The present is
no slave to
the past.
It is the past.
This moment
does not invent
the future.
It is the future.
Preparing for the future
brings the future
into this very moment.
Reparations for the past
invites the past
into this moment.
The past need not
remain a disappointment
nor the future
a terror
when we gracefully
welcome as dear friends
the future and past
into this
ever-present,
miraculous
moment.
Michael James Fitzgerald
I saw you,
still and alone,
hidden in
satin stream of
sun-polished water.
Shaped by
Infinite hands,
eons gleamed
off every purposed
moment.
With reluctant fury
you tumbled onward,
suddenly
out of reach,
but not
beyond the
invisible, lustrous
friendship
of earth
and sky.
Michael James Fitzgerald
I saw a small
equation written
on the blue
attic of heaven:
God multiplies,
demons divide.
Devil ever pries
mind from soul, but
as God is your sum,
you are indivisible.
Solve for infinity—
the world’s longest
story problem.
Michael James Fitzgerald
Every morning and
every evening, a girl
sat by a stream that
ran through an
ancient forest.
Alone she came,
morning and evening,
to listen to the quiet
and hear the murmur
of her far-off dreams.
And the girl was
the soul of the forest,
and the stream was
the soul of the girl.
The heavenly trees,
kindest of friends,
whispered to the girl
beneath hovering wings.
Cool water glided over
bare feet as she
wrote what would be in
her radiant world of
tomorrows and dreams.
The trees and the water
taught her the way.
In the quiet of the forest,
she found her way.
Michael James Fitzgerald
Anger. You’re a
child of frustration,
born of exhaustion,
a sibling of expectation
and disappointment,
cousin to resentment,
swaddled in judgment
fanned by blame,
cheated by shame,
conceived in pride and
self-deception,
utterly devoured
by a careless,
illegitimate, violent
family of lies.
On the other hand,
great secrets
are hidden in the
randomness of life.
Peace. Thou
child of patience,
protected by sacrifice,
sibling of a warm,
childlike acceptance,
cousin to contentment,
fostered by forgiveness,
nurtured kindly and openly,
held with tenderness
and affection,
conceived in truth and
virtue and honesty—
welcome to the reliable
family of unconditional love.
Lord, create in me a new heart.
Michael James Fitzgerald
I was just a chicken
But not anymore
For that kind of bird
I’ve come to deplore.
I advanced to a chickle
Which helped me begin
At least I was better
Than the chicken I’d been.
Then came the cheagle
I was well on my way
Of becoming a bird
I could live with some day.
Now I can see
As I’m changing my life
When I overcome weakness
I overcome strife.
A chicken, a chickle, a cheagle
One step at a time
I find in my life
I’m beginning to climb.
The goal that I’ve set
Is one that is regal
For I’m raising the bar
And becoming an Eagle.
Dennis Brown
[This poem appears on the wall of the Wasatch chapel in the Utah State Prison, along with pencil drawings of a chicken, a chickle, a cheagle, and an eagle.]
The Christmas tree sleeps
in its
cardboard casket
as starlight lingers
on wintered earth.
Secretly, quietly,
the music plays on
(angels dare not
refuse to sing).
Magic, and oh!
my Sweet Magician!
Wonder will
reappear at
any moment.
Michael James Fitzgerald
