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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

she her i you they
me him he us we -
when you put them together randomly,
it sounds ridiculous.
but put the word 'love' between any two,
and it works.
it makes sense.
now try it with 'hate.'
it can be done, sure,
but which was more enjoyable?
love always wins.

it's cold here, still,
in a way i had long forgotten,
the morning refusing to let go of winter's chill,
even though the birds can be heard singing
with the beginning of the morning.
i can hear the streets outside the hotel,
already bustling with the commuters
on their way into the city,
a strange orchestra of sounds,
caressing and assaulting my ears
that have not yet awoken.
i'll leave today,
and head back to my regular life -
it will be a relief,
and yet, i will be sad to leave this place,
these people whom i have gotten to know a little,
and even the cold mornings.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

they told me a long time ago
i had "promise"-
and i didn't understand what it meant.
and then i wrote more,
and they said i was "good"
and i thought "that's cool."

then, i began to see something -
i looked for patterns and found them,
recreated them,
studied the masters,
emulating their techniques,
and i thought i knew what i was doing.

then the awful truth hit me:
no one cares.
you can write in whatever style you want,
and no one cares.
because it's not about the things you say,
and it's not about how you say it -
it's about what the audience hears.

And it's about understanding -
that none of us are great,
we simply ARE.

Greatness is for the generations that follow.

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.

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."

i am amazed at what i do not know,
names of people,
things they do
stuff that's happening in the world -
not the political,
or the extreme -
the small things.
what's on Broadway
who won the game
famous people
doing good things
important things.
or maybe -
the fads of today
the stars and starlets
the authors
the musicians
the great "stuff" where we do most of our living
doesn't matter at all
and what i'm missing doesn't matter.

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?