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


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


Conjuring smoky snakes

With cigarette in hand

I sigh, I breathe, with breath

Shall slither silver life

This coiling, snaking shape

That slips between the space

Between the clouds, this place

Above my heart, below

The soul of morning glow

That fades this smoke, this shroud

Away it goes like stars

These constellations, guides

Upon the cruelest night

That bow to mighty day