Green bees, little trees, growing higher and higher to the horizon and back.

Lumbering brother, married to the potter’s daughter. Untied, yet standing silent waiting to be separated, divorced, unloved, and forgotten by children and wife.

Leave me, leave me, leaf me! Better death in unloved water. Towering pillars, scalding, scalded.

Maybe he’ll play basketball.

Saving up, set aside
Looking for tomorrow’s joy
You’ve missed the great today

Blessed are the broken, because in them there's something to fix.
Blessed are the destitute, because their arms are wide open.
Blessed are the blind, because they truly appreciate the light.

Blessed is the homeless man you glared at last Tuesday on your way back from work, because his soul is searching for a real home while yours is watching netflix in bed.
Blessed are the simple-minded, because they seem to be the only ones who can understand the promises given them by the eternal deity anymore now that science has disproven the infinite and almighty creator's existence without the least understanding of what infinite even means.
Blessed are the ones in the background of your selfish and 'significant' lives, because they are the colors that God uses to paint the masterpiece that is the space between the physical and spiritual realm, the elaborate painting that we get to walk and breathe and live through each day, the one with the smell of winter's cold and warm fires, the one with the flowering cycles of the most beautiful orchids and the ripeness of a fresh mango, the one where the oceans dance with the shore and the great cliffs watch in awe, and the one with the tender autumn snuggles on a chilly goodnight. They are the reason the poets have anything to write about at all, and the reason they take joy in writing what they do.

Blessed are the empty vessels, because I am in love with the humble and weak, and I wish to fill those who seek me and give them life and joy everlasting.

Why am I so tired?
I hide it well, but it hurts more each day
If I told, would that even help?
No, gotta seem strong and intact

After all, it’ll change tomorrow
Something new will come
There will be a breakthrough
Life won’t be as hard tomorrow

No, no, you’ve lost the romance life once had
The smile on your face under the light-veiled trees
There was a hope to your step, governing your heart
But now it’s gone, so it seems

Where did it go?
Am I making it all up in my head?
Seems a lot of nonsense for a man of my age
Hormones are wacky and figuring it out

That’s it, you’re just a cliche
What part of your life has ever been hard?
Depressed? Yeah, right
Typical generational propaganda

I don’t really care enough to care
I’m just saying I’m tired, maybe a little depressed
Though that word holds a power I’d rather ignore
So I’m just tired, alright?

Just a tired, young man on his way to the grave

The truck bounces as we navigate the rocky plains
With a thud we make a turn down a path we made for ourselves
We have some crates in the back with a month of loose groceries
Odds and ends of what we can’t grow or raise on our own

A ways down the path, through the grass and the rocks
Driving out towards a backdrop of snow-crest mountains
Just over the hill in the distance
Stands a small little house, painted white, roof of red
That we built from the ground to the sky

I look at you from behind the wheel, and I find you smiling back
In your eyes is the comfort of returning home
You reach out your hand, and I grasp it in mine
And we drive a little longer together

Pulling up through the gravel, we park in the cold
As I lean in to kiss your rosy countenance
But you turn the last second, and our lips meet in warmth
And I’m mist like the fog of the morning
Yours as always, gently reminded when I need no reminder

While we unload the crates, we hear a door loudly opened
Out comes our favorite little one running
Though he’s not very little anymore

You embrace him, not withholding your love and affection
Your delight in him never ceasing
He runs to my aid as I hand him a crate
With a kiss on the forehead for payment

As we enter our home, our own lovely home
We remember the work and the sweat
That was poured into the wood that makes up the door frame
And the time that was spent in the planning

But look at it now, so sturdy and right
Perfect for the family we started
So simple, so elegant, with a rustic appeal
A few paintings collected through the years of our love

After emptying crates, stocking shelves and cold pantries
Making meals from the harvest we sowed through God’s blessings
We decided the day’d reached its end
So we sat in the sunroom and looked out on the horizon
Holding hands and our son in our arms

Maybe this, sunset speaks
Is the way things should be
In our house on a farm in New Zealand

Maybe this, midnight sleeps
Is the way things should be
With your chest pressed on mine as I love you tonight
As our bodies dance and our tongues sing new tunes
As I hold you tight in sleeping, never letting you go for a moment

Your breath is my substance and your heartbeat my rhythm
Now drifting together in the most comfortable way

Beneath the roof of a house to ourselves

Why does it seem like we are always putting out so many fires?

It seems so tauntingly inevitable.
You and I talk about a lot, and we get hurt sometimes.
We don’t fight in anger, but my pride is unruly and stupid.
We don’t love incompletely, but there are sacrifices we have not yet made.
But you are the greatest love I’ve ever had, and there is nothing I wouldn’t do for you.

So then why all the freaking fires?

I have had a thought.
Perhaps the flames simply must burn when a meteor loves an inferno.