Perhaps in poetry and song

I capture in my trembling hands

The whispers of the infinite

These weightless words can only trace

A trace of smiles from ages past

Or ghosts that haunt tomorrow’s fears



Within this mess, connections lost

And severed, trusted lines once strong

Lay broken, stained with tears. To plunge

Into this fray of vines, neglect

Upon its withered face, is brave
For there is courage when a brave

Does tangle with this jungle’s net

For broken bonds grow wild and free

And seek a sturdy tree to rest
This task to trim this mess is grim

But growth requires love and care

At times, a willingness to tear

And shape to beauty what remains


This stone I dare possess

What tales, what mysteries

Abide within its walls?

Perhaps it has preserved

A single moment, stretched

Into infinity

Or all the wondrous world

Imprisoned for all time

And all the endless stars

Reflect upon its face

This orange beacon shines

Like chapel window glass

That catches rosy dawn

Or brilliant, setting sun


These wretched, endless study nights

Spent poring over ancient tomes

I try to pour my midnight oil

A drop clings to the bottle lip

Reflected on this golden sphere

That hangs above my little light

Are all the words of ancient kings

Of petty slaves and other things

It falls, this drop, its bond to life

Now severed like a lover’s kiss

Before they say their last goodbyes

It spirals like a bird that lost its wings

It splashes into nothingness

To join its brothers as it burns

To feed the flame, how harsh it churns

Its heat, once calming, now returns

To life, with vigor founded on a life

Of many lives once sacrificed

This flame, it burns for me alone

What light will I feed to atone?


Perhaps the spark between two souls

That share a fleeting glance

Is better seen as ocean waves

Beneath their weighted feet

Infatuation, like a charge

Of rapid, surging sea

Upon a crumbling house of sand

And sooner, later, once

Or twice, a thought of land appears

That drowning in this mad affair

Seems less appealing now


Is there a need to knead?

To mold and shape a loaf

From lazy, loafing dough?

Like lazy layabouts

And nutty ne’er-do-wells

Perhaps too late for them

To learn to earn their bread

Instead, we bake and make

The freshest bread and cake

We kneel and knead and plead

We bleed for them to change

Their stale and half-baked ways

For spoiled and rotten bread

Gets thrown out on its head