Early Summer

What they say is true

You have to die a few times

before you really start living

I have lived long enough 

to start seeing the patterns

in my thoughts and actions

almost as clearly as strata

in a canyon

I am not as unique as 

I once thought

I am as human as you

I am as human as 

everyone that has come before

Memories

Old pictures

Music from another time

These things at once part 

of me and yet separate from 

who I have become

How much younger we were

How much older we are now

Everything as it should be

Everything as we chose

From City to Forest

I could feel the tension in my body

as we moved through our days in the city.

Managing my unease to keep going

was enough to leave me exhausted.

Coming home to our bed, to our 

place of comfort, surrounded by green

leaves, deer, and lakes, gives my soul

the peace of mind I need now.

I ask myself if this is a necessary 

time of rest and contemplation 

as the gears turn towards the next

phase of being. Does everyone 

do this? When does this hit for them?

I suppose the answer is yes and

it depends. Am I the audience

watching reruns late at night,

talking over old story lines

and wondering what it all meant?

With every question answered

two more appear. With every problem

solved another comes into view.

This is life. This is how it is,

how it has always been. Do I think

myself special? I want to but history

bears out a different answer. 

This body, this mind, living in and 

out of balance, knowing pleasure 

and pain, knowing the sweet 

and bitter. My words are no more

than trite attempt at facsimile 

of what is unrepeatable. 

I want my love to grow.

I want to spread understanding.

There is never enough time

but there is still time.

The Wolf

The wolf waits by the river
Watches her reflection in the water
See's her face and wonders

Unseen Landscape

Cheryl was lonely

She sat by herself at the diner

Her usual french toast breakfast

was as good as any other day

She finished and walked out 

to the parking lot to her white

Chrysler missing one hubcap

from the front drivers side

She drove home to her 

apartment and set down 

her bag She took off her shoes

and sat down on the comfy

overstuffed couch

She liked the way her body

would comfortably ease

into the cushions

She turned on the TV

and let it speak

It didn't matter what 

was on it all came

and went through her mind

Oftentimes she would 

begin to remember 

memories and dreams 

from younger days

and all the possibility

that was once ahead

Now so much of it 

could only be seen with

a backwards glance 

She closed her eyes

and began to breathe steadily

The sounds from the TV faded

into nothingness

She could see everything now

all at once 

Vastness was no before her

How lovely it was 

Morning 9/9/17

With each sunrise I must remember my personal
capacity to change. It becomes hard for me to
remember this sometimes after ages of living in
a fairly set routine.

Could I have ever given you the life you deserved?

Exert the control and willpower you have proven
yourself capable of through the years.

Remembering love that once blossomed.

What is broken can still be
                         healed
                                    forgiven

Finding the light of a spiritual practice.
Defining that which gives me hope and
allows me to aspire to a greater manner
of existing.

Do you wish to live in
Knowledge or Fear?

Tired Poem

This poem is tired.

It has no reason to be so tired

especially since it hasn't

done anything of worth yet.

This poem could use

a drink, or at least

some concrete

imagery. How about

the foaming white

of the waves

at the seaside

as they touch sand?

That's ok. It's not enough

to be tired yet.

In fact, this poem

is still pretty short.

Where is the narrative

or form?

A lumpy sack

of potatoes barely

counts as a form.

This poem is brimming

with untapped

potential. Let's face it-

this'll have to do.

The Last Page

My hand cramped
as I wrote the final words
across the page. Its black
leather cover had guarded
its contents well.

It does not know it's age,
I am certain it is fully
unaware of it. Only a
sentimental creature could
care about such things.

The pages are all filled
with half-remembered
thoughts, bad poems,
memories, and line
breaks too casual

to remember. Why
do this? Who is this
all for? It's always been
for an audience of one
and always will be.

Unfinished Piece

I have no exoskeleton to protect
my internal organs, all of my soft and easily
damaged flesh held upright by a dangerously
breakable framework. My seat of reason
is easily swayed by wandering emotions traveling
throughout, or the slightest sense of harm
that could befall my being. I am no hero, though,
if given the chance I would make a valiant attempt
before falling into a heap. I long to connect
with others but my opinions tend to run in opposing
force to most. I want everything but I am too
scared of failure, too worried about failing to be
nothing more than a never was. I live behind glass
and observe facsimiles that are worthy of the forms
of the cave. My passion runs with the heat of a desert,
and the coolness of winter winds. I am a force
undefinable as I am strong, and as weak as I am
doubtful...