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.

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.

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.

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.

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...

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.

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.

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.

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.

the sea was angry-
rolling waves that crashed on the shore,
threatening to take me under,
tossing me about with no effort,
eroding the sand beneath my feet
as i attempted to stand against the oncoming water,
so that all i could do was ride the crest
as it bore me closer to the shore.

and yet, it was safe,
the undertow and riptide were as nothing
to the onslaught of white-tipped waves,
pushing me closer to the land,
so that the treacherous parts of the water
could not take me -
a dangerous protector that could choose
to play with me or destroy me,
and i was powerless to do anything
but ride the waves and trust in the angry sea.

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.

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'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.

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.

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.

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.

I drink too much,
think too much,
sigh too much,
cry too much,
be too much,
flee too much,
need too much,
bleed too much.

I love too much,
touch too much,
hide too much,
try too much,
care too much,
share too much,
buy too much,
and die too much.

And it never feels like I do any of it enough.

they told me to go,
to visit the land by the sea,
and take my troubles with me - I asked "why?"
and they just shook their heads.

i went my own way,
and left my troubles behind me,
littering the places of my life with
junk i did not understand,
while they shunned me.

even so, i went on,
my trials left a wake behind me,
people, places, things i cast aside  as i went,
friendless and lost in the world,
and i saw their pity-filled eyes,
but they would not speak to me.

at long last, my path led me to the sea,
its force and power unmistakable,
for it had not past nor future,
it simply was.
and it beckoned to me.

i retraced my steps, picking up my castoffs,
back to where i started,
and they winked at me,
knowing smiles playing on their lips.

i took my troubles to the sea,
and threw them in,
myself along with them,
and at last i understood,
for the sea claimed all my troubles,
and washed me clean.

i came out of the water, and they were all there,
laughing and smiling,
and i was one of them again,
made new by the relentless wild forgiveness of the sea.

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.

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.

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

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

i wonder if the old bicycle
tied outside,
rusted rims sitting on flat cracked rubber,
knows its owner is never coming back.
but it waits,
a silent vigil being kept
until it's loved again,
and both rider and machine are freed.

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 are times
when i sit and stare
at the paper
or the screen
both blank as my mind,
and wonder if there
is anything worthwhile
to be written.

sometimes, the blankness stares back,
asking when i will have the courage
to write upon it.

i often wonder about the blanks,
the spaces between letters and words,
the gap in the middle of the "o"
that holds nothing.
i wonder what an entire page of blanks is really like,
if it speaks more than ink,
and what it might say.

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.

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?

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

when you see so much -
anger, hatred,
despair, greed,
selfishness, neglect,
loss,
pain, hunger,
the ugliness that is in this world -
and you know you're too small to fix everything.
you have to choose-
to ask what gets your attention today,
what wrongs get righted,
what pains get eased -
what torment you can live with because the choice you said "yes" to means you had to say "no" to another one.
and then, you choose to take a moment - just one - for yourself,
because you're empty,
hollow,
a shell of a person going through the motions,
dead inside,
and you feel guilty, because there are still so many in need.
Always the choice.
Always the pain that comes with it.

me choosing you.
you choosing me.
choosing us.
every time.

it was magic,
anticipation hung in the air
with every moment,
a wonderment consumed my child-mind
and turned chaos into perfect order
as i dreamed about the morning of christmas.

it's cold, now,
and i hate the garish colors and flashing lights,
the constant demands upon time and money,
and the persistence of those around me that we should all "be happy,"
as though acting happy is an instantaneous cure-all.
they should say, "i don't want to deal with **** - so shut up."
and go back to pretending everything is good.

there is no pain
like knowing what is coming,
feeling the crushing weight
of something i can do nothing about
no matter how hard i try.
it's exhausting.
it makes me want to dig deep inside myself and go there to hide,
refusing to deal with the world, with this life,
and all the people in it any longer.
i can't help them,
i can't stop them.
but i feel everything they do,
before they do.
especially their pain.

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

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.

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.

old music from my childhood
plays through the speakers
as two sets of hands reach
for branches on the tree.
hanging ornaments again,
it's been too long.
this time is different -
and in so many ways,
it feels like at last i have come home 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.

the demon lies in the abyss,
gaping maw open and silent,
heady breath that draws you to it
like the sweet perfumes of a long-forgotten moment.
you stand on the edge and look down,
you can't see the devil,
only the inky dark of the chasm.
and then it winks at you,
sees you, knows you by name,
and calls you to it.
some follow the call, some escape.
of those who follow, i know nothing,
but i escaped with cruel knowledge,
that the demon knows me,
and is lurking at the bottom of every abyss,
and i cannot be rid of it.
i can only stand firm on the surface,
and wink back into the darkness,
and walk away again.

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.

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.

it's there a moment and gone again-
it may never come back around,
or it could be there again in a moment's notice.
i never know,
and have always been caught unaware.
such is the life of chasing dreams,
one after the next,
all with their hopes of a beautiful life,
and when you've chased and chased for so long,
you forget that you weren't born for this -
you were made not to chase the dreams,
but to catch them.
and you're not sure you know how to do that,
but you try anyway.
and you get some help along the way,
and you fail,
but you try again.
and again.
and again.
until your dreams get tired of running from you.

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.

lives touch,
for some, it's all too brief,
a small spark that ignites and burns too hot
and runs out of fuel.
for some, it's slowly,
a building passion and fire that sustains,
and demands to be fed -
but offers constancy and warmth.
and on those rare occasions, it's both -
a liquid flame that gets into you,
warms from within,
and demands to be expressed between two souls,
fated to meet and spark together.

empty today,
unable to focus on the daily things,
because the world hurts so much.
I can usually hide from this pain,
but this -
this wanton destruction of life -
it will scar,
and i will never be rid of it.

but if i could be rid of it,
would i be able to take action,
or lulled back into my cave of complacency?

ten words.  
nine are wasteful encumberances;
one will do.
"enough."

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