Thursday, October 8, 2015

Drink It Up.

Come over here.
To the other side of the lake.
Where we dabble in mystery.
Where shadows are eternal.
Music is Celtic, and fiddles cry.
The animals are with us.
The hippies make us wonder.
St. Francis.
The Pope is with us.
Buddha is with us.
Jesus has long hair and is homeless.
No one has a gun.
Everyone eats French cheese.
Children are cared for,
from conception till death.
We smoke.
We dream.
We help each other.
We grow our food.
We are boring.
We celebrate the morning.
We hurt each other.
We are narcissist.
We love unconditionally.
Water flows into our cup.
It is miraculously turned into wine.
The wine is God's blood.
Drink it up.

Tuesday, September 22, 2015


The serious know.
They understand. 

They don't judge.
They comprehend. 

The merciful wait.
They know their sins.

The forgiven bow,
And begin again.

God is OTHER
He is not us.

We're made in His "Image"
We welcome rust.

Jesus is given.
He is received.

We are to cipher,
What this all means.


Friday, August 28, 2015

New Album by The Wineskins September 1...

You can get it now at

These songs were inspired by our unplanned reunion. Jeff and I came together in 2013 after a few years apart. I happened to be in Nashville working for a year, and one day I dropped by his place on Music Row unannounced. It's as if we had never been apart. The muse was stronger than ever. These were the first songs we wrote. We never meant for this to be an album. Most of these are the only recording of the song. We put the song together, get the feel, press record, and play it. These are all first takes. This is raw. This is real. These are all recorded on a hand held stereo recorder. Jeff would sit on one side of the desk, me on the other. In between, placed on a coffee mug, was the recorder. There is no mixing, overdubs, or panning. Every noise, tone, sound, you hear happened in that moment. 

Hope you enjoy, Keith.

Tuesday, August 4, 2015


It is 6:14 PM on Monday,


I'm worn out. 

Wonder if I should have been a monk?

The fan in my room hums.

I sit at my desk and almost pray.

But nothing I say is what I think. 

I hear a small voice. 

Jesus commanded us. 

"Eat my body, drink my blood"

It made them so mad they left. 

Read what happened in John 6:66 after he said it. 

Hey, hold on there sinner. 

"Excuse me while I kiss the sky"--JH

White wine and water. 

I'm sitting here filled with numb.

Confucius say something. 

Pilate asked what truth is.

Jesus called himself the truth. 

If he was not, then he was fucking crazy. 

I try to do my job. 

So do you. 

And the voice I hear,

You hear it too. 

Once, today, I looked into a mirror. 

I don't know who it was.

I washed my face with cold water. 

Wait, hold on there sinner. 


Sunday, August 2, 2015

Too Mysterious

I have never been to Tangiers.
But I want to go. 
I want to walk those streets.
Smell the hashish and lamb.

When I was in Istanbul,
I felt the calling to go there. 
Istanbul is a confusion. 
Not ready to live fully. 

Copenhagen is trying,
But failing miserably. 
It believes fancy shops and posh clubs are real. 
I loved every minute walking it. 

God is not considered.
The Other is too demanding. 
He/She is too mysterious. 
Like snow in July. 


Monday, July 27, 2015

To Something Else

This yellow paint,

reminds me of a bird. 

A Finch I once saw,

On a feeder in a yard of a friend. 

Why doesn't yellow smell like yellow?

Why doesn't purple smell like purple?

All paint smells the same. 

It shouldn't be this way. 

All of these scratches,

Chips off the corners,

Where someone has hit them,

With something they were carrying. 

Jack my dog is watching.

Always trying to make eye contact.

Either to hug me, or, to tell me something,

I love every animal that has been a part of our life.

Cats, dogs, horses, crows. 

Crows have always been with me.

No matter where I've traveled or lived,

They find me.  

Once while moving to Spokane,

Driving from Oxford, Mississippi,

We stopped at an eatery in the Shasta Mountains, Northern California. 

Crows recognized me. You can ask my wife. 

I want to get out of here. 

Go somewhere where the weather is a ghost. 

A place of wind and mist. 

Where the ocean can be heard pounding a rocky shore. . 

Sell it all. 


Not away from anything,

But to something else. 


July 27, 2015

Tuesday, July 21, 2015

Grapefruits and Ghosts

Grapefruits and ghosts.

Radiohead and Pavarotti.

Ambulances pass by.

Ave Maria.

One day God. One day Dog.

Inside a rose bush.

Bleeding and beautiful.

Two shades of red. 

Your image is sex.

Walking, smoldering. 

Summer in Oxford.

Sweat beads on your skin, the rosary.

"Are you ok?"

She asked her husband,

Who had fallen into a ditch.

A few yards ahead.

"Prayer is a confusing idea.

So is nothingness.

So is you and me." 

"Excuse me?" she asked.

Another ambulance. 

Hail Mary...

It's hot.

Radiohead emotes.  


Saturday, July 18, 2015


Terror is losing steam.
Terror is meant to be a surprise.
Terror is meant to be unnerving. 
Now, we know everything. 

We know who kills. 
We know their thoughts. 
We know they could strike anytime.
We expect them to. 

Terror has lost this dimension, 
We are no longer freaked out by "it". 
Yes, it kills us, lames us, scares us. 
But, something else is happening to us. 

Our leaders knows terror. 
They represent us in your towns and cities.
To you, Jack destroyed your Nation.
Jane killed your children at the wedding in Bajaur.

A terrorist mimics memories.
He becomes numb over time. 
Killing is the drug that makes him feel.
But in doing so, he only spreads numbness. 

Now we are becoming numb.
Soon, will we be a people of boredom too?
Bored with the surprise of our children dying daily?
Then, will we strap on bombs to feel something?

Oh Terror, you have become a fabric we wear. 
You have become an old shoe. 
A shoe thrown at a ducking president.
A shoe thrown at a fucking president. 

At this level of theology,
A gong and cymbal never stop crashing.
Love becomes terror. 
Terror becomes love.  


Wednesday, July 15, 2015

If We Are

For something or someone,
Speak of love.

Rain pummels the fresh cut grass.
Thunder rumbles like a sleeping lion.

Hindu's believe in everything.
The oldest religion.

Atheist believe in nothing.
The oldest religion. 

Sounds of rain change from soft to hard.
My blue reading candle is the only light. 

The scent of lilacs fills the room.
I hear her making a cup of coffee in the kitchen. 

She walks into my study,
Just waking up, sitting by the window. 

I know not to speak yet. 
Wait until the second cup, maybe. 

I have nothing to say anyway.
I just want her here. 

She stares out at the rain,
She's so lovely it breaks my heart. 

If God is.
If we are. 

Thunder again. 
A waterfall pounds the deck. 

Need a new gutter. 
Need a new deck. 


Thursday, July 9, 2015

Honeysuckle Wind

The wind nearly took my hat.

The doors are off the Jeep.

I hear birds singing. 

I don't hear them as well when the doors are on.

Summer. Uncomfortable humid wind from the south. 

A large doe there by the edge of the woods

Tan fur contrasts beautifully with the lime-green thicket behind her.

She eases into the underbrush, disappearing before my eyes. 

Summer weeds grow high in the pasture.

Baked gold in the sun's constant stare.

My dogs bark, want me to follow them. 

But I want to sit here under the slumbering Oak. 

They run into the trees.

I hear fallen limbs cracking beneath the hooves of the doe. 

The dogs give up quickly. 

Honeysuckle wind comes from the forest.

The shade from the ancient oak is dense. 

Almost dark under here. 

Silky black dirt ground to powder,

Shuffled upon by a herd of docile cows.

I step out of the Jeep onto the cool ground.

Blackened smooth roots rise just above the surface. 

I sit down among strong scents of animal and earth.

A memory bursts to mind of an innocent child playing.   


Wednesday, July 8, 2015


Can you walk away the anxiety?
I'm on my one millionth mile. 

Or an eternal mile.
Walking helps most everything. 

Jim Harrison always wrote about it.
He had to walk off all the French wine and rich vittles.

I hear lawn mowers up and down the street. 
It's July in North Mississippi.

It is 3:45 in the afternoon.
In other words, it is hot. 

But walk I shall anyway damn it. 
I need to sweat and get some color.

I'm too white. 
Wish I had more Choctaw blood. 

in my forehead. 

I'm so happy I stumbled upon the picture.
It's why I found out I had some of The People' s blood. 

A humble day. 
A proud day. 

Ok, time to go walk. 
Adios, arrivederci, Ciao. Nah Duh.


Tuesday, July 7, 2015


What do we know?
Pretty red roses have thorns.

Nothing's as it seems.
Isn't it better this way?

If we knew everything,
We would know nothing.

"I have no answers for you."
He says to the cracked mirror. 

God. Other. Trinity. Mystery. Jesus. Bukowski, Yeats.
Buddha. Zen. Merton. Knausgaard. Mary. Joseph. Saints. 

One hand clapping. 
On ear hearing, one eye seeing. 

Every effort with passion, 
Crumbles as it should. 

Success is mischief. 
Greed is antichrist. 

Failure is good. 
Anger then sadness. 

Sadness then fear. 
Comes thoughts of shadow. 

Death. Meaning. Talent. 
Here it is, never buried. 

"Rewards await thee in heaven",
The parallel beatific waiting room.

Love is a mess.
"Skin and breath and hair"---Bruce Cockburn

As I tread the water of this sea. 

This ocean of boring, consistent confusion. 
My body of water. Mine!

I can walk on it, dance on it, have a tantrum on it!,
Storms are commonplace, within a single  wave of thought.  

Waves still scare me.
The surface hides a silent bewilderment and melancholy.

I would be lying,
to lead you on otherwise.



Saturday, June 27, 2015

"Travelers" Produced by Phil Keaggy

Hello friends, it's been a while since I used this list for an email. I hope everyone is well. Peace and love. 

One morning a few years ago, I was sitting at Phil's kitchen table drinking green tea. I was finishing up a new lyric and I read it to him. He fetched a guitar and within about ten minutes the song A Little Bit Of Light entered the world. 

Not long after this, Phil produced my second album, Travelers. It has not been available digitally until now.  Please check it out. It was an amazing experience. Ken Lewis played drums and percussion. Ellen Crandle sang back up vocals on some of the tunes. Phil played guitars, bass, keyboards, etc... as only Phil can. I wrote these songs during a time of restlessness and curiosity. To quote Yeats, these songs came "Because a fire was in my head". It was the beginning of a journey that continues. 

You can hear it, and purchase here, if you like. 

Peace and love to all,