it is a whisper on the wind,
the mournful expression of loss,
the way the earth cares for each of her children,
as they lay dying in the trenches dug deep into her soil.
she screams out in the only way she knows how,
a hurricane, a flood, an avalanche,
an earthquake, a plague, a famine -
we call her weapons tragedies, because of the loss of so many people,
it is her way to try and restore the balance,
keep what is left of her for the rest of us to live.
If only we could hear her cries
the ones she whispers on the wind,
rustling the leaves of trees
and rolling over the blades of grass.
When her breath brings the scent of smog and industry
instead of the scent of flowers.
We are too busy to hear the earth,
and we are surprised when she finally shouts at us.

some cities are romantic when it rains,
but not mine,
some look like glittery jewels
with a time and fancy all their own,
with church bells ringing their muted tones
and old buildings reflecting off puddles gathered in cobbled streets.
but not mine.
they remind me of the movies,
with narrow alleys and dusty gin-joints
where villains conspire against a hero with a fast car
and a mean right hook.
or a comedy about lonely people
who meet at a park bench along a river walk
because a breeze blew a piece of paper out of his hand and into hers.
but not mine.
those things don't happen here.
that's not what this city does.
we do work, we do struggle and toil,
we do calloused hands and sweaty, sooty clothes,
and basement entrances where a make-shift shower and commode
sit out in the open
because papa came back from the mill and mama
wouldn't let him use the front door.
here, we do gritty,
the whistle blows, and we don't have time for romance,
even when it rains.

i have been there.
i have seen what lies on the other side
of this pain you feel,
and i know it may not seem
like it will ever end,
like it will ever heal,
and part of you really wants it to be gone,
and another part wants to hold onto it,
caught between agony and ecstasy,
and in the end -
you're just not certain what will happen
or where it will end up.
you want to know,
but you're afraid of the answer.
yes, i have been there, too,
and i have learned only one thing:
it is survivable,
and when you come out the other side,
you will be stronger than you ever imagined.

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.

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.

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.

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.

i stood upon the mountain,
watching the heavy ribbon of rainclouds
lumber slowly,
the breeze dying before them
as they followed the river,
ominous and threatening,
like a billow from a smokestack
in eras gone by.
the promised storm never came,
but a lightly misting rain,
here one moment and gone the next,
kissing the earth with gentle love.
i am reminded that in all things,
life is beautiful.

today, the sun shines a little brighter,
the grass is a little more green,
the sky more azure and clear,
the morning sounds of birds more crisp,
the air tastes better,
and life is a little sweeter -
all because it is a new day,
and the scars from yesterday belong in the past.

i love to watch you
in the pre-dawn hour,
your nakedness is your purest self-
delicately crossed legs, a blanket draped
over your hip,
your ******* inviting me
to come closer for a taste,
to fuel the desire  that waits inside,
longing to be set free
with a kiss, a touch, a tongue.
I don't know if it's my imagination, now,
but your scent wafts to me,
each part of you different -
your neck, your arms,
that spot just above your belly -
and the place below.
I long for you, my lover,
in that time stronger than most -
to connect our spirits in a single moment,
sharing the sweet ****** embrace
that lovers know,
and the release of the spirit
that revels in our morning ritual.

there has to be a better way,
i've been searching so long,
putting it away,
burying it deep down,
running away,
it always explodes -
bright red flashes across my vision
that blot out all else
while the action slows and i move in the rhythm
of instinct.
letting it out immediately works even less,
hurting those i love and care for,
killing friendship and love.
the fear of losing those things drives me to hide it more,
burying it until i no longer have words or wisdom,
just a machine of rage.
i need to find the way to get rid of it all,
and find peace.

awake at night,
i think of calling you,
talking to you,
sharing the thoughts and dreams
that only come when we're too tired
to make sense anymore,
when the outlandish seems plausible,
and what is seems passe and old.
but i know you're asleep,
dreaming your own dreams,
in a world all your own,
and to tear you from that place would be cruel.
so i sit up, alone in the night,
with only my thoughts for company.

a face is all i remember,
short blonde hair surrounding a pointed chin,
high cheekbones and wide brown eyes
that could hold a thousand ships in their depths,
and never would any of those ships find each other.
she held my fascination for a time when i was young -
how i would have loved to taste her lips
and looking, become another ship lost in her gaze.

they make the plans,
subdivisions of perfectly aligned streets,
and small lots that were once filled with trees,
building houses that represent
what you're supposed to strive for:
money, opulence, a wealth that now exists in ones and zeroes
on a monthly statement that may or may not even be true,
that we can't even trust,
countless numbers of people being told this is what they want,
filling these homes with extra things
they don't need or use
except when entertaining,
all driven by a company that tells them this is the American Dream -
to live in cookie-cutter houses
with no personality,
no imperfections,
a pretend facade,
to hide the imperfections of ourselves
in the guise of manicured lawns and beige paint.

give me a house that isn't perfect,
that needs paint and maybe a new porch,
where the corners aren't perfectly square,
and the yard grows weeds in between the grasses,
where the gutters need to be cleaned
because the trees are just a little too close,
and the spiders in the basement need to be relocated to outside.
give me the realness of imperfection,
a home that reflects who we are:
a little chaos
a little polish
a little messy
a little comfy
a little crazy
a little loving
a little bit of everything, out in the open
no longer hiding.

down, down,
water rushes happily,
gurgles and splashes and trickles and drips
as it feeds the mosses on the stony creekside,
too slick to walk there,
too beautiful to approach,
a place meant for witnessing from a distance,
not to be touched,
only savored by the ear and eye,
hidden back among the hemlock,
where only those with enough daring can go
and feel the presence of Nature,
her empowering spirit,
and the sense of peace She longs for,
as the water falls down,
cleansing and nourishing my soul and Hers.

There are times
when I am so hungry for you -
your body, your fire,
your mind and soul,
your passionate will -
that I want to throw you on the bed,
our clothes becoming shreds as I growl that way in your ear -
that special note nobody knows about but me.
Our bodies together, entwined in lust-filled craze,
Gazes plunging deep, baring each other's sacred spaces,
the intimacy of mindless understanding,
the recognizing of two passions that burn as one
in those moments before thought creeps back in and our walls go up again, and we hide from each other
in plain sight.
Like we used to have it,
when we were new and shiny,
and our expression was unbridled.

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 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.

sometimes
i think that God is just
a little bit of a show-off,
just so that
we're reminded that there
are good things
out there,
and life is beautiful,
and no matter how badly
we ***** it up,
faith in Him makes things better.

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 were tied to the corner of the barn,
small brown patch on your back,
excited to be close to fun smells,
tail wagging, but i think
you knew what was about to happen.
i watched from my bedroom window for a moment,
and cried my tears into the pillow,
life without my first friend was about to begin.
i was told what happened,
you passed quickly, went to sleep,
a grateful sigh your last breath,
the vet's job done well.
my brother buried you in the pasture behind the barn -
he didn't tell me where.
but i found you, years later,
your bones curled up in a perfect sleeping pose
in the hollowed-out ruins of an old tree stump.
i still recognized you,
and i wept.

there, in that moment of bliss,
i could live a thousand lifetimes,
and never grow tired of it,
that sweet, beautiful moment
when everything was just as it should be
and no one could keep it away, even us.

but life isn't one moment,
and as they fade one into the next,
we see not the moment,
but the mosaic,
many little moments falling into a bigger picture,
the events that make up the past
forging the path for the future.

the moments are fleeting,
and yet,
i long for just the one,
that perfect moment,
caught in a snapshot,
frozen forever in memory only,
framed on the wall.

sometimes,
i write long posts that i erase,
not because i'm embarrassed,
or they were bad,
or the thought that seemed clear became jumbled and lost,
but because i needed to write it,
to see the words on a page defining the author at the keyboard,
speaking plainly, simply,
there i am on the screen in front of me.
i used to think it meant i was a terrible writer,
that i lacked talent,
intelligence,
the ability to convey my thoughts and passions.
but it's simply this:
to know who i am is the greatest gift in the world,
and the world doesn't have to know it.
sometimes, i write just so i get to read it.

i wish i could stop it all -
the pains and slights we cause each other,
the struggles and the hurts
i see people enduring -
i would take it all upon myself without
hesitation,
carry the weight of the world,
bear it all,
if only because i can.
but even superman hurts,
and try though i might,
the world hurts too much for me to carry,
and i can only take so many cuts away from others before i bleed.
i must choose whom i can protect,
who needs it, when, and how,
and when to let them know that being superman hurts.

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.

there's nothing like the wind at my back,
pushing me forward,
augmenting my strength,
decreasing my time
and building my power higher,
it's easy.
but it is the headwind
against which i become stronger,
faster and more able,
it is the resistance against which
i push, strive, hone my senses -
it is against struggle where i define myself.

i love the way you know me,
what buttons to push,
and when,
and how i'll respond to each one,
to get the ultimate pleasure
out of every moment
of sweet blissful agony,
how i will barely be able to contain myself,
maybe resist making an unplanned trip to the bathroom -
maybe not,
my heart beating faster,
anticipation my new drug,
brought on by your quiet relentlessness,
touching my soul gently,
deftly,
ensuring my utmost attention
to your every word,
as my world expands and contracts at the same time,
guided by your unseen hand
as it plucks my mind,
stirring my imagination
and my *****.

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.

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.

there's the me i keep inside,
safe behind the walls i spent a lifetime building,
not to keep others out,
but just to keep safe
from the unintended assaults
that come from being near people.
they don't understand what they do,
and the more i try to fit in with them,
not care, not notice,
the more i feel my secret self becoming corrupted,
and the walls get built higher.
to break free from this fortress
will break hearts and minds
and shatter everything they know
and i don't know if they can take it -
but i have to do it,
because this lonely castle as yet has no roof -
i can still see out,
see the daylight and let it warm me,
soothe me, console and comfort -
i have to hurry before the roof is built
and i lose all that's left of me,
just to save them.

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.

there is shouting in the street tonight,
and crying in the home,
someone's son is lying bleeding,
his body broken,
an inspiration to rage,
or to answer a call
to recognize in one another
ourselves.

i want to feel the supple skin of her legs
as they glide over my nakedness,
trapping me, enticing me with the heat
of her ***,
her face in ecstatic jubilation,
as another's hands caress her ample *****,
knowing her flesh,
and i reach for him,
my mouth wanting, needing to taste
what i have only dreamed about
in the privacy of my bedroom
when the lights are out.
they lean in for a ***** kiss and it pulls him closer,
three becoming one, joined in thrilling
movements,
a fever pitch arises
and we are made whole.

the ground screamed at me,
begged me,
implored me,
until finally it grew quiet,
and that is when i heard it -
so i took off my shoes and went outside,
greeting the earth with my feet unshod,
and it spoke to me,
as it likes to do.
i cried,
because i took so long to hear it.

a brief glimpse in passing,
our eyes connected,
yours were weary in the morning,
maybe from lack of sleep,
or maybe you've seen too much life,
or perhaps it was just a long week,
and you're ready for something different.

i imagine you in a different place,
out with friends, laughing and smiling,
carefree, maybe flirting a little,
enjoying life as it was meant to be.

i wonder what they call you -
a nickname,
a friendly moniker,
or maybe something you hate.

to me, you're simply the girl at the bus stop,
but just seeing you there made my day a little better.

raw animal passion,
that starts with a simple look
and surges into
palpitating hearts and breathless kisses
that leave you hungry for more -
a tryst where nothing matters
but to be whole with another,
present in every form,
no thought but to connect,
an energy that builds with each fiery kiss
and touch of skin-on-skin,
nothing exists but authentic selves,
reaching out desperately to one another,
and finding home
in the touch,
the gaze,
the feel,
the soul,
of your lover.

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.

the moon was full last night,
ripping the waters away from the earth,
the ocean tides swelling in the rhythm
of the blood in my veins,
the slow and steady thumping
i normally love
becoming a syncopated beat to music i could not hear, but feel.
i longed to move,
to dance,
to run,
to fly,
and felt that wildness about me -
the parts that yearn for so much
but i rarely listen to -
scream silently to the moon-god
that birthed them this night.
the moon did not answer,
but to keep the steady
thumping at bay,
and let the bacchanalia
continue on,
until at last, the flesh gave way to slumber.

want to stop,
know it's wrong,
know this is a one-way ticket
to a bad place,
an empty hole.

just one more,
just a bit,
it won't hurt if it's only so much,
i can master it,
take control.

one little bit turns,
now it's more,
another shovelful of dirt covers
the silver-laquered coffin
in a grave dug in soil that
should have been for someone old
and now homes someone young.

and everyone stares and says its a shame,
but one guy down the street just started
something,
knowing he's in control, too,
just a little won't hurt...

it's all been written,
i say nothing i haven't said,
only find a different way to say it,
change the voice,
change the metre,
rhyme scheme or no,
but it says the same thing,
like a skip in a record repeating the same words,
will it stop when they sink in?
when the lesson is learned will i be put off this
neverending cycle of repeat?
how would i ever know?

letting down the walls,
allowing the nightmare to wash over me,
a flood of fears and anxieties
i have worked so hard to keep at bay,
now consuming me
in ravenous hunger,
each one biting -
a million small mouths, each taking a piece of my energy.
i have always had enough to hold on,
to stay strong,
hidden behind the facade that i show the world.
now i close the door behind me,
accepting the mantle entrusted,
knowing that i will not make it through unscathed.
opening to the energy of the world,
feeling everything -
the hurt and pain,
sadness and joy,
success and achievement,
loss and grief,
feeling all the feels.

and as i went,
i encountered this thing,
new,
and yet,
it felt as though it was something
i SHOULD have known before,
like it was always there
in the background
waiting for me -
familiar, as though in an old life,
but new to me in the here and now.
i longed to touch it, taste it,
know it on every level,
make it a part of me -
but in doing so,
part of my innocence would be lost forever.
i tasted anyway.

i come from the land of the nowhere men,
far away from these shores,
a place serene and tranquil,
where a centuries-old peace stands vigil
over tomorrow.
you have known my people,
for we often stray to your borders,
to experience the world, and taste its many wonders.
many are lost to it,
seduced by the lures of decadence and plenty,
where want is cherished and need ignored,
the many made less important than the few,
and words like privilege have meaning only to those who have none.
your world frightens me,
haunts me,
interests me and beckons to my very soul,
and i like to think i always win -
but i don't belong here.
i feel the air of your land, and it sickens me,
fills me with dread and longing for simpler things,
and i know that if i don't leave soon,
i will be crushed by the weights and expectations of it.
i must return home,
to my land,
to nowhere.

chipping away at the block,
every ounce reveals something new,
like a strip-tease that moves slowly,
removing one layer after another in the most intimate of ways,
revealing the beautiful form underneath the layers.
show a little, hide a little -
some skin here and there,
deftly revealed,
slowly, over time.
every breath, every drop of sweat ,
shed by the artist in concentration,
the heavy chisels razor-sharp,
movements precise,
revealing the form at long last,
a perfection of the body,
art and life together.

my head pounds.
thoughts drifting in and out,
forcing themselves upon me,
toying with my emotions
until i imagine things that aren't there,
poisoning my mind
with what ifs -
questions i can never hope of answering.
a torrent,
unceasing barrage against me,
beating and pushing me,
down, down again,
threatening to bury me,
secret me away from the reality,
and i'm tempted to let it win,
stop fighting upstream,
and be carried away to places i have never been....

and the still small voice whispers, "trust."

and the raging waters subside again.

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.

he is always there, the eye-man -
when i close my eyes, i see him staring at me,
always staring,
accusingly,
frowningly,
judging every move i make.
i see only his eyes,
bright lights that cancel out any and all surroundings,
he has no features, save those intrusive eyes,
as though every little thing i even think about is open to him,
the eye-man,
my judge, jury, and executioner.
i am afraid of him now as i have always been.
he is me.

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.

a smoky melody plays inside my heart,
bits and pieces,
a note or two given by a friend,
a shared experience,
a lover gave me a measure,
tragedy supplied a blues refrain,
and i spent years trying to find the hook,
that part you can't get out of your head
but have to sing over and over,
like a skip in the vinyl.
and just when i think i find it,
something new and unexpected
comes along and changes the tune,
until at last it will simply be my life,
set to the music i love.