98% perspiration,
2% inspiration.

most of life is spent looking for
the way to make the song sound right,
but with an accidental strum
of a chord you swear you just made up,
there it is -
the missing note you were looking for.

and the music lays out for you,
entirely different than the tune you had at first,
but better,
because it works,
and now you know the chords to use,
and it just gets better from there.

most of life is spent in that 98%,
but more living is done in that brief 2% of inspiration.

the man-machine rumbles,
precision of gears, chain, muscle and sweat,
a controlled breathing in step with cadence,
the count begins,
one, two, three -
which each revolution of the crank.

then it hits - that first sting
of wet that fell from too-heavy clouds
a thousand feet up -
it must have taken five minutes to get here,
to hit its mark.
the blood begins to pulse,
electric air crackles around as the instinct takes over,
and man and machine become fluid,
bound to one another as the second and third droplets hit,
their sound and feel the countdown to five,
when all will be loosed upon the road:
the fury of the storm matched by the fury of passion.

the fourth drop is quiet,
unremarkable,
this is when the racer draws breath.

then it hits,
and hell is released -
the flood of adrenaline has been prepped and is ready,
as legs piston and fingers tighten to white-knuckled ferocity,
the eyes narrow, and face extorts in a mixture of pain and effort,
legs extend and pull up,
body tucked as small as it can be,
the energy transferred to the pavement,
as arch-enemies collide:
as he races against the rain.

it feels broken,
like a piece inside isn't doing what it's supposed to,
and if it's shaken,
i can hear the rattle of the broken thing.
i want to fix it,
so it never rattles again,
so it never shakes, so i never have to think about it,
or worry,
but i can't,
because even though it feels that way,
it's not broken,
it's simply finding another way,
and the change takes some time to get used to.

sitting in a smoke-clouded room,
a jazz trio playing a wordless chart from memory,
a lonely sound,
meant for those like me to sip their scotch
and nod silently to those across the way -
that is the extent of our communication.
we all know why we're here,
why this place at this hour,
escaping for a moment the solitude
that is our constant companion,
just to know there are others like us
who know the words to the song the trio plays,
but we can't sing.

everyone has their good days -
successes,
triumphs,
shining moments when perfection
seems within their grasp,
and the accolades come pouring in
until the sound of the applause is almost deafening.

those aren't my best days -
mine are when i make someone's day brighter -
a kind word or deed - and no one ever notices
or says a thing.

i saw an ad in the paper,
and i wanted to answer it.

wanted:
someone to look at me
and at a glance,
take my worries away and let me know i'm loved.

but i didn't,
and now i am left to wonder if i missed out,
if they did,
if we both did,
or if i am better for not having looked down that path.
and i will never know the answer.

the eyes that stare back are mine,
but the body is something foreign.
is that me?
how?
i don't know what to do with this body,
how to make it move,
or do the things a body is supposed to do.
it moves differently than mine -
is this what 'swagger' is?
it's just as uncomfortable, this body,
as my old one,
and i don't know how to make it work.
i'm learning,
and it's going to be a little awkward for a while,
but please, bear with me,
because i'm capable of more, now,
than i've ever been before,
and i am making the world a better place.

sometimes, i wonder if we're all angels,
and we fell from Grace,
our time here is so that we can re-learn
how to get back what we've lost.
each time we die,
we come back to learn a new lesson,
in the hopes we finally get it right.

a notecard in a book,
bearing two words that bring to the fore
countless desires and longings,
secrets i tell no one,
not even in my prayers.

a simple phrase that reminds me
of a truth i learned long ago
and rarely allow myself to indulge -
i am allowed to dream.

possible wishes,
probable dreams,
attainable hopes,
life lived.

digging in the soil,
you find roots -
plants of all kinds,
trees and grasses, shrubs, vegetables and vines,
some you keep and tend,
some you throw away,
yanking them from the ground forcefully.

digging in the soil,
i found the root of me,
my beginning,
and from there i began to grow,
and will yield fruit yet.

a long walk home,
a chance to think about a lot of things
i normally can't,
the opportunity to have a million conversations
in my head,
knowing they will never actually happen -
the only way to quiet the voices there,
as each step brings me closer
to the goal,
closer to being home.

i never understood his passion for it,
planning meticulously how many feet
it might take,
how much to put in the ground.
how far apart each row must be,
knowing just how much space the late-bloomers
needed, and when,
so he could remove the early ones before they were overwhelmed.
now, i understand -
when planting my first garden,
just what it was my father always did
and i took for granted.
my hands remember how,
after many long years of avoiding the work,
they remember how to plant a garden.

you are resting, at long last,
your journey done,
and all that's left are memories
good and bad.
i needed you, and you were there,
as a father should be for a child,
to nurture and grow and discipline -
to be an example.
and now,
as i have done many times before,
i lay myself to rest,
another version of me taking up space
in the cemetery of my forbears,
all laid to rest with the same loving care
as a new me takes his rightful place.
i carry the torch, now,
and know that one day this will be my home, too,
as another generation will
take up this standard.
my son, i lay no burden on you but this:
live with the heart of the fire,
love with the depth of the oceans,
fight with the strength of the mountain,
and speak with the breath of the wind.

to be as water -
the gentle rain that seeds the earth,
and the stinging blows of cold spring,
a peaceful glassy surface,
and the wind-ripped waves of the storm,
the life-giving flow of the river,
and the merciless flood as it pours ever downward -
all are within my grasp,
the form i take
is mine to choose,
and each day calls me to make that choice.
i have been them all,
and i know the spring that swells from deep within my soul.
i know my choice.

there was more of me,
a long time ago, now.
i saw a picture the other day,
and barely recognized my face,
so young, so troubled,
so full of self-loathing and fears,
round in ways i never liked.

there is less of me, now.
hard work and effort have brought me
back to health,
and though i still carry some of the fears,
and even some of the self-loathing,
though i am less,
i have become more.

in the pre-dawn hours i awoke,
and all was silent,
the sounds of the city vanished
in the darkness.
i could not tell if it was the first deep breath of morning,
before life began a new day,
or if it was the death-knell marking the end of yesterday.
in that briefest of moments,
only one thing remains certain:
i was there to witness it,
and i lived fully in that moment,
mourning the loss of one day
and celebrating the beginning of another.

five things to never do...
eight traits to know if you're...
three ways to get to...
sixteen methods to be sure...

if he does these dozen...
when she acts like this...
nineteen things you never knew about...
ten different ways to kiss...

it's wearying and harrowing,
it's worrying and maddening,
it's listing all the little things
that really aren't mattering.

all designed to make us put the blame
on others for our troubles,
all designed to make us feel better
about all our faults and foibles.

and in the end,
we feel worse because,
we are not treating others
with tenderness and love.

little Levi is bored,
his toys no longer serve,
his imagination and playfulness
too much for his little realm,
so he stands in his backyard,
alone,
and dreams of being with people,
inside or out,
just a kindly voice to be there,
is all Levi wants.

at the corner of the old red barn,
on old pile of rocks,
taken from the garden every spring.
we'd walk behind, waiting for his big boots
to kick them up,
and pick them up in the white buckets that hurt my hand.
we added them to the pile,
they looked the same as the other rocks
encased in concrete that made the foundation.
the barn is gone, i think,
and the pile with it now,
but as i tilled the soil today for the first time,
my big shoes kicked up the stones,
and i began a new pile of rocks.

i want to see mountains again,
to look upon their heights and feel small,
and run my hands along the seams of rock,
flesh meets granite, limestone, and earth.

i need to travel the hidden paths,
up ways that only the wild goats can find,
skip-jumping from precipice to boulder,
careful and careless at the same time.

i must be atop them,
to view the world from the underside of clouds,
and see as the falcon does -
the world in its magnificence.

it is the conquest of self -
man, made from the mountain
he seeks to conquer,
only to know himself.
i say i want to see mountains again,
but what i really want is to find out
what the mountain will make of me.

the night closed in when i shut my eyes,
a blackness like none i know,
everything shut out,
a communion,
standing barefoot in the grass,
as the rains fell, baptizing me,
a marriage of soul -
mine with the universe -
confirming that which i knew in my heart,
a new holy order begun
as my path was set straight,
my past sickness anointed and blessed,
taken away
as i was reconciled to my God.

there is something to be said
              about the way
                                a deflated
                             ball
                           sits
                        at
                     the
                end of the
                   street,
             beside the rain gutter,
             too flat to have rolled there by itself.

strolling,
letting the not yet hot breezes of spring
blow 'round me,
i am taken somewhere else,
escaping on the perfume of blossoms
as on a magic carpet,
to a meadow lush and green,
where the heady breath of hyacinth
holds me close,
and i am a boy once more,
on adventures terrible and grand,
saving the world one day
and conquering it the next,
my wooden sword and imaginary allies
at my side,
as the breezes blow the blossom-petals,
a softer snow to surround me,
the stuff of legend
in an ordinary world like this,
where i simply went for a stroll.

sometimes,
you just need an old friend,
someone who knew you when,
with whom you can sit down
and share a cup of coffee,
and talk about the blessings of life,
and the pains, too.
no expectations,
no need to impress -
just a cup of coffee and conversation,
two old friends
listening to one another.

every morning i need the 50 -
they come one by one,
and groups, sometimes,
and not all at once, but shifts.
15,
10,
25,
20,
5, sometimes,
but i need to get to 50 -
why?
it holds no specific value to me,
but it works -
it's the right number for me, right now.
but i have to start with 1,
lower myself to the floor, and press back up again.
every morning,
never stop,
can't stop,
won't stop,
because i need to get to 50 today.

my body aches,
hands and feet are pierced with
the pain that comes from labor,
muscles sore from lifting
the leaden weight over and again.
how easy to say 'no, i shall not do it'
and let this day pass away like any other.
but the aches and pains have meaning,
a small bit of suffering endured
for the better,
one i will make again and again,
because the work is more important
than the pain and the discomfort -
it is the act of working that
brings honor to the labor,
because I do not have to do it -
i choose to.

i wish i could tell you
everything will be ok -
you will never worry,
you will never want,
you will never know what it is to suffer loss -
but i cannot.

i wish i could say
that this was your most difficult day,
and that things will only get better -
that you will never know failure,
and that every day henceforth will be as gold.
but i would be lying.

no, little child,
i can only promise you that this life
is fraught with challenges,
that your heart will break,
that you will find failures and successes both,
that there are many things you will never understand.

and i will be by your side for as many of
those moments as i can be,
that i will offer you any support i can,
and above all,
that i will always love you,
throughout all the triumphs and trials of your life.

little life,
you can be so big,
and i look forward to sharing the journey.

there are times when,
sitting alone in the peaceful garden of the mind,
a few words come together,
that seem to have no meaning,
until they are said out loud.
they form a phrase,
a mantra,
a code,
a philosophy -
a way of looking at things that suddenly makes sense,
and it's not always good - you have to look out for those ones.

but when it is good,
and the words drip from your tongue like fresh honey from the comb,
and it reaches in,
deeper than you thought it could,
and grabs the root of you,
holding fast and shaking with a rapturous violence
unlike anything you've ever felt,
you look on the page or screen
and know instantly
that it is beautiful,
and that it came from inside you.

the sun rises up behind me,
casting longer shadows on the pavement
for me to chase,
a new day,
a new image,
a superhero form done by Picasso or Van Gogh,
everything there, but perception slightly off,
proportions differ,
but i see something there
that is new -
untiring, sure,
cadence strong and confident,
in a way i have never known before.
who i've been is still there -
it is my cover,
my secret identity,
the private face of a public superhuman.
all i need is the uniform.

it started this morning,
a rhythmic tapping on a tree not far away,
the percussive march-beat of the woodpecker,
followed by a syncopated chirping,
and the occasional flutter of wings
before the chorus of chickadees chimes in,
the morning symphony that greets the sunrise.
Even in the city, nature's
six-ounce orchestra is present and performing,
if one only tunes the ear to drown out the
concrete sounds of man.

nothing changes, really,
but in that small moment,
a few words make all the difference -
make the light a little brighter,
and life a little sweeter,
give the strength to continue,
and courage, too -
courage to hope and believe that
no matter what,
all will be well.

my young mind knew not what i was saying,
so many years ago on a stage i used to own,
where my heart and soul were put forth
so many times.
would that i could return to then,
oh, the performance i might give,
with the understanding of years,
what "compact imagination" means.
but, would the audience know it -
would they feel what i do now,
would it make sense to them?
would they see the devils, or Helen, or heaven,
or all?
which title would i have?
i have been all three.
perhaps that's why the words stick with me today -
i have been living them all along.

there is a place i know,
where back in a hollow,
the crisp cool water runs over the boulders of ages past,
the evidence of a time no one remembers,
but everyone can see.
it's quiet there,
the birdsongs echo in the early mornings,
and the constant babbling of the water
soothes the spirit of those who come to walk.
i go there from time to time,
to sit in the quiet and think
and dream and pray,
for in the silence,
the answers come to those who are willing to listen
to the language of the water and the birds.

silent giant clumps fall to the ground,
beautiful and deadly,
a look celebrated in december
and loathed in april,
when the crocuses are poking through
the first of the verdant grasses
and the birds are nesting in the
just-budding trees.
outside my window,
the world freezes as it turns today,
and i long for the warm thoughts
that come to me in dreams.

you must go on -
on the stage,
on the trail,
on the path,
through the scary woods alone at night.

you must go on -
in the storm,
in the calm,
in the dark,
even though you are weary with fright.

you must go on -
at morning,
at mid-day,
at suppertime,
when things don't feel right.

you must go on -
from then,
from now,
from hence,
because it's the only way you will find the light.

they are *****,
ripped and torn in places,
the treads on the bottom long ago
lost their roughness,
so the footing is no longer secure.

they are comfortable,
stretched out along the contours of me,
a familiar sight among my belongings,
a color my eye is trained to seek out
even in the darkest of nights.

but these shoes do not belong to me -
they belong to the man who bought them,
for whom they were an inspiration,
a way out of a previous life,
a means to further himself,
to become more.

I have been trodding in his shoes,
feeling his pains and triumphs,
knowing his path,
for it was my path,
and i am no longer the man who bought these shoes.

it sounds simple: to sit.
to remove the weight from one's legs,
and relax the body,
and enjoy the simple act of doing nothing
but sitting.
no phones,
no music,
no voices,
no books,
no activities.
just me and a bench in a park -
time to think,
time to reflect,
watch the people going by,
observe the birds flitting about,
see life unfold,
and understand -
what it means to sit.

i cast the line out,
trying to get that perfect roll,
where it lays out just so,
and it looks like the fly on the end just fell there,
presenting itself to the creature lying in wait,
just out of sight.

i start to pull back on the line.

swiftly moving,
the strike comes,
the line goes taught,
the weight on the other end pulls
and i hang on to pull it in.

and the sheer joy on her face
reminds me that it's the simple things
that matter most,
a simple act of playing a game,
with a rumble-tumble ball of fur
who brought me her string this morning,
so i could go fishing for kittens in my living room.

on my commute there is a building.
facade worn and *****,
the brick needs to be replaced in places,
repointed in others,
but it's solid.

they've been working on it for months, now,
and today i finally saw
that they've been working from the inside out,
and now it's time to open the building,
and let the hard work be seen.

as i went by,
i was awed by the care they took,
to preserve the old brick that needs repointing,
because the outside is worth keeping -
when the work within shines forth,
augmenting the past,
renovating the future.

i dreamed last night,
first i was a bear -
strong and sturdy,
protector and warrior,
mother and father both.

then, i was a falcon -
wings spread wide,
riding the air on an unseen road,
the world spread out before me,
mine to behold.

and as i dreamed,
i understood the call of bird and beast,
and listened.
and found my peace.

i like to listen to the rain
on a day i have nothing to do,
and let the sound of each droplet on the window glass
water my naked soul as it would the ground,
refreshing and new,
life springing again from within me
from the gentle coaxing of the rain
as it falls so willingly to the soil.

the air on my face is cold,
no long bitter and biting,
but a strange cold that belies
the fresh blossoms on the trees,
their white innocence echoing the morning light
as i go by,
admiring the juxtaposed world -
hard and soft, young and aged,
new and old -
that awakens this day,
and inspires something deep within my soul.

finding new music to dance to,
new themes to explore,
new sounds to begin my day,
and lead me into the quiet nights,
where i can lose myself
in rhythm and melody,
reach into a part of my soul and rip it out,
feeling the pleasure and the pain of it,
all through a new song
by a new artist -
new music that soothes the old me,
and helps me find my rebirth.

my voice is quiet, often,
and i choose not to let it be known,
save for when there is something important
that needs to be said.
sometimes, i speak too late,
and my silence perpetuates
the stuff of poorer quality.
slowly, i am finding that my voice is not to be feared,
and i have good things to say,
and though i am not much,
when i speak, people begin to listen.
when we all speak, our voices are heard.

the house across the street looks empty,
georgian roof lined with slate,
the green paint peeling up against the red brick -
through the window glass i see the backs of curtains drawn shut.

i know a man lives there -
i've seen him come and go, even spoken a few times,
and i see his dogs out back,
but i've only seen a light inside once,
when i was wide awake at an unholy hour.

it felt so foreign,
to see the windows brightly lit,
a cheery yellow glow coming from inside,
and all around it, the bleakness of starry night.

it was only for a moment,
as though it knew i'd looked, and shuttered the light again,
saying, "you didn't catch me looking at you"
though of course, it knew the truth.

there is life in that old house, yet.
and i know it's there.

i was made an angel,
i don't remember why,
perhaps it was to show love,
perhaps to learn it,
maybe to understand it,
maybe to understate it,
and maybe i chose this,
and maybe it chose me,
if only i could remember,
if only i could go back,
would i make the same choice?
would i choose the same path?

in the soft midnight,
when velvety darkness surrounds like a mother's embrace,
holding me close and secure,
shutting out all the world,
i'm left with just my thoughts,
my fears,
the bare rock of who i am,
and i have the choice -
whether to look at it and "be"
or to change it.

sometimes, a change is needed,
but not always,
and to know when and how,
i search the embrace of the night,
and i find nothing -
for the answers are never found in the darkness.

i must search the light.

there are days I want to just stand still,
my arms outstretched,
and scream at the world to come and get me,
give me its worst,
throw everything it can to tear me down,
hold nothing back,
but let me know the full fury
of the oncoming storms,
and all the damage they can bestow,
for i am as harry and it is st. crispin's day,
and those not there with me will hold their manhood cheap.

and there are days i am afraid that if i did just this,
the world would take me up on the offer.

thank you for my friends,
for those looking out for me,
and for my family who loves me,
for the talent you gave my hands,
for the food on my plate,
and the chance to live again this day.

thank you for my life,
for the joys,
as well as for the pains,
for the quiet moments and for the noise,
for they have shown me what you created
in me,
and open the door to what you are making me into.

thank you.

the river was glass this morning,
a serene reflection of a city full of
hopes and dreams,
of people moving about our small lives,
trying each day to scratch and claw at bedrock,
to make a living out of nothing.
under the surface of that glass,
a teeming current pulls,
the driving force behind the facade -
why we must continue.
why i must press onward.