There are places traveled,
dark places,
that stain your heart
forever.
Yet those who've never been
pass judgement
on how
you should be
afterwards
and forever.
Somethings you
just
have
to see
for yourself,
explanations fail
with
the spoken
word
no matter
the effort
made.
You can't
hear
colors
or smell them.
It's the same
with places
far away,
in the dark,
long ago.
There are
no words
adequate,
or perhaps
horrific
is better,
more accurate,
in its inadequacies.
I gave that up
long ago
in the dark
by myself

Maybe today was the time,
not yesterday,
and sunset becomes the beginning.
Maybe this was the time,
not before,
or long ago,
and today became the only.
Sunrise looks on sweetly,
but knows nothing of the day before it,
and the day before it is,
the living to be done.
Looking on is wishes,
looking back is what was,
and truth becomes the morning.
Hoping was nice in it's time,
and everyone has a tomorrow dream,
but Certainty has it's place,
and Reality can't be taken,
and nothing dashes knowing,
like the dreams of a child,
waking to an empty Christmas.
So maybe today was the time,
not tomorrow,
and yesterday was already.
But maybe today was the best of it all,
maybe this was the time,
and I missed it.

Some men will travel to the top of the mountain,
in an effort to talk to the sky,
and maybe touch the clouds...
a wish they've carried since children.
But I, I've looked from the flatland,
and only dreamed of the trail
that leads to the clearest views of the sun
and maybe a final look to my soul.
No shadows there to block my sight
or hide the smallest parts in darkness.
I stand by the river,
and watch it grow,
from the falling and tumbling water
rushing down the sides of the mountain...
and wonder where the beginning is,
but never taking the trail to where it has to be.
Is it fear, or just a lack of effort,
or a matter of the heart,
that keeps me where I am,
and the knowing all so close?
But in the end, here I sit, looking up once again,
my answers wrapped in clouds
the sun throwing shadows on the ground,
a small chill in the air as they block it's warmth.
I hug my knees by the river,
wishing once again....
I lived at the top of the mountain.
The shadows grow and darkness comes early,
and the mountain brings the night,
blocking the light of the sun,
tears fall,
a slow walk to home.
The mountain still remains and waits,
for those who walk it's trails...
knowing it isn't me.
JC 2009

There is a Storm coming,
dark and violent
filled with death,
destruction,
pain
and tears.
There is a Storm coming,
fueled by heat,
anger,
pain
and fear.
There is a Storm coming
it has a face,
evil,
cold,
and frightening.
There is a Storm coming,
a deadly reckoning,
silent,
steady,
and  relentless.
There is a Storm coming,
an unyielding rampage,
savage,
ferocious,
and vengeful.
There is a Storm coming,
a howling wind,
crushing,
tearing,
and unrestrained.
A Storm is coming,
a giant wave,
rising,
falling
and murderous.
I AM the Storm,
I am here
burning,
drowning,
and retribution.

I recall the ways,
and whys of yesterdays.
The steps I took,
to here and now,
as clear as a sunlit day.
The gray in my hair,
and the lines of laughter
by my eyes,
all signs of where I've been,
how far I've come.
Whether fair days,
or rain,
nights warmed by the moon,
or cooled by the winds,
they all led to here, to now,
to who I am,
and I am
where I've been.
Soldiering,
a Father to a son,
lover and friend,
all parts of a life,
a life that's passing.
All stones in a path laid
to where I am right now.
Regrets and wishes,
things done right or wrong,
all parts of the man
and parts of a life
pieces of time,
of minutes to hours,
and hours to days,
and all coming to years,
years going by,
and years long ago.
It's late afternoon,
this day,
and the Sun is passing by.
I'll wait for the setting
it'll surely do,
smiling at the memories,
of the life I just passed through,
missing the pieces left behind,
but glad for the chance to do it.
I'll leave my mark,
on a stone in the shade of a tree,
for those who care to remember,
that once this life was me.

I open doors to rooms,
walk halls with no end or destination,
through a house that God made
for me,
but left no plan nor directions,
just me to wander through its possibilities,
lost in its vast interior,
no lights but that I provide,
illuminating the immediate now,
and nothing else.
I climb stairs with no end,
enter rooms so black with fear
that I scream,
and run,
too scared to close them again,
then on to the next,
again, and again.
A house that God made?
So I was told..
but that was long ago
and now it seems like
the lie it appeared to be
when first I received the key
to a place too black to be
any part of heaven,
any part of eternity,
any part of an afterlife
promised to you and me.
A house that God made?
No, this place I wander,
this place with no end
nor final destination,
was crafted somewhere else,
by something else,
who left me here to die.
I ran from flames,
ran to here to hide,
and hide I did.
I even hid from God.
My hand grasps the way,
to another room,
I turn the **** slowly,
open a door to another room,
as dark as the last....
it leads to another passage,
always deeper into the house,
none lead outside anymore,
where maybe I'd be seen.
Yet I walk,
I search,
I will not die,
not today.

They appear in the dark,
under the soft glow of the moonlight,
teeth bared,
slipping into your dreams.
Once they lived in the outer reaches
of your perimeter,
where you slept..
and ate..
and dug yourself in.
Quietly a hand reaches for the wire,
slips inside,
closes in.
Then as now,
dawn chases them away,
and the game begins anew,
at night, in the dark,
but nobody dies this time.
Whispers drive you to the floor,
where you sweat,
and shiver,
and maybe cry a bit...
remembering the blood.
A bed takes shape,
a dresser,
pictures on the wall
as you rise to your knees,
glad to be alive,
once again,
in the dark,
under the soft glow...
of the moonlight.
JC 2009