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.

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.

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.

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.

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

I waited for an elevator
It was an exceptionally long pause,
And there was a group of three arguing
Over the meaning of a clause.

I knew the answer to their query,
But questioned if I should reply.
Social stigmas can be strange
So I decided to be shy.

They searched their minds,
They racked their brains,
And I just stood there -
The answer boiling on my tongue.

My elevator arrived just then,
And I reluctantly stepped inside.
The doors closed slowly, slowly,
And I heard their voices die...

...So it is with my faith.
Many people are searching
And I have the answer,
But I am too afraid to speak.

So I step inside an elevator,
And lift myself above their problems
Pridefully rejecting the searching
Of those who need an answer.

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.

"You did the right thing,"
God said to me on
The Day of Final Judgement,
"You switched the roll
Of toilet paper when
No one was looking."

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

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.

We discovered a master painter
who hand paints intricate flowers
one-by-one to create
a picturesque landscape painting.

In his paintings, a cardinal sits
resting upon a tree branch,
and a monarch butterfly marks
His signature in each painting.

Indian blankets, greenthreads,
brown bitterweed, and Texas thistle -
all vitally important to his paintings.
Therefore, he paints bees to pollinate

the flowers, transferring life-giving
pollen from anther to stigma.
Yes, the master painter places
all of this in his painting with
beautiful intention.

Meeting with God
Is not like
Taking a trip to
The Principal's office.
It's like eating a meal
With an old friend,
One who can melt
All of your anxiety
With the simple
Pleasantness
Of his company.

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.

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.

Midnight as a teenager:
"This is fun!"
Midnight as an adult:
"What have I done?"

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?

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

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.

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.

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.

You sure were in the moment
Monday when that opossum
Was laying on the garbage in
Your trash-day trash can, quite
An inconvenience when you're
Trying not to be late for work.

On Tuesday, you had a lot of
Questions for me when, on
Your commute, you saw that
Fawn lifeless on the side of the road.

Why is it that these moments
Make you present to me?
You come with doubting questions,
Ready to put me on trial
When every day I send you
Gifts of love even more
Real than the sting of death:

Did you notice the squirrel
Rushing back to her tree with
An apple the size of her head?
Could you see her there feeding
Her kits - born blind so they
Might learn to trust their maker?

Which reminds me, did you notice
The geese that flew over your head
While you were riding bicycles
With your wife? Were you listening
Carefully enough to translate their
Honking conversation? I remember
They were considering where they
Might stop to rest for the night.
After all, it is a long journey to their
Snowbird mansion - Hole number
Seven at Pinetree Country Club.

Are you present enough to notice
All the beauty, all the glory I've
Squeezed inside your every day life?
Open your eyes for a moment,
Unlock your ears and listen.
I promise you'll see the
Facets of who I really am.

The church we visited
Today for pastor's round table
Was set like the scene
Of a Grant Wood painting.

The fields were stretched 
For miles upon miles,
The view enhanced 
By gently rolling hills.

The tin-roofed-and-sided church,
Once a barn, now renovated,
Sits in the middle of a farmers field.
A treasure once hidden, now found.

In that building we discussed
The move of God across
Our nation and our state,
Building unity amongst us, 

Those who till the earth 
And spread the seed,
Waiting for God to 
Bring the increase.

For as the rain falls
Down from the sky,
It waters the earth
And causes our seed

To sprout and produce fruit.
So we must be patient now,
Being faithful farmers waiting
For the seed we've sown 

To receive the nutrition 
It needs to spring forth
And yield the harvest 
We have always desired.

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.

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.

Our love is like the puzzle pieces
We bought when we were dating,
The ones that came without
The guiding box-top picture.

Day after day you hand
Me pieces of emerald green
Or royal blue.  Some days they're
Orange with a streak of white.

For years now I've been
Lining up the edges,
Linking one piece into another,
But the image remains fragmented.

Now here I am at the end
Of my life, pushing the
Final piece into place.
With tears filling my eyes,

I behold a photograph of you and I
Sitting on our front porch.
Our old, wrinkled hands clasped
As we watch the sprinkler

Move back and forth,
Laughing as our grandchildren
Leap through the streams
That shimmer in the sunset.

I reflect upon the Father's love -
monoliths in Yosemite.
The eagle screeches far above
a song, "Your love's extremity".

Do you realize 
the impact you have
on those around you? 

The smile you gave
that waitress filling coffee
changed her perspective.

The young boy
that looks up to you
shapes his life after yours. 

The pastor who watched 
you grow up 
finds purpose.

The friend you met
at summer camp
smiles remembering. 

The song you wrote
alone in your room
is someone's anthem. 

That speech you gave
for extra credit
broke someone's addiction.

The time you prayed
for an impartation
empowered her to speak.

You don't realize
the effect you have
on everyone around you. 

Don't dare 
give up
on them.

Why is it that every night
I change into my pajamas
Only to remove them
Ten minutes later
As I climb into bed
In my undergarments?

I reckon it is the routine
That calms me from my day,
Shedding the skin of
One day to embrace another.
It is the preparation
For my seven hour 

Sabbath where I rest 
From my seventeen hours
Of work, play, and relationships -  
Responsibilities that keep me
Too busy to take a moment
And enjoy the skin I live in. 

So each night,
I must shed that skin
In reflection of the day
That is now gone,
And rest as I prepare
Myself for another day.

Another day of busyness,
Another day of striving,
Another day of trying my best
To be the man you have
Created me to be...
To embrace who I am
In every waking moment.

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.

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

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

Three times I was tested
out in the wilderness -
the wilderness of waiting.

My accuser said,
"is that really 
what God told you?"

So, I lifted my eyes asking,
"Father, is that voice 
You, me, or my enemy?"

"Do not doubt my word."
my Father replied,
thundering from heaven.

So I will trust
the word of the LORD
and act upon it.

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

When I was a child,
I fondly remember
eating carrots from 
the dirt of our garden.

My brother, my sister, and I
would pull the carrots,
with great care, from
the dirt of our garden.

We would wash them
sometimes in the sink,
sometimes with the hose,
to remove the dirt of our garden.

But even then
as we chewed those carrots
we could still sometimes taste
the dirt of our garden.

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.

The fisherman laughs
Sitting in his old canoe
His grandson's face shines.

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

The great philosopher
Utters things profound.
     Gives the bird her song

The great philosopher 
Utters things profound.
     Cools the shade

The great philosopher
Utters things profound.
     Sweetens ice cream

The great philosopher 
Utters things profound.
     Gives dogs their dreams

The great philosopher 
Utters things profound.
     Makes the child dance

The great philosopher 
Utters things profound.
     Lunch at Wendy's

The great philosopher 
Utters things profound.
     A friend's eccentricity

The great philosopher
     Can utter ordinary things...
     Listen to that lecture too

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 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.

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.

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.

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.