cherry blossoms,
small and fragile,
merely a part in a grand design,
made permanent by hands and chisel,
pale maple chosen to bring life.
each one, imperfect,
each unique,
each its own sovereign -
and together forming peaceful beauty.
harmony with the darkly stained oak,
little flowers to lend their softness and beauty
to a hard surface.

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.

never love a gypsy heart -
it does not know what it wants,
or where.
it only knows it wants something
that is always someplace else,
someone else,
and it cannot stop searching.
the gypsy heart is fierce,
but it does not know why -
only that it must fight
against everything and everyone,
it will not take advice.
it loves too much, and not enough.
never love a gypsy heart -
it will break you.

i was a child, and could not understand,
there was no frame of reference,
i did not know
i was living a criminal's existence,
uncomprehending that my actions caused
the hurt and pain of others.
i was never taught that
by merely existing and accepting a process
of how the world worked
i was accepting the sin of generations.
even when i was older and could see with
perfect backward vision the revisionist history
of what was done and why
i could not see the enslavement of a race of Man,
no longer with chains and whips,
but of finance and education,
a system of enslavement through jealousy,
to make "them" feel equal to "us"
by acquiring trapping and trinkets,
only to keep forcing newer and better things
into an already gluttonous marketplace
and calling this new slavery "economic independence."

my crime?
i was born into this system, and i have done little to change it,
considering myself open to thoughts and ideas,
but never giving them a chance,
never committing myself wholly,
but always trying to "temper with reason."
i did not make the system - but i am a part of it,
and i no longer wish to be so.

storms come
and the choice is ours:
to run from it,
praying it never catches you,
looking over your shoulder at the beast as it lunges,
hoping it misses,
to stand still,
immovable,
the rock against which the water breaks,
knowing you can outlast it,
or to chase the wind and rain,
to watch as it moves ahead of you,
looking over its shoulder as you come bearing down upon it,
the thing the storm fears.

i walk faster when it rains,
and i spend less time looking at the reflections
of the city-lights upon the surfaces,
brighter and more full,
even with a lack of sunlit skies.
i notice it from afar,
but do not look around me
to appreciate the beauty through which
i walk faster when it rains.

standing in the rain,
heavy drops pouring over my body
like so many tears
that have been shed
over pains real and imagined,
now washing away,
cleansing,
sanctifying the earth into which
they disappear,
and in that moment
i find the restful peace
i have been hunting.

a long time ago
i was another person
and i talked to God a lot.
and i prayed, once,
that my life could be ended
to save another.
i didn't understand the answer.

today, i talk to God less than i ought to,
but He says more meaningful things,
and i think i understand the point now,
of that answer when i was young:

no.  you are too beautiful.

I want to hold on,
cling to the past that I have known,
safe and comfortable in what was -
it could be that way, forever.

Letting go of that is scary,
it takes a measured practice and puts it out of sorts,
a whirlwind ride, a flood of emotion
that I do not want to ride -
it is unpredictable in nature,
unbalanced,
a tipped scale where value is absent,
I do not know which side to be on.

Holding on is wrong and feels right.
Letting go is right and feels wrong.

magic grabbed me,
guided me into its welcoming arms,
held tight and opened my eyes to
marvelous wonders
that i never could imagine.
and then, it pushed me away,
a fickle mistress that  cannot be tamed,
and i was left all alone,
forsaken,
forgotten by the world as i fell into despair.
it happened slowly,
but i began to understand,
through trial and turmoil,
that i was not abandoned-
that when magic touched me,
it entered in,
became part of me,
changed me,
until i was ready to become something
greater than i was before:
i am magic,
and i will do for others
what has been done for me.

the angel-lights move quickly,
a fleeting moment and they're gone,
a brief reminder,
a glimpse,
that there's something out there
looking over us.

when you see the angel-lights,
stop a moment -
wonder why you were able to see them,
let your breath be taken away,
and say a simple 'thank you'
for the moment,
and for all the good things in life.

over the edge,
a sheer drop down the mountainside,
eye level with large birds that soar on the invisible
     strings of air currents,
a rocky ledge upon which to stand,
over the valley expanding below
with its little farms and patchwork fields.
to attain this place,
to be here contemplating these things
is a journey that tests and tires,
batters the body and mind against trees and rocks,
loose soil and the heat of the day.
i took no photos.
i will hold it within me,
and let it shine out
that others will look and ask what it is
that keeps that spark alive in me,
and I will tell them of this place,
and invite them to come and see for themselves.

i call,
we talk,
every week that's how it goes, right?
then i realize i call more often,
we talk about a few more things,
different things,
and i tell what i'm doing,
and i hear what you're doing,
projects,
creativity,
moving forward, starting something new.
the tone changes,
and it's more like talking to a friend,
then, a colleague,
and then you asked my opinion,
took the advice i gave,
and it worked, and it looked great.
and then you started something new,
and it was something i knew about.
you asked my advice,
how i solved that problem,
what i've run into,
what i've discovered.
and Dad,
i'm not sure i'm ready to be the adult here,
to be the font of wisdom,
the knower of things,
the source you look to when you have questions.
i guess you weren't sure you were ready, either,
but you did it anyway.
and so will i.

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.

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.

there is nothing
i live for
more than that moment
when you wake
and catch me looking at you,
smiling with your eyes
as we say "good morning."

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.

eyes are blank,
staring through their surroundings,
no hope,
no faith,
no idea where to turn,
where to start,
how to go on from one moment to the next,
not sure if they even want to anymore.

when you understand it,
you begin to see why the easy way out looks appealing.
then, you remember you're worth more,
worth fighting for,
worth believing in,
worth trying for.

and you just want someone else to believe the same thing,
because you know it's still possible to get through it,
but it's easier with a partner.

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.

part of me wants to forget
the feel of you against me,
skin-on-skin,
the scent of your hair,
and that little sigh you make.

part of me wants to wash it all away,
to move on like it never happened,
and pick up my life where i last left it,
as though we never met.

part of me wants to wrench my heart
out of my chest and leave it laying there,
pumping out the last reserves until
the beating finally fades and  tissue turns cold,
and my body falls next to it,
unseeing eyes absorbing the scene.

and part of me wants
to only go back to when things were good,
and my world with you made sense.
but this part - this last little part -
it grows smaller every day,
and i am afraid that it will be replaced
with empty bitterness.

part of me doesn't want that.
part of me does.

the pavement sings a quiet hum
where the rubber of the bus tires meet the road,
and inside i sit and strum
on my father's old guitar
making up the words as i go.
somehow the words always come back
to the places that i've traveled
to the echoes of the hearts i've known and loved,
to when we were young and free,
and the world was ours to grab,
back when we were legends in our minds.


Now i'm about a hundred miles
down a road that you can't follow,
speeding on the highway past towns i'll never know.
living life the way i need
full of joys and sorrows,
and always missing you as i go.


the road is lonely, where I'm going,
and the journey feels so very long,
it's tiring living out this life in the way i'm doing it,
on this stage, night after night
just me and the songs.
no one sees behind the bright lights,
and the photos in the green room,
or looks behind the smiles and public face,
no one sees the nightmares of memories long ago,
or wipes the ears away from my face.

Now i'm about six hundred miles
down a road that you can't follow,
speeding on the highway past towns i'll never know.
living life the way i need
full of joys and sorrows,
and always missing you as i go.

always life upon the stage,
or in this rolling metal cage,
one more autograph on a page -
i haven't been home in an age....

Now i'm about a thousand miles
down a road that you can't follow,
speeding on the highway past towns i'll never know.
living life the way i need
full of joys and sorrows,
and always missing you as i go.

I learned it as a child,
the ability to hide myself,
deep down in the recesses,
away from the light,
away from who I really am,
because that's not what the world wanted to see.
I began to believe in who I pretended to be,
the false accomplishments, the lies I told on my outer face,
ignoring the depths of me,
where the kernel of my being languished.

I lived that way for so long,
finding a spark every so often that pulled,
pushed, prodded, cajoled, enticed -
anything to get that secret self out into the light.
Each time, a little progress, before it would slide back,
assuming a new identity to put on to face the world.
Comfortable again,
safe, hidden, able to observe in secret,
and never having to face the uncomfortable truth -
I am much more than what I seem,
much deeper than I tell,
and more beautiful than I appear.

They teach you how to hide as a child.
No one teaches you how to seek.

i saw the towers fall,
the panic set in,
the evacuation of a city thinking it might be next.
i heard the questions being asked -how and why -
and the cries coming from video footage on tv
of those who lost family, friends, coworkers.
we all had a choice that day,
to become something more,
to believe there was something greater,
or to wallow in self-pity and anguish.
we did both,
and it made us great -
not because we're smarter,
more thorough,
and not because of the laws we enacted,
or the wars we fought,
we were forced to face the world again,
to face our mortality,
to choose whether to be a part of this world,
and fight for something better,
or to let the rest of the world suffer in our ignorance.
today, we were great because we were reminded
of what it's like to be human.

some days
i know i'm writing something great
something meaningful,
something that i am proud to put my name to.
today is not that day,
but i keep writing anyway,
just like i keep working,
keep getting up,
keep going.
the error isn't in writing poorly,
but in not writing at all.

i know now why he did it -
dropped me off in a strange city with
all my belongings
on the side of the curb,
with instructions,
"don't forget to write."
and it stung,
even though i knew it was coming.
if i could go back and explain to my younger self,
there are two things i would say:
he hates goodbyes.
he's saying he trusts you.
it would have made a big difference.

the things i perceive are not truth,
nor are they fiction,
but passing through the realm between,
a phantom existence,
there for a single moment - gone the next.
i think they are real,
they are truth,
they are the new gospel,
and i follow the truth i make until it becomes real,
and lose myself in the process.
to find myself again,
a path not simple to find -
it begins and ends with a choice:
i am important, at first,
and i do not matter, at last.

i will never know your name,
or your face,
or the loved ones you left behind,
or the people you helped -
and saved.
i will never know what it was like,
running into that place,
unsure if you would be coming out.
i will never know the torture of those last moments,
when you finally knew that you'd be coming home sooner than planned,
only to be buried in the ground.
i will never fully understand your sacrifice,
but i hope that you know just how grateful i am.
Thank You.

excitement flickered in her eyes,
a look i had not seen in a while,
the beginnings of an adventure,
a new chapter,
life renewed by stepping through a door,
and planning where furniture could go,
a chance at re-birth
in a place to call "home."

so many memories,
instantly made in a short time
that i will hold with me forever-
the raindrop that landed on your glasses,
a giggle that lilted on the air,
or a look as your eyes gazed into mine-
searching for the answers you longed to see.
memories made,
as though looking backwards,
they felt like they were always there,
that we have lived this before,
and once again have searched each other out.
and i soak up every new moment,
looking forward to each, and fondly at it as it passes,
winking,
from moment to memory,
weaving a new tapestry to tell a new story.

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.

you're tested
maybe fall
maybe fly
or you do both.

i save the best thoughts for myself,
never to see the light of day,
never to be heard by anyone,
tucked away in the silence of my innermost self,
there to dwell, securely.

right next to them,
the worst ideas stay, too,
the ones that bring ridicule,
or would if i let them out,
but i dare not.

and though i think of them as safely tucked away,
they are at war with one another,
fighting to be entertained,
striving to be the thoughts that take prominence,
and always trying to get out.

and i cannot tell them apart.

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.

break me -
tear me down,
i don't want to know what an easy life is.
burn me -
char my insides,
who i am is not who i've been.

shake me -
knock me down,
i will get right back up again.
turn me -
inside out,
and we'll see how strong i really am.

stronger -
than i used to be,
wiser -
than the former me,
bolder -
than i've ever been before
today's the day i become something more.

beat me -
till i'm bent and bruised,
just a shadow of all my hopes and dreams.
**** me-
leave me lyin' on the floor,
wondering what this hellish world means.

bleed me -
till there's nothing left to give,
and everything i have is all gone,
save me-
from the lies and abuse,
only then can i at last move on.

stronger -
than i used to be,
wiser -
than the former me,
bolder -
than i've ever been before
today's the day i become something more.

break me, burn me,
shake me, turn me,
beat me, **** me,
bleed me -
save me.

stronger -
than i used to be,
wiser -
than the former me,
bolder -
than i've ever been before
today's the day i become something more.

if you asked me a year ago
where i was going
what i was doing
how i was going to get there
i would have had no answer,
and there would have been an awkward pause -
the kind that's not comfortable for anyone.
i would have shied away
not spoken
not dared to dream about the impossible
and not realized my own worth.

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.

i can't be there to celebrate you,
to hold your hand and give a hug,
or watch you blow out the candles on your cake,
and crawl in bed with you at the end of the day,
but my thoughts today are about you,
seeing your smile,
and bright eyes that shine when i call you "beautiful"
and the way your body moves with mine
as we dance gently to music only we can hear,
and the lightness of the moment makes hearts sing
and angels rejoice.
that is my wish for you this day,
and though the miles keep us apart,
this joy of living pulls us together.

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.

i dreamed a long time ago,
of love that could be found in the small times,
the wistful smiles,
the glances and quick-witted moments,
that was about the daily living,
and lived for the experience of just
living.

then came lies, deceit,
and living only for the big things,
the grandiose,
the exceptional,
and the focus became about those huge things,
and the small was lost.

now, i search for the small things again,
and maybe the occasional large thing,
in the hopes that living can be done,
in both the large and small things,
and get back to me.

there's nothing like the smell of a
fresh sweat
that i've worked up while cutting the grass
on a sunday in the early afternoon
of a warm spring day in early April.
i long for these days until
i spend the time outside,
and when i want to take advantage of the weather
i have to do work instead
and it feels like everything i want to do is supplanted
by the planting and needs to be done.

character is good -
interesting takes on regular things,
fascinating inquiry
into what makes a person do anything,
their motivations
and secret desires they tell to nobody but the air.
but what good is character
if you do nothing?
it becomes words without action,
only half a story,
full of dreams but no plot.
would my life make a good read?
would someone say it fascinated them to read my story?

the midnight abyssal black
encloses,
wrapping me in blankets
of doubt
of anger
of self-pity
and self-loathing,
until i begin to look outwards -
that i might not see myself.
until someone happens along,
and holds my gaze to a mirror.
i cannot look away,
and i must face the night
with all its demons,
unwrap the blankets one by one,
and see that doubt becomes surety,
anger becomes patience,
self-pity becomes honesty,
self-loathing becomes self-love.

his anxieties and fears,
his coping skills,
his strength,
his desires,
even his hands are mine -
all his failures are made manifest
and all my life,
i have been powerless to stop it.

my mind,
my beauty,
my passion and spirit,
my vision,
my talent,
in the hands of the son,
the sins of the father will be broken,
and a new beginning
will take the world by storm.

day by day,
one moment after the next
and you don't notice a thing,
you don't know why you're doing it,
but you are -
continually pouring out everything you have,
emptying yourself day after day,
until you look in the mirror,
or a reflection in a window,
and you see someone -
someone who wasn't there before,
who doesn't even look like you,
but echoes your movements,
your shadows -
a better reflection than what you used to see.
it's something new,
someone better and stronger,
with eyes that see the world differently than they used to,
and perhaps understand something more.

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.

you can't play the pieces,
they only do what they're told,
moving along at the will of the mind behind,
the game isn't fought on the board,
in structures and traps,
deliberately visible - the true scene unseen.
you have to play the man,
mind racing to out-think you,
to see one move further down the fine line.
you have to understand the imagination -
in order to understand the art.

i see them hating,
lie in waiting,
for a chance to mock someone participating
in their own life.

they keep insisting
that their persisting
will somehow help in everyone's existing
through this strife.

they keep judging
others' trudging
but their opinions and beliefs aren't budging
in the least.

they just keep pressing
how you're dressing,
and they still insist on stressing
you're a "beast."

and i keep asking
while they're basking
"how can i truly love them when they are tasking
this world so much?"

we fight sometimes,
but not like everyone else,
a battle of wits
where the weapons are phrases like,
"i love you more than _"
and we fill in the blank
the way we fill in the blank spaces in each other.

the wind comes,
it beats against you -
a tempest that hurls invisible waves
like thundering horses in your path,
and you have to choose to swerve
or to press harder.
the wind doesn't care what you choose.
no one does.
they should.
what you choose matters -
it makes your life,
and ripples through the lives of others.
you only have to make the choice -
to batter back at the wind
or change course.

a walk in the woods on a cold morning
before the noises of the world awaken
and bury my mind in the business of the day
with the whys and where and incessant
thumping of questions and answers
and timelines and delays
is where i find the peace
the time to be alone
and ruminate on the divine -
yes, to pray in this church
with the birds and the winds as music
to my meditation.