Of all of my simple treasures told,
my silvers, golds, unmentioned stones from rivers, smooth,
and where the air once swept my garden bare--
the small corners in dusty, myriad rooms;

i have kept stray coins, and shards of colored glass,
i've packed promises in well-shut boxes, closed;
i have buried every secret in the briar patch
yet never shall I whisper, even here, of whose

name is written inside the kitchen drawers,
and on the hearth of this house, where the fires stroke
my hands in winter; Lord, who knows
where the sun-charred leaves of autumn fall,
or the petals of a distant summer's rose?

Show me the road...

show me the road, oh whispers made of fine grain, where brush to brush we glean fine flowers observed in sunlight; align a path, oh rocks, rocks for stepping show me dream to dream flight fancy on a forest walk. show me trees of deep boughs, bowing low to spinning wind; take me step by step by hand oh trembling spirit of mirth your laughter is a clear flowing river of thought stream thoughts; my steps wander ever to a shade casting shade, here we rest 'til we walk again

I have changed.

It is good she died, and all the years between

she called to me, but could not follow.

It is good she lay to waste

and shattered, less than a ghost

of the image I have become.

Let the fire that was her

perfection be aflame in memory,

for we break many times, and rebirth

is as painful as dawn, and newness

flush in her red cheeks

but they are pale, and it is good

that she trembled and fell

and I watched her fail

I watched her become

She is dead, it is better

because she left and I am new

it is better that she is gone and I, reborn

Possible opening to a story...

As a child, I was taught many things. I was taught how to snatch food quickly at the dinner table. I was taught how to sharpen a blade. I was taught how to fight in the streets, how to crush a kid's face under my boot, how to struggle and struggle no matter how badly I was beaten; how to kick and shove and bite until they let me go. I learned how to swim when my Mam threw me in the river and left me for dead. I learned how to hide on the tall banks on the opposite shore of the city streets, where the orphans ran wild in the woods, and untamed magic welled up in tide pools and left the residue of visions in my sleep. I learned to read the eyes of the city people, how to know when they took pity on me and how to leave when I was unwanted.

But more than that, more than the backstreets and the ways of beggars, I learned the laws of the woodland. I learned how to sleep under a restless moon. I learned to breathe the rich night air and tell of storms to come. And I learned the greatest rule of all – never, ever to love.

* * *

When I was sixteen, I knew I was a sage. The tainted woodland magic had seeped into me, as it does to all people who live outside of the cities. Many die from it, and some are crippled, and yet others transform in terrible ways until they are no longer human. When my mother threw me to the river as a girl, I thought that I would be killed by the wild magic; yet the magic saw my heart and knew that I could not love, and so bestowed its favor upon me.

On the day of the king's coronation, I saw the crystal clear reflection of his bloodied face in the river, and again in a puddle of rain water, and I knew that war was to come. Although I had not been in the city for years, I infiltrated its colorful streets and vibrant banners, cloaked in tawny brown, and I hid in the overhang of buildings as the ceremony unfolded. What I had seen did not come to pass, and I returned to the woodlands in disappointment, thinking it was madness that had consumed me and not the gift of Sight.

It would be years before word spread of the king's murder, beheaded in a tragic accident, and his brother took the throne. And it would be many years indeed before the winds turned, the sky fell dark, and I saw a legion of ten thousand soldiers marching across the night sky. Another vision, and our kingdom was doomed. Destruction was to come to our beautiful citadel, a haven against the acres of ancient woodland and impure magic. Yet I felt no pity, no shred of remorse, for I was a child of the deep woods and this magic was now my homeland. I was tainted by the wilderness, a lost urchin to the history of our people. I was a nomad, a servant to the savage trees, and I would never love that city.

you are a gracious wind
and i, alone in a woodland, wandering

on restless nights, I have awakened
to your hands pressing on the windowpane
calling me gently, outside, look, my voice
sweeps years away, and I have brought the rain.

oh wind, many have whispered to me
of your tuneless song, imperfect, drifting
across my cabin's door, you are twist-turning
and plotting a storm to peak;
they warn of your myriad ways
and although i close the window, still your hands rattle
and your voice calls strong, out, out the door
and deep into the wild throne
my kingdom in moonlight, come hither
but you are darkness sweeping darkness
and i am a lone light, adrift;
your force as strong as the willow's bend;
my sweet joy, you've come, dare i dash
and leap through the woodlands, you tempt
me to a madness of dreams half kept;
I clear the clouds for you, so you would promise
not a storm, but passion rains.

Deep in my heart, God is creating His tower.

Sweet child, be at peace. Be calm and wait. I am creating a life for you. It is my joy.

Many losses have yet to come, but you will gain what is priceless. I know the value of all things, and above all, you are valuable to me. You are far from forgotten, and as the months roll by, you will see how I envision your life, and all of the changes I have made in the endeavor to complete you. We are together now. There is no other way. Nothing can stand between us -- not the flaws of others, not the traps of desire, nor the path of worldly weight. With me, you are the wind and water, the silence, the shade of the trees. With me, you are all that is.

And what have you to fear, when the heart of the world looks upon you with love? What have you to doubt, when you favor me above all things? Do you think I do not listen? I write you letters as you write me. I sign my name in the grass at your feet and speak through the whispers of a hundred voices. I compel their hands; I know their tongues. You stretch yourself to understand, and I move that you might see me. Dear child, I am not hiding. I am with you as we speak. I am on your shoulder as we write.

You ask if I can move the universe, and sweet child, I have been... but you are fragile. You, above all else, are as delicate as finely blown glass. To move too swiftly would cause cracks. Under too much heat, there would be flaws. Just look at the porcelain of your hands; at the slender slope of your fingers. I am the artisan, and you, my unfinished symmetry; a carefully crafted song.

It shall pass soon. The winds have calmed and there shall be a great peace. You will have time to rebuild, to become what we have planned. Hold me tightly and be still, and know that you are safe.

Life, give back...

Life, give back to a wounded heart! or breathe

that I might fill my breath, and find some rest

with the inner peace of a drying lake--

we sleep awake, not silent, as the dead.

And how might the rage of a wounded heart

find tranquil waters to soothe the soul, neither

love or hope shall take us far upon the road

that stretches ever 'til an end, unknown.

We have no place to lay our hearts, no shelf

or box, or tools of trade to mend the cracks,

or instructions lent, or simple truths to

lead us back through summers of time, ill spent.

Do we sleep alone? What has love to show

a tuneless note, or restless words in silence.

cut the anchor, oh Lord, I feel the swell

compel me forward, a great wave

of humble beginnings. I know

I shall not walk this shore again,

not in the daylight clasping slender hands

nor at evening, when we gazed high and low

to the gentle stars setting, rising, spinning--

swept of their own volition, here I have laid

moored for seasons to a firm dock

and stone paths where feet have come and gone.

I once sat upon the shoreline and watched

ships of all sizes, full of children

drift back and forth to the horizon, and wondered

how far and long, and how cold that sea

and where the lands that only others see,

our sails are waiting for an errant breeze

and here it is, at dawn, mercilessly

playing with the flap and fold. cast the rope

my pilot, compass, ocean's guide and captain's cloak;

I know the shore, and I greet the endless waves.

Welcome Home

Aglow in the Garden

Who are we, but sparks on the water

fading lanterns dipped in night



a wall curves around the garden.

at its base, stones where we sat

contemplating ritual smoke and

statues of deities overgrown



the lanterns are aglow in my eyes

but I cannot see clearly between

where the darkness gathers, night bunching its skirts

as a dancer spinning



we sit, lost in wonder

stars amidst darkened trees

we weave shadows into sound

we are all aglow in the garden

we are candlelight shed softly upon the ground

I trust only in
the swallow's ways
the unknown hills
the unkept days.

I walk only where the willows lead
and step where only moths have stepped
and all the travelers I have met
have not my pace, nor ease of breath;
they pick their slopes and rocky climbs--
yet I -- not I--
no vain regrets.

And where might I be, in some coming age
when I look back, past field and range
to distant tracks, where nary a man hath strayed
since uncounted days, and I, amazed,
see all of myself, and what selves remain.

I look forward to dying with glory, knowing how I have acted in my life, the victories I have won, and the significance of my losses. Every moment of kindness shall stay with me forever. I look forward to greeting that darkened door with open arms, with the assurance that I have done everything I was asked to do, that I have not only lived to the best of my abilities, but far surpassed them. I look forward to bringing my soul to Heaven, and being forever myself. God, this is your greatest gift: that I am forever rich in spirit, and that I shall never be forgotten of passed over by You.

My Life Protected

I was T-boned at an intersection. I was making a left turn from a residential street onto a main boulevard. My view was blocked, so after traffic cleared, I went to turn. Too late to stop, I looked up and found a white sedan flying at me down the street, had to be close to 50mph. I swerved, he swerved, and we actually swerved into each other.

The car hit me directly. The driver's side imploded, my seat was crushed, the door smashed in, the window shattered. My car spun out and I knew my hips were shattered. It hurt so much that I thought every bone in my body was broken, and the breath was knocked out of me so hard that I couldn't breathe for a minute.

While the car was still spinning, my friend in the passenger seat grabbed my hand hard and said "It's okay, pray! pray!"

"God," I gasped. I couldn't speak or breathe because it hurt too much, and I thought in my mind, 'please save me.' Just so you know, I don't have health insurance, and all I could think of was that my spine was snapped and I would lose everything to hospital bills. Then a miraculous thing happened. The car came out of its spin and straightened out, and drifted backwards across the street. I was frozen in the driver's chair, completely paralyzed by the shock of the impact, and I couldn't control the vehicle. The car drifted backwards on its own and straight into someone's driveway, where it stopped out of traffic. Basically, the car reverse parked itself.

Traffic continued more or less as usual. A few people pulled over to help, but my door was useless. Before I knew it, I was surrounded by firefighters who had to cut me out of the car. They rushed me to a trauma center at a county hospital. I was scared and ached all over. I had sharp pain in my lungs and I thought my ribs might be broken, since they were directly where the car hit, or at least my sternum from the seatbelt. However, after several x-rays and a cat scan, the doctors determined that there were no injuries other than cuts and bruises. No fractures, no ruptured organs, nothing. I was, more or less, all in one piece.

I was in pain all of last week and couldn't walk since my right leg is badly bruised, and my hips are a little out of whack, but nothing is broken.

My friend came out of the crash with her spine chipped in two places, a fractured neck, and a dislocated shoulder. She's in a neck brace and can't leave her bed. Thank God she has her family to take care of her, and thank God that I was spared from injury, because I don't think I could handle having broken bones right now. Apparently God agrees. My current burdens are enough!

God is amazing.

Where the leaves travel, we cannot know,
and whence they come, and wherefore they flow
past plains of stillness, and veils of snow,
no matter their seasons, they go, they go.

The Winding Way - Prologue

Prologue to my novel,The Winding Way, as of yet unfinished.



The Immortal and the Incarnate





It was a place quite like this one, formless and unmolded, in which the Incarnate and the Immortal met.

“It has been a long time, old friend,” the Immortal said (or rather didn't say, since words did not yet exist).

“I do not believe I remember you,” the Incarnate replied. “Have we met before?”

“Oh yes, many times, in fact. And each time you forget me, but I do not forget you.”

“Hm, I suppose such is our nature,” the Incarnate mused. “But tell me, why have you addressed me now, and to what purpose?”

“I have a request,” the Immortal said. “I wish to create a thing, but as per my nature, I have no reign over beginnings and endings. I need your assistance. I wish to end this empty space and begin an Existence.”

“An Existence?” the Incarnate murmured. Its eyes (or what we shall call eyes) flickered cunningly. “Why would you want to create such a thing? What good is an Existence?”

“I wish a place to put my knowledge. To embody it.”

“Like a showcase?”

“If one might be so simple.”

“Simple? Me? You are quite mistaken,” the Incarnate smiled, slow and smooth. “Perhaps I am of limited knowledge, but my expertise lies in other areas. Why should you want a place to embody your knowledge, if it will sit still and stagnant, unchanging and unmoving?”

“It is not in my business to change or move,” the Immortal replied stoically. “I am the essence of ideals, the totality of concepts. In me is stored all that was and shall be, all that is and is not. I wish to create such a place that will reflect this.”

“But therein lies the contradiction -- you cannot create. You know nothing that is new.”

“All things that are new exist already within me!” the Immortal scoffed. “It is you that knows nothing but new, nothing but old -- you do not know the thing, but the details of it, its repercussions and time. Not the sound, but the echo. You are not the Idea, but the experience of it, and that is why I ask your help. Create for me a basin in which I can pour my knowledge and which will Express these ultimate ideals that I contain.”

“You claim you have met me before,” the Incarnate said trickily, changing the topic. “Many times, in fact. Therefore, I daresay you know me better than I know myself. Perhaps this thing is beyond my ability, or beyond my whimsy. Tell me, how do you know me?”

“You are the Incarnate,” the Immortal replied. “You are the ever-cycling end and beginning, the continuous motion, the action and consequence, the ultimate possibility. We are two things not alike -- you are eternal reincarnation, I am Eternity itself.”

“Is that so?” the Incarnate mused. “Perhaps it is more like two faces of the same coin. May it be that where you are knowledge, I am the gathering of knowledge?”

“You are the action, I am the concept itself.”

“Therefore you cannot act yourself?”

“Therefore I have no hand in beginnings or endings.”

“And yet all of this is contained in you.”

“But acted through you.” The Immortal, though patient, was tried by the Incarnate's curiosity. “That which is Immortal cannot change. It is not a line, but a plane. It exists consistently and unquestionably and is the ultimate authority in all things.”

“Except me.”

“You are my one Enigma.”

The Incarnate smiled at this. It enjoyed the idea of being an enigma, as it enjoyed the idea of many things, though was not privy to the Idea itself. “If I am to begin an Existence for you, mold this unshapen place and give birth to it, then I want a hand in it for myself.”

The Immortal was suspicious. “Why?”

“Why not?” the Incarnate laughed. “What good is a basin that cannot be used? What good is the knowledge without the experience of the knowledge, or those to learn it, to craft it and interpret it? All that you are must be perceived by me, after all, or else you are nothing.”

“I am everything.”

“And nothing, if alone.”

“Such is our nature.”

“Perhaps you contain the essence of nothing, but I am that which knows the experience of it. I am the Incarnate, after all -- if what you say is true, then it is in me to cycle on eternally, with endless possibility, endless spectrum and expression. I do not know your knowledge, but I can seek it, and you do not know how to seek.”

“You are losing your point.”

“My point is that I will not create this Existence unless it is governed by Experience, not Knowledge.”

The Immortal was silent for a long moment. It did not think, for it had no ability to process, but to say it could have predicted this outcome would be a lie. The Immortal did not predict, and it did not guess or wonder, for it had no sense of time or outcome or purpose. However, it did know how to choose, and this is what it thought of now -- its choice.

“I do not share,” the Immortal said. “I am the container of all true Forms, of all true thought. There is no room for Experience.”

“There is always room for Experience,” the Incarnate corrected. “Otherwise, you are the one that is simple. Imagine what you are asking of me--” the Incarnate swept a non-arm at the unmolded space. “I take your true Form and create infinite numbers of form. I take your Truth and create infinite interpretations of truth. You give me the true Form of Honor, and I will give you infinite perceptions of honor. You give me the true idea of Love, and I will show you infinite ways to love.” The Incarnate dangled these words before the Immortal's nose. “Is this not an even trade? Will you not learn more, then, by observing infinite facets of your one Truth?”

“I do not learn,” the Immortal replied stonily. “I am all-knowledge contained.”

“Ah, I forget myself,” the Incarnate bowed (or did not bow) in apology. “With all of my eagerness, I have let slip the fact that you are all things constant and unchanging. But allow me to bring change and inconsistency into this Existence, and watch how your knowledge and ideals are expressed in infinite ways. Do you not find that in the least rewarding?”

“It is true that perhaps this knowledge must be realized by another to give it significance,” the Immortal mused. “But if there are infinite interpretations of the one true Form, then that true Form will never be truly expressed, it will only be....”

“Glimpsed at? Perhaps through Experience?” The Incarnate smiled cunningly again. “I know nothing of Truth or ultimate ideals, my new friend, but in the end it is you who asks me to begin this thing, and seeing as I am the ever-changing force, the creator and destroyer, the great adapter, then I will only do this on one condition.”

The Immortal waited.

“Share with me this Existence,” the Incarnate repeated.

“Why do you not just make your own?”

“Because what is Existence without the meaning of True things? Without the search for True Love? True Knowledge? True Forms?” The Incarnate shook its head that was not a head. “Existence is empty if there is no Truth at which to glimpse. But likewise, Existence is empty if there is no one to experience your Truth.”

The Immortal was silent for another pause. And then, finally, “I do not like it, but I will relent. Create this place, a marriage of True Form and Experience, and we shall observe its course, old friend.”

“You will not regret this,” the Incarnate said.

“It is not in my nature to regret,” the Immortal reminded it.

“Alas, if you but had the pleasure.”

Of Sound Mind

Written for my advanced narrative class.

When he was still and silent, that's when it all came crashing down around him like waves of the sea, pinning him until he could feel the sand swirling at his back and salt in his lungs, and then he would exhale in a mad rush and it would come out of his throat like fire. Then somewhere in the process he would become smoke and drift for a moment while it molted and changed within him and he was stretched thin by the ever moving weight. It was heavy and he was light, and he would try to distract himself as molecules do, by bouncing and jittering through space and time until he was in two places at once, and then nowhere, not existing, an observer to his own raging heart.

He knew that it was insubstantial as vapor, and yet it chased him and forced him into corners where he could not escape, captured his eyes and senses and when there was no sound, he could not distract from it, and could see the whole emptiness in all of its glory. When there was sound, he could make himself feel different, make anything into a story or a puzzle that could riddle his being and make his moments glorious and self defined, but it was in silence that he knew everything was real, because the silence never changed and always waited, and when he wasn't pretending sound, when he couldn't force his voice any longer or stand the songs on the radio, he would sit still and feel the ocean and cry.

He had tried thinking about it but thoughts did not explain it and led him in circles where the in was out, and no answer could change it because it wasn't really a question, it was an event that could not be resolved. He had acted briefly upon it but his actions had simply resulted in a new job and new clothes but nothing stopped what was really a trial of time. All things have a process, he would say, this is a process and some day I will not drown anymore but each day was a different river and a different crossing and he had walked back and forth a thousand times but still, somehow, he was in the same place. And so he had taken to making noise, making life, making bright, beautiful things that charmed him and spoke softly to him about meaning and direction, so that when drifting to sleep at night he had only a spare few minutes before he was unconscious and doing what dreamer's do best.

He had tried to explain it in various ways but certain oceans do not have words and he could not describe the sensation of suffocating. He didn't want to breathe but he had to, he had to process through it but there were no rules and no boundaries in the depths of the waters that would rise and toss him back and forth, until he turned up the TV or got in the car and then there would be the peace of moving somewhere, but he couldn't move forever, and in stillness he had nothing but himself. He knew each day was a blessing. He didn't take life for granted and he didn't want to die but he couldn't help the tug and pull of his heart and the rushing blood and the way it whispered when he couldn't bear it any longer, let it end, let something end, oh god, or let it begin but don't leave me here and he would pray but he knew that not even prayers could part an ocean this deep. He could only continue sailing, he could only move with the breeze and the sound of his own breath and tell himself tomorrow, tomorrow, another day, tomorrow, I am alive.

I would like to know you as a child;
understand you
as more than growing pains
and invest in your hopes
as I am humbled by my own.

I am rebuilding
you could be brick or mortar
and I desperately need strength
(can you not see, the load makes me hesitate)
but I would look to you as guide and savior
rescue me from these forests
where they are all
fast asleep.

And so God came to her, and thus, he spoke:

I have given you a great love of the world. I would like you to save it.

And she said

me?

And God said

Yes, you.

And she said

But I am small.

And he spoke

I am big.

She said

I am one.

He said

I am many.

She asked

How will they believe me?

He said

I believe You.

And she said

But I am small.

And He said

But I am big.

My burden is greater...

It is trapped
and so dark that
it sucks my breath away

I am no stronger
than yesterday, but I will not break
for my burden is greater
and my heart made strong
by grace; I cannot crumble
for it is by your will that I stand
and so standing, I am saved

If you were given
a duty, would you renounce
every movement of spirit
and glimmer of light
that has become you

could you put it down

A Love Letter

Some emotions are too big for a poem.

There are events that happen in our life, memories and moments, that can never be transcribed. Poetry is born out of passionate experience, but some experiences become such a part of us, so ingrained in ourselves, that no amount of wording will ever capture the ways they have changed us.

A year ago, my father died. I can write about death. I can write about the evenings since then, the quiet stillness of this house, the deep coldness of those parts of myself that have yet to grow again. But I am young and resilient, and when one is young and loses a great pillar of love, that pillar is replaced by the hope of more love to come.

I would like to dedicate today to all of those people with no hope left of love. Who have given up trying to heal all of the hurt that life has put on them. Who wake up each day with no meaning, with no answer and no wonder. And I would like you to know that loneliness is not what it seems on the surface; we all pine for wholeness, for renewal and satisfaction. Sometimes, on our road to wholeness, the heart is the greatest obstacle to overcome. But it is in the heart, and the heart alone, that we make any kind of meaning out of this world. It is the heart that we must make whole, and we can only heal the heart through love.

Seek love. Seek it in community, in friends, in family, in pets. When your life is whole with love, so will you become whole with love.

Selves False Grown

Sir, you should not scoff at dreams
nor make light of what we've killed for love;
we've given what our hearts can give
and splintered dreams are remnants of

the worlds we've lost, the selves we've shed
upon our paths, like peeling skin.
We've watched our souls take shape again
and again, yet never a murmured hint
of where we go, nor who we are within.

Oh tell me why -- why such a beautiful loss
of our own sweet selves, false-grown, and where
do all of the pieces fall, and who collects
those many, shattered bits, to rearrange in some flat mold
where the old is lost, and a new face, found.

Dear sir, you laugh, yet I do not doubt
that our dreams have kept the best of us
alive, and all that's shed away was not
meant to last, and would those flaws remain
our selves would stay,
but our hearts would not survive.

For Julia

Little rose, did you know

that god grows as you grow

and love holds you in sunlight

and shelters you, close

as a heart to a soul.

Little rose, listen close,

for god already knows

when you'll bloom, and your colors

bright, bold, or serene--

god has seen all your seasons

from darkness to dreams

and he planted your seed,

and he waters your roots,

and as you grow, little soul,

know that god grows in you.

You Whisper, Love

Heart, I will not stand for another lie

or misleading trial into cloudy night;

your whispers are hard to ignore, yet I

will not be defiled by your vain sight

or lack thereof; dear heart, why gaze upon

yourself in waters deep? I know you love

not others for their own slight worth, but love

yourself for all your seeming perfect light.

And why speak so bold? Dare you feign to know

your true desires, by hand, by hope, by need--

does love inspire some fading truth, near lost

in a writhing world, where a heart can't sleep?

You whisper love, yet heart, no love has come;

and whatever love has promised, remains undone.

The Road North

In which the poet travels 1000 miles to lay the dead to rest.


____________________________



The Road North

reasons why.


I.


This place is ripe with cloud thought.
These are the skeleton ways
with all of the branches stripped of leaves.
We are low to a road
neither cared for nor wanted;
there are many places to rest
but we are passing visitors
gone unacknowledged.


These grassland mountains
tremor with sighs.
His voice is gone,
but still we have duties
and all that remains
is restless.

It is a journey of never farewell--
and never let go, no, not now
and not as the night rests, and by daylight
we carve our weary paths, asleep.
These hills hold naught
of love, only its memory, only the dust
we carry on our backs, a thousand miles.

We pause in Utica,
enough to fill up gas.
We must keep time.




II.

cold meters
don't hold me

nor the dead
flashing wet upon streetlights
counting rivers on the windshield
he's here
behind me, somewhere
visiting the dust of his remains

these dark visitors are frequent
for i am well known to the unkept hours
and my dreams are half-barren
and half-ocean deep

i neither know
if he is awake
or i asleep



III.


I slept into daylight
and arose with the cloud countries,
traveled barren hills, higher
climbing peaks to shining towers--
These are mountains.
They are built
of many ways.

I am not bound by frost
though it does become me.
The crisp forests
are an unknown daybreak – I see light
crest the slopes, climb the branches
and make pure what was sleeping;
here it is, yes, and heaven.



IV.


A sudden drop to valleys
plains of nothing, swept
echoing breath
i am i am I Am
we follow down
flighty paths, flicker


*


reasons must be given

but how does one close a life

as though love can close


*

we fear the borderlands
and the restless sunset.
though we are not here
nor there; nor is any place the same
since our faces have changed.

we pass towns
of downcast eyes,
unsympathetic

their hells
are lesser hells
and yet greater,
by their own design



V.

We arrive
at the hotel,
a cannon in my chest.
I breathe this place asleep –
here is a land of never again
and final farewell, and don't tell
my secret; that love takes
many shapes
but only one
stays

The bed is hard
and I see him standing in a mirror –
did he walk behind me,
check our luggage?
he trails us
tries to speak

I listen,

but the walls

are too loud.

*

Tell me
how is it that everything I touch
is flat?

My perception has flown
I am chewed
and mostly a lie.



VII.

Reasons

more reasons why

why do we travel miles
to put dust on a shelf
everything in orderly fashion
does it make him real?
memory is not enough
nor time, nor facets of thought.

but I know he lived
because I live.


VIII.


It is the day before the day
and I dreamt of easter
but the evidence of death
is here, encased in wood, on the table
of his brother's living house
where once he breathed
and now has fallen between cracks
to dirty the carpet.




IX.


Old friends, you are brighter than morning

your memories
are stories warmed
by the glow of his eyes
and you are worthy
of countless hills

I will make this road again

for you





VIII.

time, hold fast
but don't hold me,

not to the weight of thoughts
or borrowed sleep.

his memory
i would keep alive,
but even ice cold, it will not
freeze, but wavering, moves.
we are not bound by frost,
but walk cold meters
past years of love, lost and unmeasured,
with the air an unbearable whisper

reasons? reasons don't matter

not to him




Intercession

new


We are gathered here today
to witness the marriage
of my mother and father.
They are separated by glass panes.

I would know them now;
though I have traveled long
to stand at this doorstep
they do not greet me.
But what is a day--
Perhaps they travel farther than I
and with greater burdens,
and perhaps time is heavy
in their foreign country.

They are far too late
and I am turned away, knowing
we are done wandering.
And my final secret:
love is not mine,
nor is it my right
to keep it.




Returned

renewed.


I.

no footsteps.


We travel without sleep
in the sparseness before dawn;
there is nothing else


This is a journey of
where do we go, and no, not far
from our hearts, though we travel
by pieces of midnight, down mountain slopes
and up rivers of snow; we are low to the road
and know well of its burdens, though
we shall never again
return home



II.


darkness moved upon the face of the deep
and we beckoned light to follow
for we wished to see daylight once more.
dawn breaks and my eyes are known, for I see
the last tree, the last sky, the last blade of grass


awakened, i can see
your living body, unmeasured


in light there is shadow, and to run
it shall chase me, to leave
it shall follow, and to speak
it shall echo
my silence




III.


I bargained for peace with good actions,
thought, if I am good enough, then maybe --
but your bounty is priceless, and my harvest
unmeasured: the will to laugh, the hands to work,
and legs unburdened by fear

We are empty
and new,
and this road
does not carry us past desert hills
nor over mountains, but through the darkest
ravines of a stirring deep; I know
only the clear air thoughts
and the minutes
flashing wet upon streetlights
he is lost
no, he is found
he is lost


it is the blank space
of where I stand
five feet of absent light
and your voice, still sweet in my head
i love you, and after death
i love you still
and love you more

Even'tide

We took two roads that brief conjoined

on a summer walk, and soft, we spoke

of all we thought, and where our dreams

might meet between

our untried youth

and the years we sought.

And sweetly, how our hands entwined;

we hoped to build a stronger tie

between ourselves, and a life thought-lived

to grant our hearts some space designed

beside the road, that steps might lead us

side by side, along our paths

made dim by fading even'tide.

And where we traveled--Lord, who knows

but hardly had a field passed

when torn by river's bending flow

we disengaged. Our hands unclasped,

each fell away, and we became

two stones on separate river banks

where half might gaze upon a half

and wonder--why this path, alone?

return, return
to a year of snow falls
fence posts veiled in white

walk through
endless dunes
oceans of stillness
the frost stars gleam and we
never knew the color of this country
just mapped the routes through
seething vines
unwinding wilderness
is it a sin
to break this silence?

The Lion

No amount of perfect words, or glances
or well-timed tricks shall draw your distant eyes
to me, and honestly, I have not strength
to speak falsely of my mischievous heart

which murmurs softly of you, wondering
where are the gentle evening walks, and nights
spent in worship of the ground and air. Oh where
did the open paths lead us, on so brief a walk

to new questions, new reflections of ourselves.
What God intends, we are not meant to know
but our eyes met once, and I saw the wild
heart within you, your seeking eyes of gold

turned inward, where the lion sleeps, deep

in the forests of your growing, changing self.

You may find it there, where the wild walks,

and perhaps some day, our paths shall cross

as other selves, and our eyes brief speak

of evenings shared, and a lifetime lost.

Love Disproved

Love, you have disproved your worth! or perhaps

my heart is yet in states of change, and has

not love to give, for given, one still seeks

to gain a higher self, or combined whole;

yet I tire of a love of halves. Has not

my wholeness made me known to those

still shaped by other's flaws, who seek a glow

in which to view themselves, by what I have?

I need not know another's eyes to see

myself, nor who I've been, nor make complete

unfinished work; yet nourishment to
bring relief in loneliness, for this I'd look!

Love, your lack of sight shall not make me blind;

I know my worth, and knowing, keep my time.

I need your passion, Christ

what is my heart

No Home and No One

Who am I to blame the broken?
Who am I to look lowly upon
those who walk alone, who limp
in the shadows of doorways,
who have come slowly, then gone
with the night, to no home and no one.

Who am I to refuse such a traveler?
For I've seen in their eyes a thousand songs
that I've sang in my heart, and a thousand roads
to which my own heart belongs,
and my feet, though weary, have not
traveled long. So I walk
with no home and no one.

Who am I to follow their words?
It is my soul that instructs, that illumines my way
down a road of illusion, for distance is time
and this path is constructed by the time
that we claim. But we are the truth, or so
we become. I look at the weary
and the hells they have flown, and offer
a shelter, a new view of the sun --
I am a home with no path and no one.

Sir, you should not scoff at dreams
nor make light of what we've killed for love;
we've given what our hearts can give
and splintered dreams are remnants of

the worlds we've lost, the selves we've shed
upon our paths, like peeling skin.
We've watched our souls take shape again
and again, yet never a murmured hint
of where we go, nor who we are within.

Oh tell me why -- why such a beautiful loss
of our own sweet selves, false-grown, and where
do all of the pieces fall, and who collects
those many, shattered bits, to rearrange in some flat mold
where the old is lost, and a new me, found.

Dear sir, you laugh, yet I do not doubt
that our dreams have kept the best of us
alive, and all that's shed away
was not meant to last, and would those flaws remain
as life continually changed,
our selves would stay,
but our hearts would not survive.

On Love VII

Love -- the ever mysterious beast
that comes upon, in wake of dreams
and leaves its fragile prints behind;
what seeking eyes, enamored by
our quiet words and hands entwined
shall hear our vows, and deep within
lay pathways where our hearts reside?

And what have You, my wild deep
to hide your face, and secrets keep
to whisper within the listless dark;
Oh Love, why such a swift embark!
To find our favor, and then depart
in lieu of night, and plunge us deep
within your ever changing heart.

And what prison might I set to spring
to catch your ever wayward wings,
and return your favor to my side--
oh Beast, are not my traps set wide?
yet one misstep, and I, ensnared
by all your beauty -- and so affeared
to leave your sight, entrapped, alone;

stay with me, Love, my wild unknown.

God, you have brought me

to a place, and an hour

between hours, that I might

resurrect you

We speak of

wings and oceans

yet ever seconds click

and you are prepared for the tide

it is I

who is slowly

adrift

Father

I know your name,
oh Father,
I know your name

I have heard it resound
in the echoes of my own

I am grown
as a redwood tree,
yet I must be more
and that is how
you are creating me

it is a wonder to see,
oh Father,
a wonder to see

Nothing Ask

I shall nothing ask, for what I desire
cannot be given, nor returned to me.
I have made an exchange – a weathered heart
for a glimpse at heaven, with vision to see

the connections between. I am slowly
awake. A presence is here, something deep
in the dream, the silence of seconds and
a secret serene, inevitably

blooming in me. It's the peaceful, pure-white
substance of self, the afternoon light that
flows like a river; the final knowledge
of infinite wealth -- almost remembered.

Now I nothing want – just more to be paid
of myself, that I may know of this way.

A Small Fly

I saw a small fly,
no bigger
than the eye
of a needle.

I wondered
is this the seed
of a soul?

May I plant it,
watch it grow
into a tree?

May I breathe it,
have it bloom
in my blood?

May I bless it,
and in so doing,
bless the world.

I wish you to know
that my heart is at peace --
I am nothing of nothing,
and this final release
has brought me closer to life,
and closer to me.
Let us relish the sunset,
and embrace what is free --
the beauty of the mind,
and these moments between;
the colors of autumn,
chill wind and cold floors,
old friends, close memories
and all-open doors
for as long as I walk
and as long as you know
I'm at peace
with each step
of the road.

Death is

the loss

of expectation.

A shedding

of dreams,

the relinquishing

of doubt --

pure, sweet

liberation

from hope, a sudden

release

from the trappings

of love,

a new

knowledge

of the bottom.

Death is naked,

the imprisoned blackness

of a lone wanderer

fallen through

a well,

loss of sight,

isolated

with ourselves.

If death could be
a book,
something we put down
when we're done;
a singular word
or sentence,
or anything involving
a period, not just commas,
not just the continual
opening and closing,
regurgitation
of the vowels --
if only death could be
patience,
a simple sound
echoing into silence,
dimming as
evanescence,
floating us
gently to the ground
where we could
all rest together.
Why must death
be separate.
Why must death
be insistent.
Why can't death
be still.

oh mind!
you fickle, fearful thing!
to have what one wants
and yet no satisfaction, derive--
you traitor-!
betrayer!
misleader and liar-
thank God
for a heart
that is right
every time

God sits
and I sit
and we speak
and it seems
that he knows
what I say
and a clock
ticks away
tick tock
not today
nor the next
but our task's
on the way
i know
what he says
be still
i have asked
that you wait
but i can't
god -- now!
i want now
to know more
than i know
but God laughs
you are young
little seed
but We grow

Love, reside
but ever know
I am
a traveler


Love, redeem
yet when I'm called
so shall I leave


Love, anchor
yet not to the ways
of the shore;
for waves come
and ever, I
must move
as the sea
and when currents call
so shall I leave
so shall I leave

Walls are weak,
my word is my armor.

Knives are dull,
my acts are my weapon.

Thought is blind,
my faith is my vision.

Love is fierce,
so is the heart,
so is the Way.

what is love
but a silent promise?

what is love
but a silver bloom?

the trees grow
and each blossom
is a promise.
I am not too busy to listen.
I am quiet enough
to understand.

we are all children
so why can't you be
a child with me--
grow deeper into innocence
and mature in your passions.
your generosity and kindness
will keep you young.

there is never a darker night
than living with both eyes closed.
to open
is not to see daylight,
but to know each moment
as a thought
in God's infinite now.

You are
my difference,
my inherently
same

a
feeling
to my
knowing
the change
to my
immortal
you are transient life
flown inward

i am only
what i have become
through you
my whole
my unwavering
eternal

plant me firmly
in sandy eyes
I might tremble
but rain mists down
and I am a quixotic flint flower
striking match stick
smooth dancer
built of
burnt leaves
and hooded gazes
softly fallen
we are asleep
so fast asleep

I do not know
the world
but to dream

willow

i come

from the deep midnight

forest wells

the unseen abodes

the small murmurs

of voiceless night

i am

a silver shock

dim light mover

with an echo

yes, a pool of dream-quick

come hither

to my side

sweet souls

i am eager to give

God, you are
a word that unwrites me
our meeting places
are filled with sun
You are
my intangible thoughts
my heart, laden bare
of words, with words, and none
speak as clearly
as you

A Prayer to the Frost

I.

Winter draws black strings and unties me,
walking a chipped sky to placid lakes
where mist threads into water; these mirrors
seek the sky, and turn back all
that is unbrushed, imperfect growth.

I walk here to become liquid cold, and beg
that these depths might know me.
I am a strange visitor and the water is not
as expected, even frozen in prayer.
I watch her in the depths as I bow
and she looks as though she once knew me.

I would like a chance (more than a chance)
to waver before the unknown, and rest
because my will has flown, and I have
been driven by love to find you,
but the grass is cold, wilted by frost,
and your reply, as of yet, unknown.

II.

She is weary
and she leaned over me
to speak, but did not

she is the color
of my garden;
here is the flaw
that makes perfection,
like a rose
grown wild

she could not speak
to say, and I would not
listen, for to know her
is to see her lips move
and her breath
to cross my surface

dip your hands in my hands, child,
for my answer is given


III.

The air is dampened light, sifting
weak through the leaves; they
fall through the water. Numb hands
break the surface;

I have come here to collapse
into you, to concave as a mountain's
wall, and crumble, tight
in the embrace of water
where I die a second breath.
Your depths are a sacrament
and I do not stumble before you,
but kneel, for my prayer to the frost
is your name, and my surface is
your reflection, and my hands
are made warm by your love.

Your Words

Simple poem written for someone who I thought was... but was not....

* * *

I am sad to see
that you are a fake, sir
and your words
are hollow

you realized
a dream in me
and for that, I thought you better;
but no, it is the Self
I saw, in writings of others
expounded at your expense
and I wonder, do you feel
more a saint
for the words
you fear

and share
for love listens
day and night to your sounds
but never, a kindness
other than your own
voice

shhh
dear child
listen

Though they do not see, I love them more
and though they cannot hear, I know they read
the words you left before, before
my message is to be given

by deeds alone, and through deeds of love
I die again. It shall not be said
but I come
to strip the cloth,
to mend the rags
of the forsaken

Swiftly rides the hour of our night
and the coming dawn, prepared to rise;
I am braced before a ring of light
that softly crowns the pre-dawn skies.

Shall we stumble here, suffice to fall?
These lands were made of darkened heights
and beauties harsh, and scaffold cliffs
that slip the foot and trick the eyes

yet I never faltered, nor was fooled
for here reside those moments few
before new light, when truth shines clear
as crystals, and in darkness, blooms.

I have traveled far, but dawn has come
to greet me; all further roads
are bound by light.

God is not freedom,
nor release from suffering,
nor an absence of self,
nor a new self beginning --

God is the completion of the self
the final piece
the maturation of a soul

and know
that although the trees
do not bloom for me,
that surely, their seasons are my own
and I am master of nothing,
not even
their infinite love.

Your pure, musical thoughts....

It is your patience
that compels me.
It is your silence
that bids me to speak.
It is your wonder
I would share,
and your pure,
musical thoughts.

I love you,
and although time creates distance
still, we are beyond time
and far too late to care.
You are all that has proven true
in my life, a glorious sacrament
and I am stricken by awe
that I found you. I have need
to speak, and yet struck dumb
by your stillness,
by the infinite spark
of our love.

All comes
when it comes
and arrives
as it should,
in our seasons
of growth
and sweet
summers of
gold, all time
knows its own time,
and all days
know tomorrow;
I trust
in dawn's timing
and patiently
follow.

Days fly by,
yet where do the
shimmering winds go,
mother?

Night
in the forest glade,
how will I know
when the shadows fade,
father?

Can you blame me, death? For who am I to stand
apart, and turn from you --a second breath? I have not
the will to whisper, nor make light your news,
nor doubt you that your word is true.

I am the black face of change

and the white face of love

these are my muses, two

To name you is to limit you,
and to call this a path
would be to falsify my steps
for I do not walk
but stand


and where am I going
but time, my destination;
do I follow those seconds
or do they become me? they are
the space between thoughts, separating
what is one


time, to measure steps
but the steps to you
are immeasurable, for you exist
between distance, and our space
is undefined

Forgive them
for there are none who see,
and their steps
are hollow falls

those who see,
their passion is like
granite love

they let you
walk upon them

Precipice

I feel before me
a wondrous sacrifice;
a precipice unknown
and I have been blind
for so long that I am
drowning to see.

I shall never be free of you,
nor would I ever, for you are
unmasked silence
and I have wandered these cliffs
long enough to find a view,
a slow passion, like fading light --

but oh, I am faithful to this
glorious unknown! and in pleasant waves
I anticipate a separate darkness, one
beneath water, submerged
to clear my eyes --

I am gathered, propelled
and leaping, as I
need not know the height
and perhaps, the rush to reach
those waves
shall awaken me....

Mist

Here, I watch
the ocean return to the sky
and I am created by
the ways I divide the wind.
Though we named it,
the mist does not stay the same,
but is movement
between ocean and air, and I,
adrift on the titles of clouds
would know it as it is to be known.

Whither toward do you fly...

How now, sweet shadow, and whither toward

do you fly; surely, much farther than I

for my thoughts are too heavy to carry

abroad, and your load far lighter than mine.

Surely, you seek to escape from the night

but no matter the method, it follows

our heels; I see you ahead, searching out

for a light, or a lantern's glow, revealed.

At times I follow, and at times I lead
but ever your shade stretches next to me;
though you'd journey afar, you know I am
weighed by each step, and not nearly as free.

Though you're shaped by light, my thoughts are darkness
illume'd, and I am defined by the night.

Hold my hands as god's hands, for even
god trembles, and servants grow weary
without brief respite; do I ask of myself
more than what god desires? For my dreams
are too real to keep to the night

or the comfort of shadows -- yet how do I speak
when the voice has grown weary, and
my footsteps are slow. Do I seek a reprieve?
I am burdened by silence; yet to burn
in your purpose is all I desire.

I am fearful of sleep, for years are not time
to fulfill what's been promised, nor learn
what you know -- yet I follow your steps
like a map of this valley, and a path
through these acres of wilderness, grown.

I am compelled by your love;

though rest does not find me

I lie, for my peace is your peace.

Faith

It's amazing how much faith can get us through.

I remember when I was atheist, I used to take pride in the fact that I didn't need faith to help me through anything. Now after the fact, I wonder why I was so against it. Because of my faith, I can cope better with grief. I have hope in the future, trust in myself, and the ability not only to be happy, but to be euphoric. The best thing is that I can recognize these advantages without being threatened by them -- meaning, no amount of arguing or contrary evidence could ever sway my mind. Faith is real, and it's amazing because it works. I pray for the best, I expect the best, and I receive the best. It's that simple.

I've never felt comfortable with the word Enlightenment. I feel like the very concept it represents is wrong. Enlightenment comes with certain connotations: wiser than others, better, higher, more godly, more powerful, etc... but the very core of my faith demands that I put others before myself, and in all honesty, I love that. Enlightenment is a negative term, as is "Nirvana," though I understand why these terms were coined. It is as Jesus said. I am not perfect; however, I really have experienced a shift in awareness, along with an indescribable spiritual encounter, and I did so without ever touching a Bible or holy text. To this day, I have not been able to comfortably accept a religion; however, my faith is stronger than those of most doctrines, and I have learned to start thinking of myself as a practitioner of "all faiths" as opposed to "no faiths." I have already reached one plateau of the mountain; the road forward lies buried by tradition and old scripture, and it's up to me to research and understand what every religion says. I take my duty very seriously, and I understand it better now. I do not want to start a new religion; I want to unite all religions in the name of god.

It is not the eloquence of my words that will gain the trust of others, but the quality of my actions. I plan on not just promising that my faith is true, but proving it through my deeds. Action is more important than understanding, after all. I will prove myself worthy; and if I can't, it is because I am not worthy.

The Winter Sun

Someone must love the winter sun!
Its weary eyes have watched the world
wake, and turn away its days
with unmet sighs and cold delays;
sweet pity, touch my frozen lips --
I'd gift the sun a winter's kiss.

And frosted moons that porcelain, shine --
how far you travel, in such brief time!
I've watched you walk the skyline's mile
to pause, unheeded, and rest a while
beneath those noble, flickering stars
that keep the night -- our fragile hours!

And could I choose, I'd sit between
the winter moon and sun serene;
I'd listen to those icebound nights
with gentle words, and silver sighs;
and silent, keep those hours, long --
to winter, so my heart belongs!

I am dead. I am exhausted and drained as though I have never been. I do not know what age feels like, and yet if it is anything like the hesitation before each footstep, like the dragging breath in my lungs as I struggle to regain my thoughts -- then age is not time, but weariness. I no longer know the significance of a year. I am forgetting myself; who I was and who I am, and what I have always dreamed of becoming. The idea of failure has never scared me, for I know that for a task such as mine, failure is inevitable... and yet I do not want to fail. However, the thought of success has lost all personal value. I am simply here to be; and if, in being, I might detach myself from success, then I might detach myself from the concept of failure -- and perhaps, learn to be happy while walking through the most desolate valleys of the heart. Goals give us direction, but they also deceive us by giving a false sense of self-worth. I must see my goals as simply tools of survival, and not the final purpose of my existence. I am simply here to be. My very presence changes those around me; any further effort on my part is unnecessary.

I would like to know why, but god does not bother with explanations, or with motives, or even apologies. The final truth is that there is no real why -- "why" can never be answered, and even when we are dead, conscious or nonexistent, it will never matter. "Why" is what we fight -- "why" is what we try to become, and what we try to attain. "Why" builds religion, "why" started science, and "why" is what we individually strive for every single day of our lives... but in the end, why does not change what is. Any sort of significant change is utterly irreversible. An explanation would be appreciated, but god knows it will not give satisfaction, and it will not give back what was lost -- so god remains silent.

God, as an experience, is far more motion than sound. Nirvana is the sensation of connecting to a greater consciousness, and it is permanent. It is the knowing that all things are connected, including oneself; this connection manifests itself as love, though really, it is simply the bodily experience of unity. I do not think the human mind is capable of comprehending Nirvana, but I do believe the experience allows us to manifest our wills upon this world. However, the question arises -- since Nirvana inevitably creates in all of us the same knowledge of a greater consciousness, do we all begin to manifest the same will?

I do not think that reconnecting to our source and experiencing Nirvana means the end of individuality, nor the end of free will. I think it is the realization that we all are bound by the same source and the same will, and that we are each unique expressions of what is inherently One.

But even with that connection, one still knows loss, one still feels helpless, and one is still painfully aware of one's own mortality. I am world weary and tired of questioning. No answers will bring peace, but thankfully that is something I have already attained.

Nirvana

Nirvana -- We are ten years past the day,
yet ever there are roads that lead within.
They show Us greater levels of knowing,
though knowing You is all I've ever been.

We are locked together, to work Our wills upon
this world, and ever Our will has won;
A child, We've traveled through these years
remembering Self, and why We've come--

so give a day, or decade hence, and We
shall walk this earth renewed and whole, prepared
to speak Our part; We've planned it well:
To die for Love, with all sufferings spared.

Truly, greater works than these shall be done
by greater Will, and so again We've come.

Love, so soon!

Oh heart, have you the breath to give?
Remember life and all its fortunes, passed.
Time demands a better craft than I,
and I -- a stronger heart to last.

And love -- so soon? How far you've traveled
to meet me! your weary presence proves
your swiftest flight -- and now, new hope
to greet me upon this unending night.

But safer, still, to sleep and dream again,
and love you as only pure love's ideal;
for any face can wear the lover's mask
'til the face is gone, and the mask is real.

Hope comes too soon, with my heart yet asleep--
to love a mask is still no love to keep.

Poem On Campus -- 5:24pm

5:24pm and
I am a piece of hallway.

It is a flat, unbroken mile.
There are footsteps
but these walkways are empty

Here are my numbers:
I am 5:26pm late
and .15 away from perfect
and still waiting
(for her, no doubt; is she coming?)
I know they are all gone for the day
but these walls still walk
and I listen

I could travel that hallway
(did she?)
it's a long, white column
waxed floors
and the same elevators
(she goes there again and again, dammit, again)
Who knows –
she's vanished and I am
sure as hell
5:28pm
still waiting
wondering how nothing
can be nothing
and be nothing

the doors are closed.

I cry future
like fire
but know that I am really
now, like those damned white floors
and nothing, like no thing,
like the dark corner of a room
I stand there
5:32pm, still speaking
but these walls are just words
and she's gone.