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.

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.

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.

Acquainted with the forest,
Dirt between my toes,
Earth exhales a whisper,
I am finally close
Enough to listen.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 stepped away 
From the busyness
To have a moment alone:

Gentle waves 
Caress the shore
As I stand watching.

Dunes of sand
Lay their heads
Upon the lake's horizon.

Light reflects so 
Carefully upon  
The wake of speedboats

And I thought, "how tasteless;"
But they are enjoying 
Nature just as much 

As I - yet differently.
And that is fine.
I suppose that some

Enjoy standing 
On the shore,
While some enjoy

Riding the waves.
Which is better?
I won't know.

Under your wings,
You look at me
So intently.
I return your gaze,
And I see my
Reflection
In your eyes.

Your perfume
Lingers in the air
Longing
To be on my skin
As I desire
You to be
Closer to me
Than ever before.
Hasten the days,
My beloved,
Somehow
Hasten the days.

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.

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.

Tonight it was like the pressure
From the entire week crescendoed
Into a single moment.
My emotions have been bottled,
My fires have been quenched,
But tonight I felt as though
All of that careful containment
Was going to be undone.
I was about to unleash
All of that fiery passion,
Until a bucket of ice water
Was poured onto my head,
And fifty pounds of
Compressed-emotions were
Pumped into my soul.
There they will stay
Until you take them away.

Take away the 
Disease in these branches;
The tares from 
This fertile ground.
Remove the stones
From this heart and 
Plow the earth
Until I am nothing 
But pure, organic soil
Ready for your
Be-fruitful-and-multiply
Seeds.

Your love, oh God, is
The foundation of my life,
Bedrock to my soul.

I close my eyes among the trees,
Hoping that the forest will tell me what
I want to hear.
Inside me is a cesspool of anger 
And wanting-to-stay-this-way.
But the forest is alive with
Joy and jubilation, life and happiness.
I breathe in her song 
And join in the refrain.

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.

I gaze upon a piece of
Ever-changing scenic art
Hung upon my wall.
My neighbor's beautiful yard -
Wooden fence, tall trees, koi pond -
Divided into perfect squares,
Yet combined into a mosaic
For my admiration.

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.

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

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.

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

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.

A mountain of light,
It seems to me,
Rests upon the ground.

And here am I 
High up in flight 
Up here looking down.

We rush beyond
That shining hill;
Inhuman speed.

Furthermore 
Rivers of light 
Upon the earth I see.

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.

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.

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.

When you are a female dog
It is completely acceptable
For you to have a beard.

When you're young,
You may write to
Your latest infatuation.
Or, maybe out of
Teenage angst, you'll
Write to yourself -
Catharsis for your built up
Anger and frustration.

When you're a little older,
You might write about your
Wedding day,
The vows to your bride.
Or maybe when you bring
Children into this world,
You'll write about
The fear that comes
From becoming a father.

In your thirties
Disappointment may come,
And you may find
Yourself writing to
The man you were 10 years ago -
Wishing you had taken the
Other path in that yellow-leafed forest.

When you hit your midlife crisis
You might write about the things
You have or have not done...
Or maybe you'll write about
Your newly found passion:
Harley Davidson Motorcycles,
The rumble between your toes.

Retirement brings the turn of the line
As "every season has its sign".

In your older age,
You may cease to write
For the muse of your youth.
More and more,
Your poems will end
With the words,
"In memory of..."

Each one reminding you
To be thankful
For the sock that helped you
Find the book that was loaned
To you months ago,

And you will notice things like
Those naked-spring-branches
So harmoniously intertwined -  
A piece of art that
No painter would be able to emulate
With a thousand brushstrokes.

And as you sit down to reflect
On the typed documents
Of your life's work,
You have a friendly conversation
With a long-distance friend,
Reflecting on it all.

The great enemy to walking
In faith-filled victory
Is letting the power of 
Scripture be masked
By the pride of cliche.

I can see 
With my eyes
So much more 
Than a camera 
Could ever capture.

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.

The old man selling
Sheets in the Outlets'
Visitor's Center
Pounds a Monster
Energy drink.

The Poet's battle:
Making her poetic thoughts
Poetic writings.

Don't let life crush you
Like a buzzing fly
Beneath its shoe.
Buzz a little louder,
Fly a little closer,
Land a little softer,
Just don't get crushed.

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?

I'm sitting in a cage
With a wide open door.
I'm contained by my own
Will, and all I need to do
Is take a step out.
If I do, I'll see the world 
For what it really is
Rather than my 
Prison-minded hallucination.

His lawn must've held back its lunch
When he drove those signs
Deep into the soil;
Crushing little blades, 
Cutting roots, and displacing 
Perfectly placed earth.
Likewise, I had to hold back 
My breakfast this morning 
When I had dissenting opinions 
Driven into me;
Cutting through my skin into
My heart, making my palms sweat
And my stomach drop.

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.

In our reflections
Time moves backwards and
Words become jumbled. 

In our reflections
We see what others see
But not really.

The thing about reflections 
Is they only give us a glimpse
Into who we really are.

The "man in the mirror"
Is not really who I am.
In fact, I would argue

That looking at that man 
Can bring false pride
And disappointment.

I once heard of a book called,
"No Mirrors in My Nana's House."
I can see why.

Mirrors do not reflect
Who we really are, so
Why get trapped in the glass?

I'm an American
And everything is clean.
My water is clean.
My streets are clean.
My school is clean.
Even my trash is clean.

Yes, I'm an American.
And everything I see is clean.
From my water to my trash,
Everything has been systematically washed and tucked away
So that nothing smells, nothing stings or poisons
So no one takes offense.

But I long for the dirt beneath my fingernails.
To smell the sweat after a hard day's work
Or the hike up a mountain, in hope of seeing
Reality from a different perspective.
Yes, it may take getting a little *****,
But I'd rather have the world a little ***** and true

Than to have everything clean.

Is it an affinity for fine words,
Like those who taste Scotch
To distinguish flavors of
Smoke and earth,
Leather and tobacco?
Or is a poet one who is keen
To his or her surroundings?

For example, would a poet
Notice the old woman
Sitting on a bus from the library
With her hands clasped
On a copy of Hard Times?
Or would a poet simply
Dream up such an occasion
To springboard a write
About the upcoming election?

Sometimes I wonder
How many poets are roaming
The streets where I live.
I'd like to go searching for
A society of underground poets
Who are secretly fashioning
The verse the world needs
For true and lasting change.
They might have a thing or two
To teach an amateur like me.

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.

At my local used-book store
There is a small poetry section
Filled with dusty old volumes
Of Whitman, Eliot, and Dickenson.
There are newer poets too,
Regardless, they are barely touched.

Each time I visit
The selection has not changed.
In fact, the spaces from where
I pulled my last purchases,
Nearly a month ago,
Are still there.

So is the hard-covered Frost
And the book of Yeats
I thought was a Pocket-Poets Collection.
Normally, I am searching for new-to-me poetry,
Variety to whet my palate with,
Finding various poets I have not read.

Yet this time I searched the shelves
For my new friend Carl Dennis
Who's poetry has been like Rooibos
On a cold spring day,
Warming my soul
And awakening my senses.

Yet near the spaces I left
Nearly a month ago from today,
Mr. Dennis cannot be found,
And I am faced with the same volumes
I faced a month ago, variety that
I normally look for, just not today.

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.

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.