I remember asking my dad,
“How many stars are in the sky,”
and he said something like,
“Way too many to count.”
But I’ve counted.
And after recounting
                                      and recounting
and scribbling in my notebook
under my fathers flashlight
I can tell you that there is
indeed a number.

And to this day I prefer
reading the stars over anything.
They’re the oldest book ever written.
Space: the oldest canvas to be sewn
and the cosmos the paint of Picasso.
Each spec is its own character
each pair a set of eyes
where I can lose myself in their gaze.
A celestial connect the dots
where I collect the pictures
and pick out my favorite spots.

But when my son
is old enough to ask,
“How many stars are in the sky?”
I’ll just hand him a notebook
and tell him to read what he sees.

Well after the conductor yelled,
“All aboard,” and well after all
of the tickets were punched;
a group of people,
who didn’t know one another
were all headed north.

Little hands turned through pages
while larger ones were cupping
at the window, trying to get
a better view of the night sky.
A farmers pasture flashed by,
but went unnoticed in the dark.

A few seats down slouched a frail
grey haired lady, with her hands
clasped around a small bouquet
of daises.  And across the aisle,
towered a man who’s hands
could hold a dozen eggs.

Alone in the corner was a red
dressed woman; doing her best
to not spill her coffee. She watched
the children next to her fall
into an innocent sleep.
And ripples echoed in her fingers.

She thought about how strange it is
that everyone on a train
can be going the same direction
but have different destinations.
And then she thought about
how tired the conductor had looked.

Get going Gary!
Grab a gun, ghillie, and grub
Guinea's gonna glide.

one fair Sunday, air will flow beneath me
I'll fly above palm trees and the blue sea
so when sunrise dethrones the fireflies
I'll be the eagle surfing sapphire skies

but send an angel to teach me blasphemy
as I'm mortal without the chemistry
to soar up and touch heaven’s canopy
God decrees 'humans aren't feathery'

so, rise defiant and grow my wings through
to glide as a jet, one man crew and say ‘I flew’
but when God gets a clue to what we do
he will fire you and strike me through

but not before that fair wind lifts my wings
to see beyond the things fit just for kings

how do I satisfy the need
to see into the eyes
of the one I've yet to meet?

I have to see them,
though enslaved in rusted chains.
Clinking quietly,
Cold with dread,
Mind so etched in pain.


I have to greet them,
in that practiced way -
Unchanged, rehearsed, untrue.

How don’t they see the child who died
,
When they did what no one knew?

I burn beneath my frozen skin,
a war of guilt and duty dressed as care.

They call it love,
But love would not begin to smother me with shame and leave me there.

I can’t not go -
Though every cell protests
My presence their request.
I cannot leave -
They'll grieve,
For them, not me,
It's always been the same.

But to see them is to bleed to death - in fearful silence still.

I stand between two fires, both against my will.

There’s no escape.
I have no voice.
I brace myself to burn.
I’m just a guest, 
unheard, disturbed,
And I will never learn.

red does to me what only red can do
it chose me from an ancient tree
bearing red fruit seductive and juicy
red is a colour that sets in motion
deep acknowledgement usually hidden

Somehow, unbefuddled, it all ties together,
The happy endings get tied, knots well made,
Sleep comes easy, the light dims slowly, finely,
Clarity, everywhere, not for taking, just for asking,
Wanting is off limits, even inconceivable, and the poem.
Why, even the poem finishes itself, and to all a very, Good Night

a grownup lullaby