Strike-
if your hands are shaking
shake the world with them;
come on, love
sit up
if your back is breaking
ignore the constant aching
and walk past it.

The Numerical Quality of Friendship

The quality of friendship is non-quantitative.
Yet, I ask you to number me this way.

With tape measure, determine that:
The length of my arm's embrace will always be
longer than long enough, and when distance magnifies sorrow's gains,
my shoulders measure wide enough to pillow your wearied head.

The depth of my pocket is finite for by definition,
a pocket is but an open doored, three walled shelter.
My pocket of shelter is forever open, forever deep,
and forever is infinite.

Trust that when bowed and bent,
upon my shoulders climb and together we will be tall enough
to touch the season's new fruit upon the tree of life,
and with one tongue taste the unimaginable!

Do u think that mercury can measure
the warmth of my tears when love sears my heart,
or the heat of thy skin when it heals and cauterizes
wounds salted by the mistreatment, by the bitters of the weak ones,
who rejoice when they scald others?

Size me up.
What is my volume?
What are the boundaries that
length X depth X height
state must limit my capacity to cherish, to heal,
and even to forgive those who deserve no forgiveness?

If you measure me well and proper,
if I meet the standards that qualify me to be called friend,
then friend me here, friend me now,
friend me for the qualities I posses,
and number us a unity among the few
who are truly blessed
by a quality of friendship that cannot be measured,
for there is no scientific instrument that can quantify,
limitless.



March 2012

Alone a soldier stands,
deaf in ringing ear,
from fire of the battle,
that happened far too near.

His jacket and his boots,
stained with blood and gore,
his very thoughts pain him,
the sight of all the horror.

The body lying at his feet,
the body his friend once manned,
lies broken, twisted, and lifeless,
on the fearsome land.

No time to mourn
The men untimely lost.
He must move on,
No matter the cost.

The soldier hears footsteps,
the enemies pounding the ground.
He knows his time is coming.
He knows that recurring sound.

The enemy is ‘round the wall,
the soldier’s courage rising.
As he prays to God for safety,
his memories are sizing.

He thinks of his home,
his country, his state.
He thinks of his family,
whom think of the date.

The date of his return,
the time when he would weep.
The day when life went on,
and the night he could sleep.

All these thoughts in his head,
pouring in like rain.
The enemy rounds the corner,
and sees the one yet to be slain.

The enemy loads his daunting rifle
and begins to take his aim.
The soldier takes hasty action,
both men doing the same.

The enemy fires,
the bullet whipping out like rope.
The lone soldier shouts in silence,
“I still hold onto hope!”

This hope continues to remain,
In every soldiers heart.
For a battle in a war,
is only just a part.

Could it be, that all we
Have our multiple differences?
Or are we all quite the same
And looking through different lenses?

Experiences make us who we are
And tell us how to see.
Different moments in our lives
Can make us who we want to be.

An embarrassing action may cause blush
But cause smiles in the end.
A painful heartbreak deep inside
Will bring greater things and mend.

Looking through glass spectacles
of what our failures have been,
Show us more, and more, and more
Of who we are and when.

So are we really different?
Or all very much the same?
Take a look through another's lenses
And see what gives us our name.