and drove under cobalt blue skies.
I also thought about Seamus Heaney
and those lines,

“Believe that a further shore
is reachable from here.”

By then the duet of Susanna and Constance
in that scene when Andy
locks all the doors
and turns on the intercom
and they can all hear the beauty
taking over the morning.
During all this,
my desk sat empty.

I guessed all my poems
were taken down from
those short dead gray
walls, never read,
and thrown away.

But the sky hung blue
and I could only listen
with all the joy I knew.
Also, I did not clock in.

Everyday Poems #12, “This Is the Day”


I hated Mondays slightly more than other days when I worked at the bank. They were always frantic and everyone was running around and the more some ran around frantic, the more others did too. You’ve seen it, too.

But it wasn’t just the bank. Everywhere seemed to burst into a frenzy after the weekend. And I did not like it. But I was always trying to get perspective. At least I had a job. We never missed a meal. And you’ve felt that, also.

We were healthy.

While we lived in Greenwood, Lori, a friend of ours was diagnosed with cancer. I remember that on one particular eventful day – maybe the day of surgery, I cannot remember exactly but I do remember that it was a day that held the possibility of dread and fear – she woke up, sat up in bed and quoted from Psalm 118, “This is the day the Lord has made, I will rejoice and be glad in it.”

“Poetry is the revelation of a feeling that the poet believes to be interior and personal which the reader recognizes as his own.” – Salvatore Quasimodo

That took something, I have always wanted. On hard days, Bethany and I quote this to each other. Keep in mind that what we call a “verse” is a line from an ancient poem written by someone from a very different culture. And yet what he wrote we all “get.” We want to look at even the hard days and see them as something to rejoice. We get that. If poetry does anything well, it has the ability to reflect back what we recognize within us and sometimes around us.

The following poem is a result of Lori’s confidence and my desire to acquire that confidence.


“This is the day”

You have made –
a Monday –
a day of full inboxes
and frantic bosses –
and car repairs
we cannot afford
regardless of cost –
a day with a child’s fever
and sales goals –
a day of projects rushed
and turned into teacher –
a day of prayer for mercy
and simple graces –
a day to rejoice in –
a day he has made
and I’ll be glad in it –

at least I’ll try.


Everyday Poems #12, “Just Now”


One of the great wonders of poems is how they can capture a moment and help you understand the moment is more than what skates on the surface. This is good because often we have more than one thought and often more than one emotion swirling within us at the same time. Who has not felt grief and anger and wonder all at the same time?

Auden defined poetry as “the clear expression of mixed feelings.”

Maybe that’s why we see so much poetry in the Bible. Depending on who you ask, you will get different answers as to how much of the Bible is poetry. But it’s at least around 30%.

And that makes great sense to me. Because the Bible is dealing with all the great mysteries of the Universe, including the mysteries within us, it makes sense for the varied authors to hand us revelation in the form of poetry.

Some of that poetry is beautiful and comforting. Sometimes the poetry is sad and brokenhearted. Often it is frustrated and confused. What is interesting is how all that includes God. That may be an obvious point. But here is the thing – whether it is about a loss, a reason for anger, a betrayal, fear, grief, wonder, the beauty of creation, lovers entwined, or advice for a son – God is in the mix. Though unseen, he is the highest reality.

Wallace Stevens said the poet is “the priest of the invisible.”

And that is why poetry –including the poetry of the Bible – is often what I go to when I am tired of this world. I need a clear expression of my mixed feelings to stare into and to know that what I see is not all there is.

“Just now”

Just now,
on the way to the school,
I saw
a cat writhing in pain
in the opposite lane.
And I hated this world
of death
and the friends of this world
who, when
(every time, it seems)
we speak of our cats
feel free
to tell us how, they
do not like them and prefer dogs.


Everyday Poems #10, “No Worries”


“I will show you fear in a handful of dust.” – T.S. Eliot, The Wasteland

I wrote a lot of poems while at my last job. Yes, while. On the clock sometimes under the guise of bathroom breaks, I confess. But most of the time, at lunch. Not only were the ones I read tools of survival. But also the ones I wrote. Xanax was not enough.

It would do little good to tell you all of what I had to do in that cubicle. (Actually, it was many cubicles because every time you made a friend next to you, they moved you. Friendship and conversation were not efficient.) Our job was one of constant frenzy. I worked for a bank and my department was an internal help line for branches. When I took the job, you answered the phone and did everything you could to assist the person on the other end. I enjoyed it because I knew what it looked like and felt like to be in the branch and not be able to find a document, etc.

But that was not efficient. And my department generated no real income for the bank, so efficiency was naturally a driving force.

Not long after I transferred into that department, the job changed and the primary way we assisted the branches was through “chat.” And by the time I left, that is all we were doing. Except that we were doing two at a time. And as soon as we finished one, another chat with a dire problem would pop up. All day long. It never let up. It was frantic. Thus the poems. I knew of at least three others beside myself who were on Xanax or some other anxiety medication.

As far as I knew, I was the only one on poems.

When I found out T.S. Eliot was a banker, I was elated. I immediately went and bought a book of his poems featuring The Waste Land (with a great introduction by Mary Karr) during my lunch break. I also found a short biography. All this encouraged me. I did not always understand his poetry, but I was okay with that. I was so discouraged about my job and full of anxiety, I understood little about anything. The Waste Land was able to say something to me even when I could not understand what he was saying.

“Genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood.” – T.S. Eliot

Worry and anxiety are everywhere now. There is so much chaos and confusion and anger and suspicion and disappointment.

When Christ teaches those who would listen to him, “Do not worry about your life…” in the Sermon on the Mount, he is saying something about reality. And it is not a reality that is no less real because it is unseen. He is saying, “If you follow me and trust me, you will be made citizens of my kingdom and in that kingdom there is no reason to worry. You are safe from the need to worry.”

The following poem anticipates the desire for such a kingdom.

“No Worries”

is what she told me
when I thanked her
for her understanding.
And as the words sat
there on the screen,
I could not help but
think of, “No trespassing.”

And that got me
thinking –
what if we had
structures where
worry had to keep out?

Worries were simply
not allowed.
And in that space – we
could sit
and stand
and even
run free
from what sat outside,
we could not bring them in even if tried.