If you started a fire
I doubt
that I'd put it out.

I'd sit back
and watch it burn,
dreaming of the ocean
and the sound of water.

The roar of the waves
inside of my ears
would **** the flames.

For me at least.

Maybe not for you.

Home is more than a pile of bricks,
It's the view from the window
And the walk down the road.
It's houses you pass
It's the people you see
It's the beep of the coffee ***
And the bark of the dog
It's the texture of clay
It's the floor boards that creak
It's the sound of the motors
And the memories of love
It's where you were when you
Learned how to count.
It's the murmur of voices
It's the colors of fall,
It's the mess that you made
It's the time you were proud
It's the thunder and lightening
It's the faces you know
It's the habits you break
And the things that you count on
It's the sound of a word
It's the line in the joke
It's the restaurants and waiters
It's the predictable  vote
It's the aisles of the store
It's the pinching of cheeks
It's the hard times, the help
And the vegetable stands
It's the churches and prayer
It's the clock in the square
It's the traffic, the football,
The police and the sun
It's the tick of the clock
And the hum of the pipes
It's the drawer with the spoons,
It's the trick to the tub
It's the stop sign you ignore
It's the trash cans you empty
It's gas in the tank
And playing hide and seek
It's the traditions we cherish
It's the rhythm we find
Home is more than an address
It's more than just family,
It's God and it's time
It's an attitude, an  adaption
It's everyday lives
Home isn't where the heart is,
Home is what makes up the heart.

Bright blue green
The Sea is a silken cloth
Tossed around the shoulders of wealth.

Dark grey it is
A woolen charity
Scratching the shoulders of the poor.

When the color of rusted copper
It is a thick rubber mat
Rolled back at tapered
edges to reveal
The crags of earth
Thrusted up by misfortune
And sullied by time.

Like lead by moonlight
It is the pavement
We pound on,
Crumbling in some places
Smooth in others.

White hot and reflecting the sun
It is what we could be,
What we sometimes are.
The intense, pin point light.

Like glass it is
All the shades of
What we are,

Millions of souls
Has the Sea.

Millions of souls
Have stood by her waters,
Pulled and repelled by
Raw power and salty fear.

Millions of faces
Millions of variations
And shades in between,
has she subtly worn.

They come to her,
They flock to her and reach out
To her. Her sun and moon are different
Than theirs are.

Fingers pull at layers of
Color and life, attempting
To cover themselves
With the depth.

But just when she
Has covered the pilgrims
She flippantly rips back
Her blanket and exposes them.
Even they are surprised
at the revelation. They are.....


She returns to apologize,
Meek and gentle, offering
Little jewels in her warm,
Glittering palm.

They always accept
Her offering. And in turn share
With her the smallest, mosaic
Piece of their own souls.

Millions of souls
Has the Sea.
She tries them on like hats.

Who owns the sunset?
Who is mistress of the stars?
Do the navigators of fortune
Sit at a table and boast?
Are the humours four fine sisters?

Can it be that I am
Master of all these things?
Do I  hold the yet untwined
Ball of string of the future in my hands?
My hands. My hands of no strength,
My hands of no extraordinary skill,
My hands that arrive at eternity unclean.

These fingers that are whole
In spite of broken spirits
Are treated as the fingers
Of perfection.
Of blamelessness.
Of forgiveness.

The threads of time
Are dusty in my fingers.
A fine mist of sediment
Crumbles at my touch.
Delicate stars are loosened
And burn out in my sight.

Reaching up I return
This future to the hands
In which It belongs.  
Stars and light dance down
Into my eyes, and I know
Who owns the sunset.

Who owns the sunset?
Who is mistress of the stars?
Do the navigators of fortune
Sit at a table and boast?
Are the humours four fine sisters?

Can it be that I am
Master of all these things?
Do I  hold the yet untwined
Ball of string of the future in my hands?
My hands. My hands of no strength,
My hands of no extraordinary skill,
My hands that arrive at eternity unclean.

These fingers that are whole
In spite of broken spirits
Are treated as the fingers
Of perfection.
Of blamelessness.
Of forgiveness.

The threads of time
Are dusty in my fingers.
A fine mist of sediment
Crumbles at my touch.
Delicate stars are loosened
And burn out in my sight.

Reaching up I return
This future to the hands
In which It belongs.  
Stars and light dance down
Into my eyes, and I know
Who owns the sunset.

Lord, I am
broken.
  I seek,
Your face.
it is so hard,
To feel you,
to know you
are there.
I know
that you are near
but you seem
so far away.
all I want
is to know
that the path
I am on
is the path
that you
have chosen.
I cry out, and do not hear your voice.
I lay down, and do not feel you.
I am broken by this trial.
help me in my unbelief help me in my unbelief.