A beautiful contemplation…

This is actually Pathway Poem #22, but I decided to use a title instead. The poem today is by Paul Quenon, a Trappist monk whose novice master and spiritual director at the abbey of Gethsemani was Thomas Merton. The poem is found in Unquiet Vigil: New and Selected Poems published by Paraclete Press. In the […]

Who Is Talking to Whom — Pathways to God

LaMon is a fellow blogger I met over at Mark’s Naturalist Weekly where we all enjoy sharing haiku and nature. Some of you will deeply appreciate this one.



Adam inhaled the breath of God,
mingled it with doubt,
shifted blame, exhaled deceit;
Paradise was lost.

Job declared who gave him life;
with comprehension gone,
tears and pleas, pain and death;
his breath in sync with God.

Messiah poured out the Spirit
freely on His companions.
Men and women inhaled love;
began again the Kingdom.

I need inspiration to live
poetry from God’s imagery.
To inhale His holy breath,
I must exhale my own.

Biblical references: Genesis 1:2, 2:7; Job 1:21, 27:3, 32:8, 33:4;
Ecclesiastes 12:7; John 20:22
Photo: Hilmar Derksen

Pairings #3


A delicate oriole nest 
hanging near the end
of a willow branch
with long green leaves
swaying on a gentle breeze

In late Spring
I watched the bustle
weave and hustle
flashing orange and black and yellow
feeding in and flying out

One day a sort of panic 
as mother fluttered frantic
from edge to edge
while fledglings visited
and father brought provision

In that nursery next morning
mother slumped and bent
silent and unmoving
crumpled in her little tomb
spent and color fading 

Affixed to the nest
a tender chick
pinned and deadly tethered
by its small upright back
still and downy feathered

Snagged and tacked
unable to fall or fly
poised in death
its tiny wings outspread
facing toward the sky

Now both softly rocking
in their transient home
I wonder at her natural
gift of living 
beyond herself alone


Our Father 
who sees each sparrow fall
who counts the hairs
of our troubled head
give us strength
when we have none

*Matthew 10:29-30; 2 Corinthians 12:9

Photo by Frank Cone @ Pexels

Pairings #2


Our lagoon 
is first to freeze.
Long and less deep,
beside a Great Lake.
On sun sparkled ice
fall-fattened geese
land and slide, 
not so gracefully, 
then plop down.
I drop onto the
wooden bench. 
My winter jacket 
of down feathers
slowly absorbs
the cold bright sky.


You ask me, why.
Who can give birth to ice?
Who begets frost from the sky?
Who can kiss
water to stone?
Whose breath alone
can freeze the abyss?

*Job 37:10; 38:29-30 in paraphrase, with poetic license

Photo: Queen’s Lake Nature Reserve, New South Wales
by Christopher Hill at Wikimedia Commons


Fathers in nature

Fathers who sing

Fathers by nature

Fathers unsung

Unknown fathers

Absent fathers

Abusive fathers

Patient fathers

Founding fathers

Church fathers

Fathers of faith

Foundling fathers

Father of Light

Father of the Son

Father always with me

Our Father, the One


In tender camaraderie
within the covers
of body and mind
I declared to him:
My shoulders are
in my heart
No better yet:
My shoulders are
in my womb
To one up me
he said:
Mark off a spot
I’m all shoulder

Solitary now
Calling on God
for insight
and scanning
the night sky
Entranced I see
the birth of galaxies
He shows me
opening upon opening
wheeling within
Brilliant harmony

My vision reaps
ecstatic time with
grateful humility
This is home
While living lies
in the light of others
we can only reflect
But a better way
is a mystery
To mirror what we
cannot know

Who is able
to bear the weight
of losing matter?
Cloaked in pride
eclipsed by certainty
I grasp reason
and forfeit
precious faith
When I surrender
the shadows
I am lifted into
the Light
of pure Love

Photo, Coconino National Forest – Flagstaff (Public Domain)

H o s p i t a l

We look down at
dumb magazines
or smart phones
While deep inside
panic zooms memory
down the halls
droning in our ears

We calculate our
luck infinitely
Constrict our
honeycombed throats
Emergency sirens
swarm outside
Claxons alarm us

Hearts in
the waiting room
enter pleas
with promises
and we sit here
guts strung out
on a sting

Hesitant and polite
we dance around
the obvious entrance
where fear and
faith are spoken
What becomes of
our beloved?

At this late hour
regrets cling like
pollen on bouquets
The janitor crosses
a shampooed carpet
to remove the
withered blossoms