i went into the field
to be alone with nature
and the universe -
i trampled the path and made myself a bed,
soft grasses and reeds bent under me,
and i watched the night through,
and swatted at the night-flies and
and scratched against the weeds,
i wrapped my coat around me
and suffered the chill of night,
and the early rise of the summer dawn
came upon me and stunned me awake,
and i cursed its brightness,
as i turned to go back to the safety and warmth of my home,
no answers having come to 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.

i am a child of moonlight,
a point of light in the darkness,
guiding the traveler home,
for it is through the darkness that I have come,
meek and mild,
ever-changing phases gently shifting.
i am the reflection of the sun,
quiet, unassuming,
noticed when i am in full,
and when i am missing,
scarcely seen otherwise.
but no one else moves the oceans as i,
inspires Man's imagination,
or fuels their passions to fever-height,
meets the lovers on a nightly walk,
and embraces all in silvery light.

i said a prayer once before,
many years ago, when i was foolish,
and i saw the world unfold from a distance,
like the setting of the sun seen in a rear view mirror.
i was powerless,
and though i tried,
there was nothing i could do.
i asked God to take my life that night,
in lieu of hers.
i don't know why we were both spared.
maybe that's what it takes -
maybe we all need a martyr
to lay down their life in lieu of our own,
someone who loves us enough,
who shouts at the oncoming storm,
"TAKE ME AND LET THAT ONE ALONE!"
but i don't know which is worse -
both sides must deal with loss.

inhale:
good air,
rich and full,
fresh,
vibrant and lively.

exhale:
toxic,
used up,
empty,
worthless and needless.

who know life could be so simple as this thing we do unceasingly?

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.

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.

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.

i've asked "why" so often,
i forget that others do it, too.
i am only a small part of the Whole,
and i have my role to play,
to bring beauty to this world,
to bring a smile,
and maybe tears,
to touch the minds and hearts
of so many,
or maybe just a few -
and be content with that.
such is my peace,
and it is also my power.
once every great while, the universe
takes time out to answer,
"this is my canvas - let it be yours as well."
and i am humbled and honored together,
invigorated,
knowingly, purposefully,
a piece finding his home in the Whole.

sometimes i like
to watch the coal barges
go by slowly,
and imagine they are
traders from another land,
traveling great distances
to see these shores.

i know it's not true,
but it makes the mundane,
the ***** and wretched lumps of coal
seem as though they are exotic spices,
or silks, or precious jewels,
arriving just so i can get a look at them.

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.

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 words on the page
looked better in my head.

i looked into that hole,
that empty place where once i was caught,
at the precarious handhold that once supported me,
where i wanted to let go,
and forget the world as it would forget me.

i saw the place, and even stepped into it, expecting to fall -
into the abyss that could claim me -
it is so easily done.

but as i stepped, i found my feet on firm soil again,
the hole now too small for me to fit.
for i am more now than i was,
i am greater than before,
and i cannot return to that place
without seeing it as a stepping stone.

some people were not made to live safely,
to guard their hearts and their person closely,
to live small and simply,
to be content with living life unnoticed.

some people were not made to diminish,
or to do menial things and merely exist,
to just be,
and let others simply "be" as well.

when we encounter them, some people run,
some people hide,
some people put on a facade and pretend to face the world,
some people give up,
and some people die.

she is so many things
in my world
that to list them would fill
the great colosseums
to overflowing.
it is enough to say,
"she is woman"
and be content to not define her,
but let her define herself.

it's a simple idea -
top and bottom and sides
to encase something -
something i've known from infancy,
and yet,
when someone says
they need a box for a purpose,
it is no longer so simple.
it must look like this,
act like that,
hold this for so long,
suit the purpose and the occasion.
a simple box that is no longer simple.
they are as varied as people -
chests, lockers,
trunks, cases,
urns, and caskets -
no matter the material,
no matter the construction,
no matter the price,
it's just a box.

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.

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.

i look at my hands,
and i see the place where
the chisel slipped when i was a boy,
and countless other wounds
were wrought into my flesh,
from a life spent touching and working with
my hands,
and i know it is a life worth remembering,
a life of substance,
a life that changed those whom i have loved,
and each scar bears witness to that life,
so that when i am old,
i may recount the tales to young lives,
and lay my scars at their feet -
a challenge to live their own lives fully.

you didn't know what to do,
this child was so different,
on his own page,
doing his own thing,
you could see his mind working,
but he stayed silent,
placid, subdued,
you didn't know the question to ask,
to open him up,
to find out where he went to in his head,
why he didn't fit in quite right,
you tried so many things,
but he learned too well,
too quickly how to hide,
and you never saw him.
but you labeled him,
stuffed him in a box
that seemed right,
looked right,
felt right to you,
but you never stopped and asked him.
he knew it was easier to let it happen,
rather than fight it.
he could be unseen,
go unnoticed if he never spoke up,
always getting by, just out of sight.
you didn't know how to deal with that.
he wasn't like the others.
he understood something differently.
he was always somewhere else.
i forgive you.

to look at life as
a puppy;
everything's for play.

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 close my eyes,
and look through a lens,
i see me there, dancing,
twirling,
movements i think my body must know,
though i have never taken a class,
but i see me move effortlessly,
a choreography in time with music only i can hear,
fluid movements i could never achieve with this body,
a purely spiritual existence,
dancing for the pure love of the dance,
each movement a new emotion;
power and drive,
followed by lust and pleasure,
each their own radiance.
i see what there is inside,
and i know i am beautiful.

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.

1500 rogue-cow-pounds,
evading capture
in the woods in a town i used to know -
it sounds so funny,
and i want to think it's not real,
and then i remember living near there,
and i sympathize with the terrorist bovine,
just trying to survive outside the only home it's ever known.

i wanna yell until it hurts,
scream at everyone i see
and force them to hear me,
to understand,
what it's like living inside my head,
all these thoughts running around and no way to let them out.

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.

it's supposed to slow down,
the surge of adrenaline leaves
and slowly, the body returns to rest.

but sometimes,
when you do something so scary,
so foreign,
so unlike anything you've ever done before,
the beat of your heart doesn't stop,
can't stop,
won't stop,
won't let you sleep,
won't let you eat,
won't let you slow down,
won't let you move,
just sit there,
listening to the rampaging rhythmic  thudding
of your heart as it threatens to leap from your chest,
and run out of the room screaming,
and you can't stop it.

and you're not sure if you should want it to stop or not.

one night a man dreamed
of golden fields of wheat
and cloudless skies,
a gentle breeze that played upon his skin
as he faced the warm sunshine.

he woke to grey clouds,
and falling rain that was cold and harsh,
and a terrible wind
that whipped at his face.

And yet, he was happy,
for the weather did not make his life beautiful,
and it did not steal his joy -
it was just the weather.

"life *****."
"there are good parts."
"like what?"
"like the stars on a clear night."
"can't touch them."
"a puppy's kiss."
"too germy."
"a field of bright flowers."
"allergic to pollen."
"a newborn baby"
"***** all the time."
"love"
"it isn't real."

that's when i left.

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.

it begins with a single look,
at once beautiful and frightening,
drawing me in,
looking through me to my innermost desires,
sensing them,
knowing me as intimately as possible,
laying bare my soul
before there is even a touch.
and then,
simply,
she leans in, whispering in my ear,
"you are Mine."
and i am.

there are the big moments -
those times of ultimate highs and lows,
the memories and photographs
by which we define our lives,
and that we recall instantly,
whether they were joyous or tragic.

then there are the small ones -
those times when you didn't shine brightly, but you still shone,
you were a little kind,
a little generous,
maybe a touch despondent, too.

we live for the large moments,
but in doing so,
we live in the small moments more.

everyone must be tested,
our words,
our bonds,
our vows,
our fears,
all our limitations must be tested,
to see if we have the strength,
to know our courage,
to believe in the impossible,
and to discover our purest selves.

she said she doesn't see perfection in my eyes,
or a love story that might last for all time,
but someone who's been through what she has,
someone who seeks to understand.

safety, trust, and fun,
kindness, passion, and love -
those are what she looks for,
and prays i see them too.

prayers are answered,
dreams are made,
in this world where home is found
in another's eyes
another's arms,
another's breath,
another's heartbeat,
another's love.

too busy to write,
to think about the things i want,
those deep-down punch-the-gut
things i don't like to talk about at parties,
always making excuses,
apologies,
looking somewhere else because I have to
deal with this or that or the next -
never my time to do with what I want,
i need a 36-hour day,
just to do the wants,
but the minute they give it to me, you know
the Boss will want more, and the commitments will want more and everything will just **** my time away again,
and there will be none left for writing
about the things i want to write about.
and will they matter anyway - or is that my own delusion?

words cut hard,
not a precision knife-cut,
a-clean-slice-that-can-be-grafted-back-together-
and-b­arely-a-scar-is-seen cut,
but a jagged snaggle-toothed cut,
that breaks into you,
and takes a chunk or two out.
words leave a scar,
the kind i don't know whether it will be a fun story someday,
to wear proudly and talk about,
or something i hide from the world.
words heal, too -
to the right words, the cuts and scars are nothing-
easily fixed, made stronger than before.

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.

they taunt me,
thoughts and images both,
teasing me that they should be written down,
and when i sit to write,
they disappear into the ether,
a haunting presence there for a moment before it, too, vanishes,
leaving me to look idly at that spot it occupied, and wondering why the ideas ran from me.

i love your eggs,
when you wake up on a saturday before me
and start making breakfast,
or when you think to chill a beer or two ahead of time,
or when you make a point to tell me i look nice...or not.
these little things don't happen all the time,
and they're not necessary,
but i really appreciate them
and the countless other little things you do.
and i wanted to say 'thank-you' today,
because i'm hoping it's a little thing i can do for you.

they were made for holding on,
for building and carrying,
for taking the heavy things that others cannot.

they were made for war,
for destruction and killing,
for fighting against another in battles that change the course of men.

they were made for gentleness,
for caressing satin cheeks
and wiping away tears.

they were made for healing,
for applying salve,
for deftly bandaging wounds of those who could not bandage their own.

they were made for safety,
to hug and hold close,
for catching tears of those loved ones who were breaking.

they were made to love,
these big strong hands of mine -
and they're pretty good at it.

there is nothing better
than hearing this:
"i love you."

It was only a small part of this world,
a tiny place of land
that taught me so many things.
I knew who I was then,
though I never told anyone.
No one asked.
They all thought they knew,
and they left me alone.
I knew what was expected -
who they wanted me to be,
and I tried.
So many years wasted,
trying to be what I thought I should,
not who and what I was,
while inside, torn between
my two selves.
And I chose between the two,
never understanding
there was no choice to make -
for I am always both.

Now, a new choice looms in the darkness,
in that place that hides along the edges of the eye,
just missing it, each time I look.
Until I call it into the light,
name it, accept it,
absorb the hidden me I have long denied.
I am no longer content with the definitions of others.
I seek to define my truth.

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 greet the morning,
standing tall,
feet firm on the ground,
a slow great breath beginning deep inside,
releasing the dreamscape
as i bow gracefully to the waking sun.
breathe: in, then out,
slow and peaceful as the sun warms my body
and my hands meet the ground,
supporting my body as the blood begins to move
through my hips and into my legs again,
muscles becoming alive through simple movements,
then down and up,
my face worshiping the heavens
as my heart moves towards the sun,
offering the day,
receiving the welcome of the morning in return.

come, lover,
and let us ravage each other -
the buttons-popping, clothes-ripping passion
overwhelming us
as we give in to the primal needs that we've
been considering all night,
but forced down because the restaurant wouldn't let us.
hands exploring the familiar curves
of one another,
as if for the first time we discover this newness,
the desire to live now
and forget the yesterdays and tomorrows,
as legs spread and onto the bed we land,
all kisses and mouths and tongues,
and hands interlocked now
and the bed squeaks out our rhythm
as we roll around, switching who's on top,
submitting each to the other,
to this moment,
to this beautiful oneness of now,
when our passions at last erupt fully,
sweaty bodies tingling with sensation,
a flood of all feeling gushes out,
and in the safety of one another,
our sacred communion,
sealed with tender caress and gentle loving ways
and lovers' whispers that even the walls cannot hear.

grace came to me,
not as i imagined,
but disguised as mercy.
in a smile and a nod,
a warm embrace of which i believed i wasn't worthy.
it took time to accept the truth:
worth is not how i hold myself,
but how others hold me.
and when i hold myself worthy of them,
and honor their view,
i see grace and beauty in its truest form.

i saw you today,
barely recognizable if not for your voice,
and for a short moment i was tempted,
to turn and watch.
but why?
to what end?
there would be no point.
i wondered if you saw me,
and realized that i didn't care.
it didn't matter.

i saw you today,
and i think i had to,
just so i would know.

it hangs in the air,
a moment ahead of where i am,
forever  baiting me
to rise and become something more,
just a little bit further,
just out of reach to my grasping hand,
in the corner just where i cannot see it,
but always driving me,
pushing me,
egging me on,
dodging from me the moment i try and capture,
only to return again the moment i want to give up.

i know i can't -
giving up isn't an option,
and it's so close
that i reach once more,
no matter if i fall
because it's still there, taunting me with possibility.