Dawn breathed a fresh hue over the dark sky as the temperature dropped a couple of degrees in preparation for sunrise. Some days I wake with a heavy weight on my spirit, other days that weight is lifted, but this morning was different. Overwhelmingly grateful and surprisingly stable I rise from the table to examine this new angle. A ritualistic stray from my materialistic way. Into the mystic to stay. I’m planning my great escape. I’m not confined to this cave. The stone’s been rolled away. As needle meets vinyl and coffee fills cup, with eggs on iron my world wakes up. Fruit on table, in bed, and on vine. A sacred waste of time. As dew dries and birds harmonize, the sun loses its grip on the horizon and gets sucked up into the sky. This beautiful space is a slave to time. Existence like incense it’s gone in an instant:

Will your fragrance be psalms of worship or fumes from a war ship?

-Vagrant Saint


(Art= Swedish Painter: Marcus Larson 1825-1864)



On the Turning Away

On the turning away
From the pale and downtrodden
And the words they say
Which we won’t understand

“Don’t accept that what’s happening
Is just a case of others’ suffering
Or you’ll find that you’re joining in
The turning away”

It’s a sin that somehow
Light is changing to shadow
And casting it’s shroud
Over all we have known

Unaware how the ranks have grown
Driven on by a heart of stone
We could find that we’re all alone
In the dream of the proud

On the wings of the night
As the daytime is stirring
Where the speechless unite
In a silent accord

Using words you will find are strange
And mesmerized as they light the flame
Feel the new wind of change
On the wings of the night

No more turning away
From the weak and the weary
No more turning away
From the coldness inside

Just a world that we all must share
It’s not enough just to stand and stare
Is it only a dream that there’ll be
No more turning away?

-David Gilmour (Pink Floyd)

By this we know love, that he laid down his life for us, and we ought to lay down our lives for our brothers. But if anyone has the world’s goods and sees his brother in need, yet closes his heart against him, how does God’s love abide in him? Little children, let us not love in word or talk but in deed and truth.  (1 John 3:16-18)

“Thank you for letting me borrow your jacket. It kept me warm in a cold place. Some people, no matter how much money they make, can’t get out of their own way.”

(Art= German Painter: Caspar David Friedrich 1774-1840)


Ash Wednesday

Thunder in the distance.

Thunder within us.

Burn the veil that blinds me.

Let ash fall all around me.

Loosen the ties that bind me.

Illuminate the shadows that hide me.

I’m on a blood trail.

I fired three arrows into the sky.

Where did they fall?

One in my third eye.

One in a wolf’s hide.

One in my pride.

I’m on a blood trail.

All colors and shapes unite.

Bring light to where they lie.

Send life before they die.


-Vagrant Saint (The spirit moves. Surrender to the giver.)



With a gypsy soul the rebel rolls along the road that goes between sea and stone. Free to roam this land alone until he finds his home. The cold bones of winters tomb urged this heart to search for room. Room to run, to breathe, to move. Room and board where sea meets shore and waters roar to drown the sound of silence. Waves break with unrelenting violence to make way for peace. A cosmic sigh of relief. Reaching toward the sky with the trees he seeks release from the lie that forms a divide between he and birds and beasts.

He and you and me.

-Vagrant Saint


Age of Anxiety

What strange and desperate age is this? We who exploit our very existence to the eyes of all who gaze. What strange and desperate days. With our pocket gods and broken necks we consume and move. False relevance and artificial intelligence fuel our moods. Media masquerades crave constant attention, but silence breeds wisdom. Seclusion gives visions. Unplug from the system, at least for a couple of minutes. Listen, Everything is famous and instantaneous, nothing is dangerous and spontaneous. Consume until we’re brainless. Follow until we’re faithless. Awaiting the next facelift. Cosmetic injection to mask the neglect of vital organs on the other side of the transection. Are we blind to our self-inflicted transgression? Is there an antidote for this pestilent infection?

-Vagrant Saint


(Art= German Painter: Caspar David Friedrich 1774-1840)



World Walker

May my tongue be a brush and my language be paint. I will languish in anguish and angst ’til my way is made straight. I beg of thee, make me a vessel of verse, with wine for words, the arid pages will drink. My blood is ink. My flesh is paper. My mind a sparrow. My heart an anchor. My breath as burnt sage in these strange days. My life is but a vapor. My past a stranger. My future impending danger then rest. Suffocation then breath. Set my lantern aflame, offer refuge from rain and replace a stain with a stain. As I claw through the earth to grasp words that hold worth will these verses spit curses or give birth from the dirt?

-Vagrant Saint


(Art= German Painter: Caspar David Friedrich 1774-1840)



My haunted temple: Enter. Find my innermost being, my epicenter. Through my corridors, rooms, and stairwells take flight. Flood the deepest darkest corners with light. False gods will flee from within me at the roar of Majesty. The Holy Trinity has no capacity for impurity. Fill my courts with angels singing of Your glories and speaking the stories of Jesus and how He frees us and puts back together the broken pieces and completes us. A mosaic that was once broken and torn is now strong enough to weather any storm. New life, new form. Make me an intentional, spiritual, productive citizen of Your vision. Not just religion or superstition, Godly wisdom. Separate me from crooked culture. Free me from the clenches of the vulture.

-Vagrant Saint


Here I am! I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in and eat with that person, and they with me.     -Revelation 3:20

(Art= American Painter: Frederic Edwin Church 1826-1900)