Introduction

Poetry is a means of exploration. By this I mean that it is not so much a way of stating what we know as a tool for seeking what exists behind the world we already know.
When we write a poem, we are never sure where it may come out. A poet enters into his subject with the same feeling of discovery that Lewis and Clark felt when the first explored the land beyond the Mississippi. This world of reflection is a wild, unknown place. We have no idea what wonders may await there. Often, we sit down to write one kind of poem, only to discover in the subject something else entirely. We may think we are going to write a love poem, a hymn or nature poem, and something else comes out of the chaos and demands to be written. We can never be sure, when be begin the exploration of our own souls, where we may be led in the reflection of a moment.
A human soul is a vast and unknown territory. Inside us lay territories, limitless spaces, profound truths, burning passions, and deep wells of mystery. There are paths that lead to contemplate the heavens, the temple of God. There are unexpected shady places of humor and grace. There are deep and horrific realms of darkness. There are fields of quietness and beauty, jagged thunderstorms of anger and fear, and hidden bowers where love dwells. Those who have succumbed to the slavery of the literal leave such places alone. They know they are there somewhere inside, but they leave them alone. Prose is a useless tool to probe the inner realms. Poetry is more suited to record the world of the Spirit.
A poet must understand the difference between objects and feelings. She knows before she ever puts pen to paper or touches the keys of her computer that her observations are of realities that exist only in her imagination. He subject is what lies in her own mind. It is not the thing itself, but her reaction to the thing. She doesn’t care. Objectivity is the stuff of science, not song.
Poetry is really an exploration of self, not the world itself. The poet does not fall victim to the so-called “pathetic fallacy”--the confusion of our own emotions with the world. Sunflowers do not smile. We smile when we see a sunflower. Trees do not applaud. Something inside of us applauds when we see a tree. The outside world is without feeling or knowledge.
When we observe the world, reacting and acting in it, reality makes echoes inside us. The cry of a baby, the smell of a rose, a sunset on a summer evening resonate inside us, causing our feelings to stir inside. Those inner echoes are what poetry is all about. It is the record of response to what exists.
Poetry is personal archaeology. It digs out the secrets of our past, both personal and collective. It blows away the dust of the years, and reminds us of feelings we have forgotten.
Poetry is personal astronomy. It peers outward from our center, giving us a glimpse of our higher selves. It maps our relative position to what we can only glimpse with our imagination.
Poetry is personal physics. It struggles to split the tiniest particles, to trace the nearly indedectable nuances in life. At the same time, it seeks the grand unification of all things. It seeks the face of God.
Poetry is spirituality. It looks for answers to unanswerable questions. It reaches out in hope for paths that lead to God. Poetry makes concrete the numinous realms of faith. Once is is written, that faith becomes “the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.”
Poetry is our lifetime companion. It rocks us to sleep when we are children. It makes our feet move. It comes to us in the songs we hear. It eases our pain as we lay near death.
Poetry is all this and more.
For most of my life, I have written poetry purely for my personal enjoyment. It has been a toy to me, playing with words like building blocks. Other times, it has been my mirror, revealing myself to myself. It has been sacramental, lighting the pathway that leads me to God—or more accurately that led God to me.
Now I want to share some of what I have written with you. These are the music I hear in my head which I have kept inside. Now I have a desire to share it. and see whether there is anyone out ther who can dance to it as well.
So, friend and reader--I give you these verses. Do with them what you wish--read them, forget them, remember them, or cherish them. My hope is that they may enlighten some corner of your own inner world. If these poems give you even a small fraction of the pleasure that I had when I wrote them, then I will be satisfied.
Welcome to my inner world. I hope you enjoy your stay.