i was made an angel,
i don't remember why,
perhaps it was to show love,
perhaps to learn it,
maybe to understand it,
maybe to understate it,
and maybe i chose this,
and maybe it chose me,
if only i could remember,
if only i could go back,
would i make the same choice?
would i choose the same path?

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.

the little white basket
with the pink and yellow daisy
bobbles along,
as the streamers on the handlebars
flutter in the wind.
"wheeeeeee!" she cries,
and i am ashamed because i forgot -
it's supposed to be fun.

i love the way a man's kiss
is rough to the touch,
but delicate after only a moment.
his touch, firm and longing,
holding on as long as he can,
a strange desperation in that moment of want,
where it's difficult to discern want from need.
to feel his bristly lip brush against mine,
his hot tongue in my mouth,
melting together in a moment of bliss.

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.

it's a *****,
an *******,
an enemy,
a nightmare -
but only if i am.
what if i tried being nicer?

movement is slow,
deliberate action,
practiced until perfected,
then practiced more,
the slow forging of the mind and body into -
into what?
A weapon,
a tool,
a method,
a philosophy?
Why not all of them at once?
Memorizing the steps,
the sequence,
aligning each and every moment with precision,
there is no room for failure.
Failure is the difference between kings and gods.

palest moonlight throws its glow
on the earth piled high
'round the fresh pit dug today,
an open maw hungry to be filled.
not far away,
a solemn vigil is kept by the new widow,
tonight she mourns the loss of a lover,
a long-time friend and partner,
gone too soon for her.
tomorrow will be the well-wishers,
the relatives, the friends, and the feast -
before the vast emptiness sets in.
meanwhile, the kingdom of bones will celebrate
the arrival of its newest citizen.

her kiss was smooth,
a tender touch,
soft and achingly sweet,
and in her lips she showed me who she was,
all her hopes and dreams,
her fears, too,
as her very being was opened to me
in that lingering moment we first touched lips.

his was precisely the opposite.

there is a place i know,
where back in a hollow,
the crisp cool water runs over the boulders of ages past,
the evidence of a time no one remembers,
but everyone can see.
it's quiet there,
the birdsongs echo in the early mornings,
and the constant babbling of the water
soothes the spirit of those who come to walk.
i go there from time to time,
to sit in the quiet and think
and dream and pray,
for in the silence,
the answers come to those who are willing to listen
to the language of the water and the birds.

kiss the earth with your feet,
let yourself be lighter than the air,
with never a mark made upon the soil -
not restricted by the bonds of the physical,
being luminous amidst the shadowed sphere,
no weight upon my brow,
no yoke upon my back,
upright,
i shall not be bowed -
that was a different me.

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.

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

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 like to listen to the rain
on a day i have nothing to do,
and let the sound of each droplet on the window glass
water my naked soul as it would the ground,
refreshing and new,
life springing again from within me
from the gentle coaxing of the rain
as it falls so willingly to the soil.

five things to never do...
eight traits to know if you're...
three ways to get to...
sixteen methods to be sure...

if he does these dozen...
when she acts like this...
nineteen things you never knew about...
ten different ways to kiss...

it's wearying and harrowing,
it's worrying and maddening,
it's listing all the little things
that really aren't mattering.

all designed to make us put the blame
on others for our troubles,
all designed to make us feel better
about all our faults and foibles.

and in the end,
we feel worse because,
we are not treating others
with tenderness and love.

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.

little Levi is bored,
his toys no longer serve,
his imagination and playfulness
too much for his little realm,
so he stands in his backyard,
alone,
and dreams of being with people,
inside or out,
just a kindly voice to be there,
is all Levi wants.

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.

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.

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.

the mind goes,
rambling on with thoughts unbidden,
coming at me like a freight train,
unstoppable
until a phrase, a word, a sound
brings me back to the sane quiet that centers me.
it's a voice,
strong and pure,
but simple,
not commanding, but gently reminding me
that there is love in this world,
there is beauty,
and there is purpose.

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?"

my lover's touch -
a jolt of electricity through me each time,
even when it's simply holding my hand
or a quick caress of my cheek -
a magical element
that entices me
and hold me as willing captive,
drawing me closer,
at once aware of the both of us,
our wants and hungers,
the secret needs that live just out of range of telling,
but we know, anyway.

my young mind knew not what i was saying,
so many years ago on a stage i used to own,
where my heart and soul were put forth
so many times.
would that i could return to then,
oh, the performance i might give,
with the understanding of years,
what "compact imagination" means.
but, would the audience know it -
would they feel what i do now,
would it make sense to them?
would they see the devils, or Helen, or heaven,
or all?
which title would i have?
i have been all three.
perhaps that's why the words stick with me today -
i have been living them all along.

there is something to
picking up my father's old guitar
and feeling it fit perfectly in my hands,
responding to my touch
the way it once did for him,
and playing chords to a song everyone knows,
but having it turn out somehow different,
my style and voice,
mingling with the echo of my father's,
to take someone else's words and music
and give them a new life.

nothing but squawking,
deafening madness
of unchangeable ideas.
unceasing,
resistant to all efforts to silence
a past that no longer serves the present,
and cannot serve the future.
why can't they see and grow?
they drone on,
a greek chorus of inane rants
about things that have been overtaken
by the endless march onward.
and i am forced to listen to the magpies.

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.

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.

in the soft midnight,
when velvety darkness surrounds like a mother's embrace,
holding me close and secure,
shutting out all the world,
i'm left with just my thoughts,
my fears,
the bare rock of who i am,
and i have the choice -
whether to look at it and "be"
or to change it.

sometimes, a change is needed,
but not always,
and to know when and how,
i search the embrace of the night,
and i find nothing -
for the answers are never found in the darkness.

i must search the light.

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.

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

you said i wouldn't
i agreed.

you said i shouldn't
and i began to question why.

you said i couldn't
and then i went out and showed you
that you were wrong all the time -
because i did.

i do not know you,
but in a fleeting glimpse
i caught your secret smile,
the one you might save for a lover,
to share over the top of a cup of coffee
in the after-glow of your coupling.

in that quiet moment,
your eyes sparkled,
and all around you faded,
the colors of the world outshone by that glow,
whose secret lies behind the half-smile.

"Mona Lisa, men have named you" comes to mind,
for your secret and hers are intertwined in the mystery of a moment,
a  glimpse,
a rare peek into your heart.

i hear a cello,
softly playing a soothing note,
long and sustained
in the pre-dawn darkness.
a slow crescendo,
and the note changes from lull to urgency
as a clarinet joins in,
followed by the violin in descant,
solo notes filling the chord,
one by one,
the orchestra joins,
as with the sun it builds to furious rate,
then all at once dropping off,
and the cello sings alone
as the sunlight breaks over the hilltops
and says its good morning to me.

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.

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.

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

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

"I know I haven't made much time for you," he said. "But that will change."
My father's words fell like thunder on my young ears,
the opportunity I had long awaited,
at last arrived.
I got three years with him where we grew to be friends,
understanding one another in an unspoken way.
I thought it meant that I was exactly like him
and tried to mold myself in that vision.
But I was wrong,
for I am much more than he could ever be,
I understand the world differently,
I take the things I learned from him and build upon them, creating something he cannot comprehend.
I do not recognize his limits,
but constantly push them.
And yet, I am no better - just a different man,
with a different passion and fire burning in my heart,
my own definition of the masculine,
breaking free from the traditional.
A new man.

finding new music to dance to,
new themes to explore,
new sounds to begin my day,
and lead me into the quiet nights,
where i can lose myself
in rhythm and melody,
reach into a part of my soul and rip it out,
feeling the pleasure and the pain of it,
all through a new song
by a new artist -
new music that soothes the old me,
and helps me find my rebirth.

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

now is faith
now is patience
now is understanding
now is mercy
now is kindness
now is love

they cannot be practiced in the past
nor in the future.

they can only be here.  they can only be now.

i love the smell
of a cool crisp morning,
when the rains have fallen
and the cracks in the pavement
are still wet,
and the trees
wave silently in the gentle breeze,
as the birds flit among the branches.

the feeling of an old tool,
***** handle smooth from use,
numbers worn off  the sweep,
and i cannot call it by name,
other than to say "my favorite"
because it has more use
and has become an extension of my soul.

i see the warrior,
head high and chin proud,
jaw firmly set against the oncoming storm,
arms at the ready,
your weapons within reach,
ready to strike without warning,
for this is what you know -
only to fight
for the chance to own yourself,
to be free from the oppression that
strangles from every direction
and steals the air from your lungs.

it is just one of the many different yous that are,
one face among many,
beautiful and fierce,
hard and softly loving,
that i have come to know.

and i wonder when the warrior's heart and passion will give sway to the intellect,
when the war is done, if you will be someone newer and better,
and what place there is for me in that time.

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.

sun shines today,
but if offers me no warmth,
winter's last hurrah in this,
the desolate green country between north and south,
between winter and spring,
when a forecast means little
and the prognostications of a rodent prove asinine.

but there is joy to be found,
when a crowd will roar for their heroes,
and the hopes of a city once again move
to the shoulders of the boys of summer.

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.