Thursday, July 29, 2010


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?

Tuesday, July 27, 2010

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?

Friday, July 23, 2010

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.

Tuesday, July 20, 2010

Sunday, July 18, 2010

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.

Friday, July 16, 2010

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

Monday, July 5, 2010


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


from hope, a sudden


from the trappings

of love,

a new


of the bottom.

Death is naked,

the imprisoned blackness

of a lone wanderer

fallen through

a well,

loss of sight,


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,
of the vowels --
if only death could be
a simple sound
echoing into silence,
dimming as
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.