Be our courage
When life is frightening,

Be our strength
When we are weak.

Be our peace
When everything crumbles,

Be our portion
When we are empty.

Be our fortress
When flood waters rise,

Be our song
When our vision dies,

Be starvation
When life is a feast,

Be our way,
Our truth, and our life.

I rise and fall
As I float on her tides,
Which ebb and flow
From her inner shores.
I am intimate enough
With her seas
To wrestle with the breakers
When tempests rise,
Or to rest, as I do now,
Upon the peaceful waves
As they crash,
In calming measures,
On the white-sand beaches
Her tourists frequent.

It's been a while since I've
Written to you, my reader,
So today I should go searching
For some inspiration.

Maybe I'll drive to Carol Park
And watch the stay-at-home
Mothers pour out their joys
To one another,
And I'll write you a sonnet
About enjoying your life
Rather than taking it for granted.

Or I could walk through
The local antique shop
Where I would tell you about the
Rusty old straight blades,
Or the dusty bookshelves
Where I search for Irish poetry.

Then I could visit my
Local tobacconist where I would
Relate to you the musty aroma
Of thousands of cigars
That have been worked
Into the carpet.
A place where old men
Like to go to talk about
Their wives and the
Upcoming football season.
Meanwhile, I'd watch as
A newborn adult curses,
Burning his fingers as he
Tries to light his very first cigar.

These are all the places
I could go to gather inspiration.
Instead, I'll just sit here
On this old leather sofa,
In the same coffee shop,
Drinking the same espresso
I drink every Friday morning.

Here I'll keep my same routine,
Writing to you, the only person
Who cares enough to read
About all the things I could do
This morning, but don't need to.
All because you, my reader,
Will be perfectly content
With the product of my imagination.

8am-light is bursting through
My shades as I take my shower.
Once I dress myself, I reheat
The coffee my wife left me.
I step outside to be met by
The crisp air of waning summer.
Like every day, I notice the
Vibrant boa scarf of purple wildflowers
That adorn the shoulders of
Wheeler and Monitor.
The sky is not falling, and
It is true what has been said,
'The fear of something happening
Is worse than it actually happening.'

I'm growing my beard now,
And there are certain friends
I surround myself with when I need
Beardly encouragement.

You see, like life,
My beard can be patchy,
Scratchy, ugly, and sometimes
A pain in the ***.

But, I have learned to
Surround myself with those
Who love a good beard
Just as much as I do.

Each year, when summer dies,
I seek their counsel and
Encouragement, my reason
To go on.

When I stare into the mirror
In shear despair,
Wondering if it is worth it,
I remember their kind words.

Whether their compliments
Are true or not,
They give me the courage
To keep growing.

On Friday mornings
You can find me 
At my local coffee shop
Reading, writing, understanding
Myself.
It is how I unpack
All the baggage from
This week's long journey
Along the Camino of life. 

It is the dusty old bunk bed 
I rest my body upon. 
It is where I am free 
To dream and dream again.
Here I understand my limits
And regain my strength.
Although I love the scenic overlooks
And the one I travel with,
I need this time.

I don't quite understand why,
But without this 
Momentary solitude,
Everything I've ever wanted
Does not feel
Quite like
Everything I've ever wanted.