her lips fragile like
watermelon

when

he broke her trust.

you can do
          whatever you want,
he says off camera,

touch them.
          grab them.
whatever.

sometimes,
he gruffs,
          I can’t resist.

sometimes
          I just can't stop
kissing.

          to him she was nothing but
an edible arrangement.

is a child running
into a busy street.
Only inattentive
and
lazy parents
let inspiration die.

My thoughts of you
are like hundreds of seagulls
on two sides of a bridge,
some perched on small
islands of ice, others
floating on frigid water.

Or maybe they are
like roses in the wintertime -
budding but not blooming,
waiting for some warmth,
or like the once fragrant petals
now fallen to the ground.

Christ and the Poet
declare the same cry,
“to those who have
eyes to see,
let them see.
To those who have
ears to hear,
let them hear.”

Depressed are my poets
because they lack the marketable skills
of my singer-songwriter friends
who, though they are still poets, at least
can play in a band or be staff writer
at some boring record label.

You know the place, where
good art goes to die.
It’s stripped and beaten,
forced into some man’s pocket book,
which consequently gets shoved
into the pocket of his sports coat.

But even the poet doesn’t get
such awful treatment.  No, the poet
puts out a few lines to be read by who?
No one.  That’s who.  Just a few other
lonely writers on a forum - that’s who’s
interested in poetry these days.

Fog, like the sigh on a tired man’s pillow,
rests upon a snow covered field.
Golden grass, aging and dormant,
stands like broken glass
on the snowy walls of
deep roadside ditches.

Ten brown mourning doves
perch upon black power lines.
Juxtaposed against a gray sky, it seems
carefully composed, like a painting.
It is so unfathomably beautiful.
Awakening to wonder is like this.

I watch my little sprout
push through the tender soil
reaching for light,
asking for water.

A tiny blade
soon becomes a little bulb
with tiny seeds
bursting forth.

A little grain,
enough to feed a bird
or a small rodent,
but it is enough.

It is enough because
it is all it needs
to be.
Nothing more or less.

I’m a poet whose imagination’s died,
a galaxy whose sun’s ceased to shine.
Pray for me, for I am lost.
The builder didn’t count the cost.

Laid in a tomb behind a stone,
swallowed by a fish in the deep unknown,
I’m waiting for my day to come
when you make me speak
like you healed the dumb.

Call my name and there I’ll come.
Loose me and I’ll freely run.
I’m just waiting for your hand
to pull me on the sea again.

There I’ll see you in the light,
the water’s calmed and the moon is bright.
Little, yes, my faith may be,
but I’ll try again, just wait and see.

Silent cardinal perched
on a cold November branch,
you are watching me.

Silent sloth wrapped on
an encased and snowy tree,
remind me to rest.

Silent succulent
planted quietly in dirt,
remind me to feed.

Silent apple on
the adjacent journal page
remind me to eat.

Silent cardinal perched
on a cold November branch,
sing my numbered days.

There seems to be
more poetry
written in the winter.

Poets have
better things to do
in the summer.

We like the warm evenings,
drinking beer, smoking cigars,
talking about poetic things,

thus summers do not lend
themselves well to writing,
so we save it all for winter and fall.

Consequently, our writings
tend to be more melancholy,
more depressed in nature,

O my mistress
how I long for your touch,
he scribbles on his pad,

let me feel thy supple *******
and hold thee tenderely
in my loving arms.

Let me hear thy whisper
taste thy gentle lips, and sense
the warmth of thy smile.

See, the cold weather poets
tend to be the weakest of poets.
Poetry takes discipline.

The poet must learn
to sit in his dark, dusty corner
even on the best gardening days,

even when the birds are chirping
and the sun is out,
even when the breeze is perfect

because the poet must learn
to write for himself,
not only for his winter readership.

He must take his pen into the fields,
must count the snapdragons
and wild daisies.

Like mother, he must learn
the simple act of trusting inspiration,
not as a ***** but as a lover

who in return for faithfulness gives,
in return for kindness smiles,
and in return for loyalty loves.

The kingfisher darts
through leafy branches
and between trees,
ringing and bustling
as it gently lands
from one bough
to the next.

I feel the breeze
upon my shoulders,
I smell the cattails
and water lilies,
I see the light of morning
reflecting off the surface
in dazzling ripples.  

This river runs
from Au Train Lake
to Lake Superior,
flowing with
such purity,
allowing nothing
but tranquility of spirit.

Rain was falling this morning
on my way into work
harder than it typically does
in the morning.

My office was darker
than it typically is
on a cloudy day
like today.

The rain and darkness
are pairing well with
the interviewees in my ears
as I vacantly stare at the computer

entering letters onto the dull white page.
They discuss their respective crafts
while the fan-girl interviewers
go gaga for their answers.

It's usually days like today
that would make someone
slump into a depression -
eyes glazed over, aimlessly working -

but there's something quite beautiful
in the colorless sky today,
something almost musical
in the falling rain.

Your words
aren't like other words.
You don't settle for
meager first drafts
or gritty grammar. No,
your words are
purified with fire,
refined like silver.

Teach me your ways
Great Poet,
Your strong metaphors
and precise language,
discipline me in
intentionality.

Looking for light
on the northern horizon,
waves colliding
with the sand,
my eyes are straining
to see the stars.

I've never seen
the Milky Way
until tonight.
I've never seen
the Northern Lights,
so I wait.

I can smell
the lake water,
I can hear the voices
of my friends,
and nothing is more
overwhelming than Now.

Covered in
this moment,
saturated
like the sand,
I look up to the heavens,
and give my breath to the wind.

When I see
the five robins on the lawn,
and hear the beauty of their song
I'm filled with wonder.
I'm reminded of the detailed
Zoas I learned about yesterday,
delicate rainbows
painted on each one.
I remember the crimson cliffs
You built in Zion,
and the white granite monoliths
You raised in Yosemite.

How can I not fear You,
shake and tremble
at Your word?
You are far more powerful
than anything I've experienced.
Much more dazzling
than anything I've seen.

Psalm 96:6 - Splendor and majesty are before him; strength and beauty are in his sanctuary.*

I think of the cliffs of Zion,
the Hoodoos of Bryce,
and the grandeur of
the Grand Canyon.

The splendor and majesty
I've seen on this earth
cannot compare to that
which is before you, O Lord.

I've seen your strength
on display in the power
you used to lift these,
like pillars, from the earth;

and I've seen the beauty
that is in your mind,
forming masterworks
from dust and stone.

Papa showed me the way
to the wild blueberries.
We hiked up the tall hill,
and found those sapphire
spheres hanging from
delicate stems.  

He told me stories of
our Native American ancestors
as he taught me how to pick
the berries;

surely a lesson in gathering
like this goes centuries beyond
our two lives combined!

We took
handfuls and filled our
mouths with the sweetest
blueberries I had ever tasted.
Once we had our fill, we
gazed out upon the horizon
and admired the beauty of the
ancient forest, then we returned
down the dusty trail, climbed
into the truck, and drove away.

That shivering night you and I
walked out upon the ice in our
snow suits, we slipped here and
slid there, and I remember taking
stones to throw through the ice.
The ice was too thick to be broken
and we laughed when they
ricocheted with a sound like
spring reverb turned all the way up.
I was there when your family stretched
the Giant Christmas Tree to the ceiling.
Didn't it almost fall? who caught it?
Some of my fondest memories were
with you, in your parent's house,
but that was many years ago.

I wonder
if you remember
those times

like I do now.

Would we still be
friends like we were
if I had not

forgotten?

Jesus, I need the light
of your face to shine
on all the places that I
cannot see my hand
right in front of me.

entirely empty except
for a few fallen petals
from a red tulip...
entirely empty except
for a wrapper of a piece
of spearmint gum I
just put in my mouth.
Mint usually helps my
stomach when it's upset.

There's a buzzing security light
that hangs above our neighbor's
shed, lighting the driveway as
you and I walk passed.  We
challenged ourselves to a brief
bout of silent contemplation:

You said you noticed the rabbit
that ran from us into the dark
and more dangerous woods.
I noticed the simple and beautiful
illumined leaves that shone
like citrine in the streetlight.

Be the wildflower
springing up from the pebbles
on the mountainside.

Don't be like
the hungryman
who works all day for a
few dollars, only to
spend it all on
vices and empty cravings.

No, don't be wasteful.
Don’t give your time
to all the things
that can't possibly satisfy.
Set aside distractions that
leave you empty and wanting.

Come sit at my table.
My words are fine cuts
of dry-aged beef;
my company like
a jar of honey without
the stomachache.

You won’t leave my house
on an empty stomach,
you’ll get more than enough.
So come to me
and I'll sit you down
at a feast fit for a king.

I stand at the groomed
entrance to my forest.
I hold my fists
in the pockets
of my gray wind jacket,
mindlessly staring
into the darkening trees.

I notice the inky bog
that arrived with
the recent storms.
I begin to count
the black, tangled
branches and vines
that increase as my
eyes wander
amongst them.

Suddenly I am filled
with despair as I
come to the understanding:
*the deeper I look,
the darker
and more twisted
things become.

I long for myself
and for those I love
and for those I lead
to be like the
wild sequoias.

Let our reach
be high and vertical.
Let our roots
be firm and intertwined.
Let us be
strategically planted
in deep reservoirs.
Let our bark
be thick and resilient.
Let our seeds
be released
and germinated
when the fire comes.

Yes, let us be
an enduring grove,
outliving difficult
seasons and enjoying
the plentiful.

Some of us
give up hope
when the seasons begin
to change.  When life
becomes difficult,
it's so easy to
only see the world
as harsh and unforgiving;
only see the rain
on the window pane;
only see the leaves
dead on the ground;
only see all the things
we could never
repair or replace
despite all our effort.

Behold, sometimes
it takes a death
to bring a resurrection.
Sometimes
it takes fertilizer
for us to grow.
Sometimes
it takes months
of cloudy skies
for us to fully appreciate
the sunshine.

So do not
only see the depravity,
see the goodness.
Do not
only see everything
you've lost, look
around and be thankful.

Behind those clouds
is a sunny day;
within that fertilizer
is a root system
becoming healthy;
and in that darkened
grave is a heart
beating back to life.

Bend down today
in humble submission,
in groveling forgiveness,
and wash the feet
of another.

Partner with your savior,
recognize the filth
of your own sin,
and wash the feet
of another.

Become acquainted
with the essence
of your existence
by washing the feet
of another.

Esteem one higher
than yourself,
meet that lowest place,
and wash the feet
of another.

You will find
how you too will
become clean when
you wash the feet
of another.

So do not tarry,
no, now, today
bend down
and wash the feet
of another.

You're just like
good decaf coffee
because I can
enjoy all of you,
every nuance and
subtlety without
the fear of
getting too wired,
too anxious from
the stimulus.
No, there's
no regret in
enjoying you.

Orsemas Caldwell
was a curious old man
who lived deep
within Elderwood forest.
Everyday he'd gather
branches and boughs
to cook his dinner
and warm himself
inside the drafty,
dusty cabin
he called his home.

I clearly remember
the night he invited
my wife and I over
for biscuits and tea.
We left our car
at the entrance
of the single-file
footpaths that led
into the darkened
shroud and stillness
of his forest.

We sat at an ancient
wooden table covered
with the inscriptions
of hundreds of writings
from decades past.
I remember his wrinkled
trembling hands as they
set down the tea
he had dried for us,
I believe it was chamomile
with a hint of lavender.

We talked about a great
many things, but nothing
made his eyes light up
like when he told us
about his wife, Percilla.
They were ministers
at the old baptist church
until they retired to their cabin
in Elderwood forest.
Young lovers again, they'd
lay under the trees and laugh.

He showed us her picture
and smiled remembering.
I could hear in his voice
the sweetness of their love
and a longing for reunion.
I don't remember much more
than his words that echoed
in my head as we drove
back to our modern day
amenities, holding
one another's hands:

'Don't let one thing
come between you.
You are one flesh,
you are not two.
Don't let children,
or money, ambition,
or your vocation
come between you
and the one God gave you.'
This is the memory of
Orsemas Caldwell.

I looked in despair
at the fallen red
pine needles resting
on the ground;
not because
they were there,
as some would say,
representing a death,
but because
something in me
could not see
something grander
in them.

A lot of darkness
on HP's front page today,
write a little light.

puts the toothbrush
here, takes
the watch off
and puts it there,
creates little
machines -
efficient, lifeless,
needing oil.

Long to break
the system -
eat the wild
honeycomb,
let the honey
slowly run
through your beard.

Caress the heads
of dandelions
and daisies,
run through the field
holding nature's hand.
Break the cycle
and be free.
Life is more
than working,
rinsing, and repeating.

Follow The Way.
Be wild.
Take risks.
Love dangerously.
Trust openly.
Forgive generously.
Become tenacity.

Great blank day
that felt like
there was no pen
to hold, no page
to write upon.

Great blank day
when I awoke
on the stiff springs,
and saw the light
slithering through
the frozen curtains.

Great blank day
I spent each
precious moment
with the one
most precious to me.

Great blank day
when, for the
first time, I ran
my fingers along
the chubby strings
of an upright bass.

Great blank day
when you got the news
your two best friends
decided they would
grow old together.

Great blank day
that fell like
sunglasses from my
outstretched hands
into the pulsing sea.

Great blank day
I arrogantly thought
was empty of enough
beauty to write
into memory.
How wrong was I.

God is my father,
and I am a
child of God.

God is my father,
and I am a
child of God.

That means
I was conceived
in passion and in love.
That means
He knew me when
I was not yet born.
That means
He does everything He can
to take care of me,
and everything
He has
is mine.  

God is my father,
and I am a
child of God.

That means
when I have a bad day
He sees it on my face,
and when I do
something well,
He celebrates
my achievements.
As my perfect father,
He pushes me
to do better,
which means
He will chastise me
when I do wrong.

God is my father,
and I am a
child of God.

That means
He holds me
when I am broken,
and that
my failures
break him.
But still,
in Him, I have
unconditional love.
That means
He will never
walk out on me,
I can never be
forgotten,
and I always
have someone
to call on,
and a shoulder
to cry on

God is my father,
and I am a
child of God.

That means
He protects me,
and does not want
to hurt me,
so I don't need
to be afraid.

God is my father,
and I am a
child of God.

That means
I always have
someone to look up to,
and I will
always have a Father
who will always
call me His child.

God is my father,
and I am a
child of God.

God is my father,
and I am a
child of God.

I heard of a man
who never owned a
television.  
Instead he bought
a set of solid oak
bookshelves stained
like mahogany.

With the money
he saved on cable,
he filled them with
classics like Plato,
Aristotle, and Dostoyevsky.
He studied Darwin
and Descartes, and
memorized poems by
Whyte and O'Donohue

Because he never
made the switch to
high definition, he
could afford trips to
Rome and Tuscany.
Walking those ancient
streets and resting
in those heavenly fields,

he learned the art
of attentiveness,
minding the
genius loci
of a place,
and setting
one's cadence to
the breath of the wind.

And in the end,
he had a few books
of his own,
but they taught
nothing new
other than
how to truly live.

Have you ever
rolled down your windows
to hear the train
as it rolls by?
Or do you keep
your music turned up,
heat on high,
and curse
impatiently?

Sometimes
I get so distracted
by all the competing
voices that I forget
to slow down
and really listen.

I find myself
looking for the approval
of people
rather than seeking
the embrace
of the One who
really matters.

His voice is soft
because He doesn't
feel the need to
showcase His
profundity.
He whispers because
He wants
a leaned-in-ear
to listen.

Someone who sees
the signal lights blinking
and who knows enough
to shut everything off,
roll the windows down,
and listen.

Statue in the wind.
Refined liquified fossil
from tanks below.
Stoplight foresight.
Epistemology,
'knowledge' is vanity.

Furnace's warmth,
Creator's compassion.
Wife folding clothes.

Binary buzzes
invisibly through
the air.
High-definition
image on the
television panel.

Friends preparing dinner,
awaiting, in faith,
to enjoy company.

While you're away,
my thoughts wander
nomadically through
a sleepless desert.
I wonder if you're awake,
reaching to your left
as I reach to my right,
whispering, 'I love you,'
like I whisper
to the silence.

How can I sleep without
the soft cadence of
your breaths
singing me a lullaby?
Without the heat
of your body
reminding me
you're at my side?
Without your gentle
tossing and turning
to spur my imagination
and wonderment
at what could be alive
in your beautiful mind?

I've become an insomniac
wishing you were here,
wishing I could hold you again,
wishing you weren't
hundreds of miles away.
Rest only comes
when I cling to the hope
of your return.

I'm sitting in the corner
of a cold, empty house.
My eyes glazed over,
I haven't slept.
Memories of Thanksgiving
flash upon the spoon
flipped over before me;
the plaid shirt
I was wearing,
the crummy salad I ate.
I see the look
in your eyes,
you were holding
back tears.
I couldn't contain mine.
Suddenly, flashbacks
of white powder
caked like snow upon
the jail cell bars.
I'm sitting in the corner
of a cold, empty house.
My eyes glazed over,
I haven't slept.

Write the good,
as well as the bad,
on the same page.
Both are equally
important
to the story.

I love the peaceful,
undisturbed snow
that lays upon
my frozen lawn.
I love the way
the icicle water
drips upon
the ground.
I'm thankful for
my landlord who
came to plow the snow.
I savor the silence
resting in the trees,
and the sound of sirens
in the city below.
I'm learning how
to love the season
in which I once felt
forsaken;
I'm teaching myself
to enjoy
all the things
that I once hated.  
I hope this year
I can find
joy within the freezing,
and feel the warmth
of God above,
and love of
life so pleasing.

Hear the following prayer
in the timbre of gratitude:

I've had enough with all the bags
in which I carry my things,
with bright screens that sting my eyes,
and with the musical strings.

My ears are sore from the machines
that change and amplify the waves;
so bring me the thoughts of poets and
bring me the prayers of saints.

Whisper the wisdom of years gone by,
of life spilled out in the streets.
My heart is weary, the weight of this world
has brought me to my knees.

There's only one thing I ask
for which to dull the pain;
bring me the thoughts of poets and
bring me the prayers of the saints.

I sit here
counting windows;
six, twelve, eighteen,
et cetera.

How much money
could the contractor
have saved
without them?
Easily thousands,
but would it be worth
blotting out the sun?
Workers shivering
at their desks,
wishing for
brighter lives.
Clients choosing
the competitor,
who's employees
shine a little brighter.
The windowless building
closing its doors
because they couldn't
afford the bills,
all because
they saved some
money on the windows.

I sit here
counting windows;
six, twelve, eighteen,
et cetera.

I'm the pillow you
threw off the bed
because you thought
you wouldn't need me.
Little did you know
that in thirty seconds
you would pull me
off the floor to
support your back
so you could lean over
your smelly handmade
journal pages to write
this short silly poem.

Don't be so naïve to think
you don't need me.
Don't throw me aside
in arrogance thinking
you'll be more comfortable
without me.

Each night as I sleep
a different memory
fades out of existence.
These memories of mine
aren't as real as they once were;
the time I brought my dog
into class for show-n-tell;
the trees in the front yard
of my childhood,
all potential casualties
of my next night of sleep.

I wonder what passed away
into the abyss of forgetfulness
last night as I dreamt about
that serial killer
chasing me down;
maybe it was the names
written on the walls of the
concession stand in my
Intermediate School,
or the costume I wore for
Halloween when I was ten.

It seems as though these
memories of mine were
real once, but those days
have faded away
into memory, one day to be
forgotten when I walk
into work in my underpants,
only to spring out of bed
in a cold sweat.

Why can't life be this?
I asked my wife as
we sat underneath our
white polyester blanket,
snowflakes gently striking
the pavement and our
gray-blue mailbox outside.

Why can't every day be Saturday
when you and I awake to
each other's smiles?
We would hold each other
and be thankful that we
have nowhere to be
this quiet afternoon.

We would find purpose
in cleaning the laundry,
in washing the floors,
and we wouldn't need to worry
about any bills or those
leftover to-do lists waiting
at work from the week before.

I'd like to imagine this
is what Heaven is like,
no worries, or cares, or toil;
just relaxing each day
with a chestnut and clove candle
warming our senses
as we sit in silent contentment.

The pain of life
is a contraction
of a new season
ready to be born.
The joy of life
will soon be laying
skin-to-skin
upon your chest.
There is hope in life's
deepest suffering.

If I were a painter,
I'd paint you the hundreds
of marigold leaves
hanging on the branches
of our one-lane street.

I'd color the canvas
with the image of myself
blowing air on the flames
of our Sunday-night fire,
watching it dance to life.

If I were able to
mix the oils just right,
I could shine a flashlight
through the fence to find
the deer as it rustled in the bushes.

If I had the finest Parisian brushes,
I'd seal our memories forever,
hanging them in rustic frames
on the walls of our home
where they could be

remembered daily
rather than just
once-in-a-while
when the campfire smoke
finally jogs our memory.

When we were young
You couldn't touch the flame,
Now you've got scar tissue,
And you can't feel pain.

White Converse shoes,
Pants pulled up like
You came straight
From the 50s.
McFly! McFly!
You were reading
The paper when
You got up to ask me
To borrow a chair.
After all, it was dark
Where you were sitting,
And it takes a healthy
Amount of natural light
To read the paper.
At least that's what you told me.  
Of course I obliged because  
It does make it easier
For me to write about you when
You're sitting right across
From me. Mr. Plaid Shirt with
A Pilot G-2 Gel Ballpoint Pen.
Maybe if you're lucky,
Your coffee won't be cold
By the time you read,
"Animal Cuisine, for Animals,"
Or, "This Sushi Waits for No One."
What does it say about me
That I would sit here
And describe you as you read?
I could interrupt you,
Asking you a few questions
To really get to know you.
I assume you're a kind person
Based on the laughter-lines
Surrounding your eyes;
Based on the way you smiled
At that young woman as
She walked by.