How often
Do you
Search
Yourself?

I have searched you,
And I know you,
And I have yet
To turn away.

When your thoughts
Break the law
Of your heart,
Chase them down.
Then, with a
Pummeling blow
Knock those thoughts
To the ground.
Handcuff them,
And lock them
Behind bars.
They do not
Deserve a
Trial so
You are free
To punish
Those rebellious
Thoughts and teach
Them to obey.
Yes, make a
Spectacle of
Those thoughts so
Other rebellious
Thoughts learn to
Obey the law
Of the land.

Becoming human does not require
Writing sad or dark poetry.
Rather, it requires rejoicing
Amongst the darkness
That can so easily
Encapsulate us all.

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.

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.

Somehow I manage to criticize 
The dust I see in your eye
While I am suffocating under
A pile of crushing beams.

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.

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

I stepped outside before the dawn
And in the darkness I stood there;
Looking about my grassy lawn
And through the trees from winter bare.

I stopped because the silence played
Through the trees and upon the lawn;
In that quiet moment I stayed 
In the darkness before the dawn.

I listened for a car to roar,
Yet only heard one on the street.
I longed for silence - there before 
Our world was filled with this concrete. 

I mourn for all the stillness lost, 
I mourn for all our poor eardrums,
That ring and click from what it's cost
To build all these cement kingdoms. 

But whisp'ring through that mournful thought...
The sole car fades into silence...
I reflect on this peace I've sought...
Birds restrain their songs in shyness...
 
And as I look about my lawn
I release a breath I had drawn
In the darkness before the dawn.
In the darkness before the dawn.

I
Don't
Have
Enough
Poetry
Books.

I
Don't
Have
Enough
Poetry.

I
Don't
Have
Enough.

I
Don't
Have.

I
Don't.

I.

Winter brings the bitter chill,
I shiver standing in the cold;
We warm ourselves near the fire,
We bring a tree into our home.  

A blizzard wraps the wood around us, 
A glistening blanket - snowy white;
Our forest is so silent now;
Stars shine like diamonds in the night.  

In spring, the birds join in a choir,
Hundreds of songs in harmony, 
I look around and hear them sing;
Flowers bloom so gloriously.

I smell the scent of fragrant rain;
Showers drench the fertile ground.
I see the trees begin to leaf,
Rustling rain comes pouring down.

In summer the sun radiates,
Filling the forest with all that's green.
Oak and pine fill my nose,
I walk beside the crystal stream.

The grass it grows higher, higher,
I feel it soft between my toes;
From time to time a storm arrives,
Clapping thunder, wind that blows.

Autumn brings a change in palette;
Squirrels hide their treasured 'corns;
The taste of nutmeg - pumpkin pie,
Jack-o'-lanterns at our doors.

Mouths are filled with apple cider;
Leaves piled upon the ground;
Children jump into them laughing, 
Hidden in orange, maroon, and brown.

A thousand faces of the forest.
Winter; spring; summer; fall - 
And yet the face of my beloved
Is more beautiful than them all.

In a house
Near the loch
Awaits a bride
For her wedding day.
Soon her groom
Will take her hand.

Extending his hand,
At his father’s house,
Out reaches the groom
Toward the loch
Saying, “in a handful days
I will have my bride.”

Meanwhile the bride,
With her gentle hand,
Writes the day
On invitations in her house;
Sending thoughts across the loch
Toward her groom.

Simultaneously the groom
Thinks of his bride,
Receiving her thoughts from the loch.
His promise on her hand,
Hers is in his father’s house,
But he won't see it until the day.

In just a few short days
With his friends the groom
Will leave his father’s house
And await the bride
To take her hand
At the ceremony near the loch.

And in the city of the loch
Their lives most historic day
Will be when they take each other’s hands
And the groom
Will have his bride
And will make a home of their house.

But until then… Toward the loch the groom,
Awaiting the appointed day of his bride,
With lovesickness stretches his hand toward her house.

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

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

When you love someone for long enough,
You begin speaking their language.
You find yourself saying the same things,
Even stumbling over the same words;
I used to think it was silly the way she'd
Say "Spiracha" instead of "Sriracha,"
But love has a way of changing
The way you think,
Translating your old ways of
Thinking into something new.  
Intercultural.  Bilingual.

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.

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’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.

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.

Wisdom takes careful steps.
She knows that hasty footing 
Leads to harm.  To avoid falling,
Or stepping on something deadly,
Wisdom takes careful steps.

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.

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.

Every Tuesday night
From January to April
The highlight of my night
Was a chocolate croissant.

I would sit and listen
To theories and methods,
Literature and research,
And on break I would have one.

I would order it each night
With salivating anticipation.  
As I handed over my money
They put it in the oven.  

And each night
They would call out
"Chocolate croissant?"
And I would grab the bag.

I would devour that morsel
With joy and elation,
And as I felt it go down
My chest would warm -

Not only from
The warm croissant,
But also from the joy
Warming my heart.

It was the best part
Of those horrible evenings
Of literature and research
Theory and methods.

Sometimes,
If I was feeling spicy,
I would get two -
One on each break...

And sometimes
On Thursdays
I would get two more
For History and PR.

Yes,
Those chocolate croissants
Got me through
My last semester of college.

When I was feeling stressed,
Or feeling down
From the subject matter,
I would eat one,

And I would feel better.
And I bet
As you are reading this
You want one.

Do yourself a favor,
Go buy yourself
A chocolate croissant -
And enjoy it.  

Let it help you escape
From your worries
And your cares
For about 90 seconds

As you devour that
Delicious pastry.
And let it warm your chest
With chocolate and joy.

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.”

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

The trick with flaming hot Cheetos
Is to eat all that you want 
Before you drink any water.

If you eat some, and then drink,
And then eat some more,
Your stomach will be an ocean 

With breakers crashing to and fro
On the banks of your inner shores.
It will not feel nice, so make sure

To follow this advice; for I am, when
It comes to Cheetos, an old man who
Has for learned from my many years 

Of eating one way, and eating the other.
And I have found the better of the two,
So heed my authority.

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.

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

Life is a game of perspectives,
Valleys and mountaintops.
Choose to set your feet
Upon the mountaintop.

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.

I saw God handing me
His entire heart.  
After I took it, I saw
What could be done with it.  
I feared as I realized
I could stomp it on the ground,
And feel its flesh between my toes.  
I saw it on a shelf collecting dust.  
I feared the pain
I could cause his heart.  
So I prayed he would teach me
To treasure the priceless gift
He has given me -
His entire heart.

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.

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.

Here am I
Amongst thousands
And thousands
Of voices -
Poets and journalists,
Novelists and singers -
Clanging the cymbal
Of earth's groaning cry.
There you are,
Hosts of angels
Singing, your voice
Together sounding
The praises of our God.

Hazards on*
He stepped into
That slushy sheet of snow.
It fell from heav'n
Pelting face
Onto the earth below.

The silence
Creeped in his ears,
His headlights were dull beams,
That lit the snow
Like a lamp
And shone upon the scene.

Damp pavement -
The body laid
Resting upon the street.
He could hardly
Stand the sight
It crushed there at his feet.

He stepped close
To examine
That mangled body there
To see if it
Was his cat
Or simply just a hare.

Difficult
The task it was
To recognize the dead.
The hair was wet,
Hue had changed,
A car had crushed its head.  

Studying
The corpse with care -
The skin had been peeled back.
Torso-Muscle
Was revealed
The leg twitched - he gasped.

He jumped back,
Filled with terror
At what he had just spied,
But in that breath
He re'lized
The creature that had died.

Oh it was
A rabbit there,
Dead upon the cold lane.
Yes, he was sad -
Yet relieved -
From a heart filled with pain.

But, a part
Of him was crushed,
Shivering in the snow.
Like that creature
On the street,
He was there all alone.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.