Wanderings in Place

By Michael Finch

I blink in wonderment of God’s art,
of which we glimpse but a hint,
but to amaze and rejoice and lift
one’s brush, one’s voice, one’s pen.

To praise Him, to please Him, for Him.
So humbly, woefully, artfully we try.
Why art but to remind us all of His glory?

Michael Finch is a passionate advocate of preserving America’s freedom and liberties. In his second collection of poetry, Finch touches on love and loss, America, God, and our place in the world.

Finch’s poems reflect on a variety of relatable topics that lament a different America, community, nature, and our changing and trying times. His verse explores the Lord’s embrace on a heavenly day; a smile that carries all the worries away; a wind-whispered valley of bluegrass, wild oak, and willows that weep in the fading sun of a cooling autumn calm; and the gentle reminders of all of God’s glory.

Wanderings in Place is a volume of inspirational poems that transport us back to a lost America that hopefully will be awakened one day again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Dec 16, 2019
• ISBN: 9781973680901

Michael Finch

Michael Finch has spent his life working in the nonprofit field attempting to preserve America’s freedom and liberties. He has been published widely in a number of journals and is a frequent speaker. Michael lives with his wife and daughter in Southern California. This is his second book of poetry.

Book preview

The Winters of Our Lives

You came to me in a rush, in breeze from slopes fall,

western reach of the foothills shadowed against peaks high,

waters cupped into meadow full.

A scent in the air gone, flown by in a whisper.

Felt, touched softly, now forever lost to the winds south,

far gone in endless days.

Your smile, soft, warmly, sure as nature’s space;

the trees in bloom, and the storms in far distance.

Of your love I feel a brush, a slight pull inside,

but all I see is the sky, the crest of hill, and

road winding to forest end. And a leaf-blown path,

emptied to time, gone and in my soul, alone.

Aching times of your passing to a land unseen.

Cold wind rages forth; a chill runs through

and ices, all warmth and comfort gone.

Bare hillside, gray and cold, sun far beyond a shuddered sky,

all faded, alone, and staring into time.

I sit in falling pose, porch side to a northern reach

of aching bones and withered soul, alone.

A quickening dark sky, winds whirl, winter takes hold.

The Last of the West

Has it come to this, the end?

The last fade of the westward sun sets,

the era of kings and Christ falls.

Two-millennial long, rose and to ash.

The land of Christendom—to die but a whisper?

Mark the date—August 1914—

as the start of a century of ruin and fall,

the end of Athens, Rome, to the white city of Byzantium crowned.

To the Holy Romans, the princes and kings and empires