Inspiration floats above the minds
Filters down, infusing ribbons of thinking snow,
creating minute drops of meaning,
Awakening insight, thought, hope
In all who saw the show.

It’s about a boy,
but only on it’s shell. It’s about the creative mind
That cannot live alone
It’s about a boy
but only in this way: a boy becomes
quite magical
without even
a trick.

Hugo, and the great Melies.

I observed kindness yet again today,
A girl tripped coming in the door.
A young man held her by the arm;
He blocked her fall, for sure.

And then again, I heard a kid
With too much in his hands
Say, “Just a minute there,”
as he dropped his things around
And stepped back to hold the door for me,
A stranger in his town.
Then there was this little girl
who missed her mom so much;
the teacher’s aid distracted her
with just a little touch,
And soon the smiles filled the scene
And off she went to play
While just a moment later
An actor stopped to pray

he prayed for peace in his mother’s heart
he prayed for sister, too
he prayed that when he got that part
his work would touch a few

The janitor mopped the bathroom floor
Not just for paychecks, true–
He mopped because he knew:
people deserve that dignity–
and that went unnoticed, too.

Today I saw so many things
That kindness just shone through
If the world is dark and gray for some,
Perhaps they’re looking wrong.

You can’t give up so easily
Tomorrow’s a whole new day
There’s time to work and laugh some more
There’s music left to play
Don’t give up so easily
Tired eyes can wake anew
It’s not that tough–just stick it out
It’s not that hard to glide
Don’t worry if it’s not perfect yet
Fresh eyes will get it right.

What about tomorrow?
Another day will prove
That moon and sun and everyone
Will be in alignment soon.

What is it about midnight
that always keeps me up?

As much as I love the present,
I look forward to what’s next.
When the clock strikes 11:59,
I relish in the midnight chime.
There are plenty of folks who
preach, “Live for today” : which
I do, yes, I live for every moment
when I get to see and hear and do-
I really live for all those encounters
with you and you and you–
but, there’s something about tomorrow
That keeps me so enthralled
And finds me planning, fretting,
hoping for us all.
Midnight seems the darkest time,
but not for folks like me–
it’s like rebirth, a brand new day,
before sunrise usually falls–
For strange folks just like me
who hover in the unsleep mode
midnight is the rosy time
when again tomorrow calls.

For those asleep or just knocked out
For those who dread nightfall,
Think of all the lovely thoughts
That midnight brought about.
There probably came philosophy,
Oh sure, some was as dark as death–
but also Transcendentalists
found knowledge at the wick.
There surely was some love
occurring in the eve
In fact, a few of us
must have been conceived.

So thoughts and man and planets
all appear with midnight’s oil
So stay awake just now and then
and partake the small hour’s spoils.

I thought it was impossible
To feel the way I do–
When everything is going
well; the turkey,
trimmings and Macy’s
parade are through.

It should be holly berries,
Rudolph and Hermie smiles;
It should be Happy New Year,
Times Square, and snowman piles

What is it about the days
When darkness comes too soon
That should be warm and fuzzy
Yet blue and gray and haze
Cloud the mind and rob
the joy from what should be
holidays?

It must be just the simple loss
of Grandmas, love, and youth–
Release, a little whimper, then
Think on grown up lives–
Then beg a swift kick in the butt
To appreciate the bounty
That makes up blessed lives.

It’s impossible to stay depressed
With goodness all around–
So shake it off, do something good–
And forget yourself for now.

While thanking all the people
for whatever good they’ve done,
I’d like to thank those thinkers
through whose minds my life improves,
The thinkers and the doers, who
move collective thought along.
Like Twain and Dante,
Chaucer, Einstein, Plato, you;
Like Day-Lewis’ Lincoln,
Depp’s Hatter, Gilbert, Barrie,
Edward, Sparrows,
just to name a few.

So grateful for the thinkers,
That help me think and do.
And many other worthy things
I’m grateful for anew.

Thanksgiving need not only come
on fourth November Thursday eves…
it’s how we live and what we say

with friends and strangers near…
it can be now, tomorrow, too, entire year-long plays

to say, “Thanks,”  for all, my dear, thanks for the happy days.

How great to have two super kids
Different yet delightful both;
A man who shows his thoughts of me in his diligent,
Daily care and strife, wishes for
A peaceful mind to keep him safe and grow him kind
Parents, steeped in honor, faith, and sacrifice
Their words, deeds teach truth in every instance–
Any good I am is because of them;
A sister and a brother who I know are there
And always will be
With families and children that make me proud

How thankful to have a daily routine
That keeps my mind, well, perhaps not keen,
At least awake and happy.
And looking forward to meeting another
Precious soul, who, searching, will find his voice
And place among the stars
Friends who care the way I do about those
Who pass through our doors
On their way to adulthood.

How pleased to live in this great land
Amid the redwoods, rivers, sands
With good clean water, food, and fun
With dissent and pride and football Sundays;
Even things I sadly don’t care for much
Might make others happy, and for that
I’m glad.

So blessed with freedom, too
To love and work and travel through
Each of those lives a little bit;
Pleasant dreams that come and go
And try to guide me, subtly, toward
Goodness.For those thankful
moments of clarity, I pause.

It’s simple things like temple prayers
And kittens, beagles, electric bikes
And choirs, cars, and racing kites
That fly on every camping trip
Where wind lifts up their sides
And breathes in them delight.

And this, of course, must be the clue
That God is good: He brought me
You.

And, boy, am I grateful.

Stop thinking; she’ll be all right
She’s healthy, she’s brave
She’s beautiful, too
She’s lovely in so many ways

Does she know that I love her?
Does she know that I do?
Does she know that I think of her often
at school?
Does she listen when I tell her
To keep up the fight,
To strive to be better
To try to do right?

She’s a sassy, Miss Wonderful,
She’s razzmatazz .
She’s ice cream and puppies
She’s purple and plaid
Am I glad she found me
Am I glad she stayed
A million tomorrows
All begin with that day.

I learned a lot today–
I learned that dying leaves questions
And living is hard even for brave
kids

I learned that some experiences, no matter their
origins,
leave scars, they alter our paths–
or perhaps solidify them.

I learned that young people
are stronger than I am
that love and revelations
are personal and universal,
that I can help you and you can help
me
And that is the most important lesson
anyone can learn

“And if I die before I wake
I pray the Lord my soul to take”

Amen.

Our cat died–
Or, at least we think she did.
Coyotes probably ate her
When she wasn’t looking–
What a cool cat, our Pickles,
She knew exactly how to bait our traps
She purred, she sauntered, she stole
her naps

Pickles died perhaps today
For sure it wasn’t long ago
And in her wake she left
no doubt of who she was
inside and out.

Not uncommon, that tabby mix
with white nose, chest, little paw tips
But just as those external things
Made her a favorite in our eyes
It was her gentle, simple mew
that caused the roughest eyes to dew

Pickles died, there is no doubt
She’s not around to be let out
She does not wander near the door
She will not answer evermore
Pickles, just a simple cat
Evoking love–even from
the rat.

Pickles, find the fire
in the world beyond;
curl up near, and purr your song
And wait. We’re all a blink away
We’ll think of you from time to time,
We’ll think of others lost this day,

We’ll hope for clarity again.

Oddly enough, nothing new comes to mind
Hours pass quietly as blackbirds chime
Not enough wisdom in this normal space
To conjure up value one must be removed
Within the universe of thinking
A rainstorm bleeds its grace

Still, by the river of life’s content
Sits our Huck Finn journey, son,
He, wandering to find the story
Of his life; us, the story of our own
Leading calmly through the fog
To an understanding of ourselves
A love of those we somehow take
For granted until at the brink
Of our loneliness, we inhale the truth.

And the Stellar Jay and the Oregon Junco
Warble on through morning’s mist
Then sunshine, gold and warm and pleasing
Wake the fawn and doe and bliss
Until at last the moment comes
For us to cry at heaven’s gate,
“I’ve done enough, don’t you
think, Lord?” Enough’s enough,
let the record state.

Unless, of course, I’m quite mistaken,
And tomorrow’s another beautiful
Day—in that case, I’ll just wander over
And put a quarter in the parking meter.

Smoke signals, ace of spades,
encrypted signs on single lines
All for what? A secret shared?

I don’t think it means too much
To have a language all their own
For once the others leave,
They’ll have wished they’d shared
their tongues–

Verbals clues and passage ways
All depicting life renewed–
If only moments in the shade
Become illuminated, too.

I will no sign accept for truth
No hidden meanings
No paths imbued
with little hints and marble
steps
To assuage the thinker
from his guilt

So live, and let the codes exist
There is no peace without the rest
Mop up your mess, and settle in
You’re just one single lock
to crack
And I know a smith who’ll tackle that.

Something about seemingly instant transport
and cutting vivacious, blonde showgirl assistants in two
that harkens back to Vegas’ grand old days–
with rough, vulgar, sleazy overtones
that spoil the magic
in the name of laughs

But illusions win
while gold leaf rabbits
chomp mechanically on pewter carrots
that disappear until the
ten o’clock show–and the
the little boy stammers,
“Where’d he go?” as lights go down
and then up on the magician
now sitting miraculously in the chair on the aisle.

Unquestionable skill and stealth technique
make watching him easier
than listening to him.

.

Offered up as sacrificial tithes to appease the social network gods
streams of trivial tirades against lost time, lost friends, lost faith
masking the actual ache of lost human connections: spiritual etchings
we make on one another when we breathe shared air and space,
when we look one another in the unique eye and feel tremors
of one another’s heartbeat as we reach out with tangible arms
to touch that which we only can imagine from our desktops or smart
phones, or virtual machinery–
yet we log on again, for hope of another day, another way, another
chance to feel,
really feel,
what we seek insatiably live chemistry to quell
that growing void we thought filled by text
or digital exchanges–

So eat up, you greedy news feeds and wanting
emails; quaff your text lusts with photos
and longing snippets written to grab attention
for the lonely web creepers who loiter daily
like Arnold Friend, who wait to pounce on unsuspecting broken hearts
and turn their stifled cries into life rallies
before it’s too late.

Littering highways with autumn golds
Silently sliding sideways
Freely flitting away from and toward travelers
Spooking the unsuspecting
Calming the accepting
Cheering the season
Falling earthward, yet
Reminding us of heaven.

Welcome fall,
Welcome to my town.

Like squeezing oxygen from water
He breathes in life’s subtleties
painfully; ever-arching, the
gray whales breach their existence,
magnificent and daunting,
beautiful in their brutishness–
more powerful than eons
of erosion slicing deftly, but slowly
into the canyons or our lives.

Wade deeply into icy waters
and as the cold sneaks beneath your skin
your organs slow but don’t stop,
turn then, and look back onto the welcome shore
from where ebbing waters slid so peacefully
along, luring like the Lorelei of old
you to enter with only your skin to save you.
Then think again about your
misery today. and tell me,
is it really always going to be this way?

Speak, then breathe, then write away
your angst, release your befuddled bellowing
Into earth’s atmosphere
compose a poem of great calamity as great as
wars and famines or silly things
like Sendak verse or Lennon tunes–
and see what comes from that.
Perhaps another breath of air;
another chance to feel despair
or better yet, a little peace that makes the night
light up.

If nothing else, just simply breathe
so that when the breath no longer comes
there’s no regret for living life
in ways that make you wish anew–
for one more breath,
one more chance
to breathe in ocean scents
and morning dew.
If you can breathe for that,
I will breathe for you.

I hopped into that pony’s saddle
And laughed at pollywogs, clover bees
Popped tar bubbles with my toes
On simmering afternoons on the way to
Whiskey Hill for a nickle chick-a-dee?

That I kissed a boy in the church parking lot
and told my friends that love is more powerful
than diamond cutting blades or Superman’s
perdurable toughness or Batman’s little black riding
cape and they scoffed because they had not
loved the way I had….yet.

That I sat among the thousands cheering a little football team
to a National Championship while in my head
I knew that life was soon to change and whisk me
off to some foreign shore where life springs eternal
in the museums of time.

That I came home to work, to play
to settle in. Ah, wasn’t it yesterday
when I said, “I do” and before I did,
life had changed again and love became
a wondering game about who, how much,
and what is unconditional anyway?

That Grandma told me stories about
swimming pools and avocado trees
and day old bakeries and cousins
who meant everything suddenly
died. And that was wrong. And
then we knew our childhood was gone

But never forgotten.

tick tock tick tock tick tock
tick tock tick tock
tick tock

on it goes

patience, patience, patience

and then,
a moment,
a hint of happening.
suddenly, a thousand little moments
inspired, inspiring the sprite within
like yet another seed as it cracks its encasement
creeping coyly into the surrounding soil
taking root among the fertile bed
springing, sassy and surely; life renewed

O, happy lesson, O, lucky day
When two see something
a different way.

I’m sorry, but i have to say it–
You’re young.
“Why apologize?” you ask.
Because in saying that, I know the older
people understand what I mean–
and the younger ones, although they might think
they understand,
are clueless.

Dramatic irony.

That is not to say,
that you can not be wise–
wisdom is not age specific
You are, in fact,
a sage to some–
a kinder, older soul
who kicks the can
even before the old men
can,

So what does it mean to be young?
Oh, a thousand times ten thousand
things could I be telling you.

Soon enough, you’ll grow
and then you’ll say
It’s so nice to grow old
sometimes.

Don’t go in the lion’s den
Don’t give in to petty sin
Don’t sit back and let it in
Don’t turn your back on the sea.

For the view, climb the castle rock
For the thrill, ride the Ferris wheel
For the laugh, go to open mic
For a minute, forget your life
And come away with me.

Bind your head with the cleric’s wrap
Bind your feet with with a burlap sack
Bind your heart with pure intent
Bind your soul to the stairway.

Tell me what to say to you, so that I can
watch your back…
There’s nothing in the lion’s den
That my clear conscience lacks.

Who says?
No one told me that it couldn’t be–
There’s nothing impossible…
Let your mind wander
into the idea sea
then you will see, child
that the impossible can be.

Don’t riddle me with nay says,
Don’t chide me with negativity
Don’t frown at the thought
Don’t blow smoke down the chimney;
the fire burns out.

What can be, will be
in time’s infinity-
Like a walk on the moon
Or the forbidden, bitten too soon.

Carry on, little ones
Crossing thresholds as you go;
Impossible does not happen
unless you make it so.

Not whizzing (a pox on that thought)…
whizzing through…
on a Sunday afternoon
Plenty of sunshine
On this cool, crisp day
Whirling with winds that sigh lightly
Waiting for your name display

And the weather belies that insistent
angst–waiting impatiently for word,
impatiently for reassurance,
for anything–

And the order is faith,
faith that all is well, that the war
you’re waging will calm down,
that the battle will be over
before you are,
That what whizzes by your ear
is the same whisper of wind
that whizzes by mine
and not the bullet
nor shrapnel nor widow-maker mine
that enemies hope will tear you
down.

I hope you are whizzing through, too,
Knowing that we twiddle away time
nervously gnawing that lower lip,
Anxious for a simple sound
That you are there
That you are fine
That I can say “I love you,”
just one more time.

And you, oblivious to this,
go on your merry way
As Marines march in time
ooh-rah! ooh-rah!
Killing, protecting, believing
That your return
Is as important as their own.

He told a story about a young girl
Captured, tortured, lit up like the north star
Then, extinguished–
left upon the road for the next
patrol to find.
And her anguish entered him
and smothered his goodness
and oppressed his spirit
until he could not feel anymore.

And then another she came along
And lit up his night vision
like an angel who, unannounced,
does when she needs to make a point.
He saw her, oh, he saw her–
Radiant and steady and immovable
Blocking his further decline
By making him look at the
girl, so small and vulnerable,
left there alone
happy to be free of that lit up frame.

And the light made him cry
But no tears fell
“Soldiers don’t tell
if they want to come home alive.”
And the glorified one tapped
her cheek and made a soft,
nearly imperceptible sigh–
lyrical winds rushed past his face
and soon
he could not stop the rainstorm
of his soul.
She freed him and lit him up
until the illumination
cast love all around him
and the angel said, “adieu”
and the light faded away as surely
as it had arrived.
And the soldier was young again
And the girl was lit up.

Inventing words
Relating ideas singularly
without force or explanation,
must it only be the gift of
John Milton
Or Johnson
Or Shakespeare?

Peevish little words
Or complex ditties
with phonemes galore
expanding thought
as we expand our tongues

Or is it the other way around?
If Iago gives his, “worst of thought his
worst of words,” must we “invent some other
form of entertainment” since vile words
now commonly fill our lives?
Can there be worse?

And are there better turns
than “felicity,” “serendipity,” and “love”
which curl delightfully our smiles,
“and make us rich indeed”?

“Words, words, words,” as young
Hamlet is wont to chide–
They are the stuff of books, poetry,
songs, and cigarette ads–

And all because
Zumanity.
happens.

You, there, on the far sidewalk
Seagulls rest,
Gulls rest on the far sidewalks,
Where, oh where shall I
Sit?

You, there, on the last plane there—
Travelers, fly
Fly me off to the islands
Off to return
Standby.

You, there, on my front porch step
Come by to say, “Goodbye”?
Call me, whenever you
Want to say it.
Call me before
You forget.

You, there, with the bright smile
Look this way if you dare
Flash that grin
Just one more time,
Your burdens are light to
Bear.

You, there, come ride with me
Across the great divide
Shed that worry
And that care
Hitch a lift, one with
Supernatural fare.

You, there, paint on canvas—
Oil takes forever to dry.
Paint with cautionary,
Acrylic boldness;
Wipe clean, when eye to smudged eye
We finally celebrate that painting
And comfort one another’s sighs.

Slant
Sleight of hand
Slip Criss’ inside fans
Searching sets for subtle signs
Clues, nearly imperceptible
Tricks, fans

Hours pass
Hiccups cease
Perfect play,
Silly beast

Open-eyed, ever
eager.
Please, another–
yes, some other.
Test them–
follow with
discerning eye

It’s just a card–
or is it?

I want to scream it to the world
I want everyone who ever lived
To know
I want the salamander and the cicadas
To slither and click it in the mud and morning wind

I love your innocence
I love your wisdom
I love your tolerance
I love your purity
I love that surety
That egocentric confidence
That quiet place
That hums with energy
That reticence of mind
That perfectly imperfect self.

So, know it, world—
I love the way it feels to love,
And you, I love, too.
Click. Click. Whoosh

Don’t forget about that dream;
Don’t let Langston
be right about
disappointment.
Find another way
Dig deeper
Hold firmly
To whatever lifeline
floats.
Rise to your moment
and I’ll rise, too.

Floating upon rapids
Icy clean waters with
Fish eggs and smooth pebbles
Magnified beneath,
I come upon the tributary.
Turning upstream,
I wait.

Numbing feet and shivering
Shoulders want to
Continue down the mountain
River—
But where are you? You need
To come into view
Else my journey, solitary
And peaceful
Will become lonely
As shadows stretch looking
For you, too.

And then, just as crisp
Evening breezes lift
My damp hair
You bobble up around
The bend

And I am happy again.

Heading home,
triplets in the twilight hour,
silent but moving
through the dusky air
toward their sure
stopping ground,
a winter’s tale away
from here.
Can I follow?
Or is that flight
for less tethered
creatures,
less rigid rule
followers,
who see the setting
season and
acquiesce into their
remaining life
bound only
by obligations,
responsibilities,
and promises–
but not,
by love, kindness, nor
care?
What paths are
left to follow?

Return you three
to your summer home
and remind us all again
that some fowl come
and some go
in intervals
of predictability,
but time,
it only goes
forward into
the final
winter season
of our lives.

Tuesday, yes, it was
a normal day–
And then, WHAM!

What is that? What’s going on?
Should I be afraid?
Should I drive to work?
It was clear across the country
But it felt next door.

By the time school started
The towers fell.

And then the rest
happened–Shanksville,
Pentagon, air traffic
shutdown, unbelievable footage
unbelievable
The country mourns
The country mourns
The county mourns
It’s innocence.

And then they rose,
Changed
by both the horror
and the miracles

A new dawn
comes
none too soon.

I haven’t figured it out yet-
have you?
It’s a trick that only you would know–
much like the inorganic chemist said
today when he turned something
non-carbon based into something
living–
and he thought he was God
and so did the audience
And then the sun set in the Grand
Canyon, according to the precocious
child
And I, I waited for the explanation
until magically
I knew
without you telling me…

“And how did that happen?” you ask.
And I looked at you one more time
to be sure
And then I smiled and
moved away
so someone else could have a turn.

Sunken
when the message finally came through;
recorded weeks ago
but lost in the cellular vacuum
until today.
Lost moments. Searing pain,
then horror
that you really did call;
that you
remembered, but
I shunned you
wrongly.

Next time,
call until I answer.
Call again and again.
Don’t let me sleep too
soon or long.
And I, I will call
you, too
until I reach you.

And by all means,
say “good night”
and “good morning”
in person.

I love that judiciousness
that parcels out just enough
to keep trolls tethered and the pure,
curious.

I love that supersubtle swiftness
that dances within your eye
as you wait to snag that unsuspecting
bystander with a quick, brilliant
smile.

I love that insecurity that stays so
perfectly hidden beneath your cloaked,
feared stash of rejection anxieties
that no one knows you quiver
ever.

I love that absurdly believable
spirituality tapping from within
your skull and inching regularly
near your temple, oozing out ever
so sublimely that gift you have.

I love your nature
because I can love your nature
and watch others love your nature,
too.

Night, in its infancy,
Wants to run wild circles
in the summer sand
stoke the bonfire
stroll carefree along
lapping surf lines
with salted air
tickling tastebuds
already coated with
taffy and tangerine
shave ice
while fingers
interlocked with love
and lovers
tickle and tease
the child within
until suddenly,
without warning,
without even a hint of
coming,
fall arrives to carry
Persephone down
without a fight.
And no one cries
because the cycle begins
again as it must
and the cycle begins finally
until dusk to dusk
it’s summer again.

Amazingly, given all
the ugliness
in the world,
You radiate–
at least most
of the time,
And if I could,
I’d give you a taste
of Lois the Pie Queen’s
Pie.

So, what I think I should
have said,
before I said what I did
is simply that
a crumb of pie
is better than
a spoon of (you there,
fill in the blank).

Inside makes outside
prime,
The spark, a flame
within; beautiful
is only worth as much
when you let go
and pretend.

So order a slice for here,
and one or two
to go,
and call old Sally Mae–
today
there’s pie for sale
down at Lois’ place–
beautiful
blueberry
ala mode.

My spam queue
is full,
but something with a fee
can protect me from unwanted
third parties.

So, who is worse, the spammer
or the extortionist who wants
to protect me
and then unceasingly sends
messages
about upgrades and new tools
that cost just a tad bit more?

And that is the way some people operate:
They want something, so they’re exquisite
And they listen with both ears,
ostensible hearts
but when need arises,
or when tough times
roll,
as they invariably do,
those same “pillars” of charity
become busy and unavailable
and impossible to reach or they
need something in return and they
begin to preach.

And then there is that “family” member
who, by all rights, has no clue about
the hypocrisy they spew…but, of course,
invariably, they need your help
to which you’re expected to smile
and say, “I’m happy to lend a hand.”
Perhaps they’ll be eternally stuck
in my queued line of junk.

But every great while,
when sifting through trash,
a bolded message catches the eye–
“Gads, did I dump that?”
And it could be a friend
who slipped through the cracks
or a sibling or nephew or
someone like that
who rightfully should have been
looked at with awe
for their goodness
and grace and unrelenting
love.

I learned a lot from my little spam queue–
I learned that some things just are–
No matter what we do
And somethings and people
are worth a second glance through.

They exist.
They mingle, share, laugh, play,
Call the world their own–

In everything, they frame their world
in golden hues,
while they see themselves
as superheroes bursting
forth with backpacks
lined with yellow silk.
They grin loudly, then go inside
to glimpse that loving mother
one last time just to be sure
they’re safe,
and then, they
venture on,
the beautiful
boys I know.

Goodness lives still,
in the beautiful boys
I know.

Summer sun sets lazily
clocks wind down
eyelids close upon
dreams, hopeful dreams
that steal away
nostalgia
bringing happy reunions,
gathering pocketfuls
of melancholy
replacing sadness
with anticipation.

So much has been written about
midnight.
So, when Big Ben chimes
or the Glockenspiel spins,
Cinderella becomes real
And Cats cry for memories
to fill their loneliness,
And the poet thinks of yet another
rhyme to pass the time
without investing too deeply
or sharing too truthfully
what the wish of midnight
might be.

So, Emerson, I left my chamber
as you suggest,
to gaze upon the shooting stars
and found the moon
so brightly lit
that ne’er but one could my
eye catch

So standing out among the
night, staring, searching for the
falling light
it dawned on me, that simple truth:
we should not seek for miracles
in meteor showers–especially when
the moon so obviously illuminates
that what is already miraculous–
a home, a family, and lovely friends
a job, a dog, and the time to roam…
No need to look for divine guidance
in the stars–the key has always
been inside us.

Scribble down a few kind words
“you are awesome; you make me happy”
Explain with utmost clarity why and how.
What makes all of that so important?
It saves lives. It saved mine.

Compassionate responses
buoy up the need until drifter
floats to safety
not far from here.

And this is what she

knows

about him:
(She’ll fill in the blank
privately)

You don’t have to be any person
other than your own self
with room to grow.
You’re far better than you were even yesterday.
Thanks for trying so hard.

Write back when you have time,
at least before I die.

Love,
Your Friend

Where are you?
I thought you were following me,
but then I turned to see how far behind
you were,
and you weren’t there…
or were you…
ahead of me now…
Ah, the cycle.
You now surpass me
and I, I wait for no one
as you now wait for me.

Tell me something, will you,
about the time you
ate your brother’s sandwich
and drank the last cold Pepsi
while he was out washing the car,
and when he came in from the hot
sun, you slinked away up the stairs
and turned on the television,
and turned off the show he set to record
and then, without blinking,
you told him it was the neighbor kid’s fault
because that kid came over and fiddled with
everything.

And then you proceeded to tell your brother
that the girl of his dreams was really such a
dolt, and how, by the way, could he be serious
about someone who was both stupid AND crude?
And while you were at it, you told him that
he should quit trying to become a DJ,
he had no personality for that kind of work,
and his musical tastes were odd,
and his hair looked like something
from a bad eighties movie.

So when he turned to leave
Just a little red in the face,
You thought it was because
he was overheated from the car washing
and not the fact that you were
flicking tiles from the mosaic art piece
he had created for you last Christmas
as a gift.

Scribbling away about minor events
makes it all the more clear
that life is short and minutes,
sometimes seconds, count

And taking time to cheer another,
hold a hand or comb her hair
Always frees one of the selfish, grueling
grind of ego infested daydreams

Soon enough the magic happens
minds enlightened with a thought;
find Hope’s resurrected legs
while Goodness grows her angel wings
and the Apocalypse treads water
in the river of time.

Well, I thought I was going to write a poem about this, but I’m either too tired or too tired (yes, I’m awake enough to know that I’ve typed that phrase twice) to do that right now, so I think I’ll just narrate a brief experience from today:
I’m not a “treehugger.” I promise. I do care about the environment; likewise. I believe that the logging industry understands that creating sustainable forests through clear cutting or whatever methods they use probably works well in places like the Northwest. So, when I relate this anecdote, please don’t think I’m trying to be political. I’m not.

As we drove from the Mendocino coast over Hwy 20 to Willits this morning, we followed a logging truck for a good 20 miles. On the truck were three sections of a monstrously mature redwood. The largest section, as determined by twenty miles of close proximity, gave away the age of the tree to be well over a hundred years old, probably several hundred years old. I don’t know the circumstances for the tree to be finding its way presumably to the mill, but I couldn’t help but feel as if we were in some type of funeral procession…our line of cars slowly snaking its way through the mountains, the highway lined with mourners, the giant redwoods all standing at tall attention for their fallen brother.

Blurred by age and heavy fog
She wandered freely into the sea
Hoping to find the mermaid’s lair
Slipping again beneath the surface foam

Descending into darkened depths
She gasped her final salty breath
And crossed through night’s eternal rest
Only to find him at her breast
Wondering what he
He could help her with

And razor clams and jelly stings
Led her on her deathly dive
Beneath the ocean’s battered shores
And there she found him
All alone
Waiting

Johnny, time to surface.

Went on a ride today, the rollicking two lanes of Highway 1
Leading in and out of fog
Leaving worries and loves and nuisances behind
Out of reach, new memories forming with every turn
Until, finally, the sunset puts to rest
The hollowness of holidays on the run
From the inevitable.