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 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 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.

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'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 river was glass this morning,
a serene reflection of a city full of
hopes and dreams,
of people moving about our small lives,
trying each day to scratch and claw at bedrock,
to make a living out of nothing.
under the surface of that glass,
a teeming current pulls,
the driving force behind the facade -
why we must continue.
why i must press onward.

this me-you thing works.
i don't know how, but it does.
it's growing, it's changing,
there are bumps,
there are cuts and scrapes,
there are bruises,
there are hurts,
there are times when I'm slow to understand,
there are times when I'm faster than you,
there are hugs,
there are kisses,
there are passionate nights,
there are distant ones, too,
there are fights,
there are make-ups,
there is longing,
there is forgiveness,
there is loss,
there is gain.
there are a lot of things that go into this me-you thing,
but this me-you thing works.
i don't know how, but it does.
i like it.

i remember it clearly,
the saying written under the image of a stoic face,
'nothing is as strong as gentleness-
nothing is as gentle as pure strength.'
words that stick with me today,
that forged me into who i am -
a reminder that the choice is always mine,
and that wisdom lies in knowing
how and when to use my strength.

to be as water -
the gentle rain that seeds the earth,
and the stinging blows of cold spring,
a peaceful glassy surface,
and the wind-ripped waves of the storm,
the life-giving flow of the river,
and the merciless flood as it pours ever downward -
all are within my grasp,
the form i take
is mine to choose,
and each day calls me to make that choice.
i have been them all,
and i know the spring that swells from deep within my soul.
i know my choice.

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.

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.

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.

the eyes that stare back are mine,
but the body is something foreign.
is that me?
how?
i don't know what to do with this body,
how to make it move,
or do the things a body is supposed to do.
it moves differently than mine -
is this what 'swagger' is?
it's just as uncomfortable, this body,
as my old one,
and i don't know how to make it work.
i'm learning,
and it's going to be a little awkward for a while,
but please, bear with me,
because i'm capable of more, now,
than i've ever been before,
and i am making the world a better place.

it's tuesday again,
and the clouds are rolling in,
and the boss wants his paperwork,
and the cat left a hairball on my pillow,
and the car's making a funny noise,
and the gas bill is due,
and the trash has to go out,
and my friend cancelled our appointment,
and i want to go on a date or something,
and i didn't get to finish my coffee,
and my ankle hurts,
and today just ***** because there are
a million things wrong with it
and only a few of them are my fault
but i have to deal with them anyway
and why can't i just relax
and get through this day,
go home and have a drink
and sit on the porch watching when the rain finally hits -
and then i see her,
and i know that what she's going through
is so much worse than these petty things,
and she smiles through it.
so i smile, too.
on a tuesday,
as the clouds are rolling in.

I got an email from you today,
it has been years,
I thought I would never hear from you again
after what happened.
There was nothing in the message,
just an empty page,
and I was glad.
You followed up with a second -
said you were deleting and accidentally hit "send,"
and something about an intense conversation.
I could have opened the door,
responded, let you back in -
but you damage me when that happens -
and I cannot allow it again, ever.
It's not healthy for me.
It never was.

I have lived my life a caged beast,
passion and fire burning within the deep secret places
I don't talk about,
my potential knows no limits,
but for those set upon me by this world.
What happens when the beast is set free?
Will it emerge a phoenix, resplendent in glorious rebirth,
capable of greatness and beauty?
Will it be what I have always feared - a monster that seeks to destroy,
uncontrollable, fearsome?
the only way to know is to let loose the control,
unlock the cage,
unleash what has been kept for so long -
and face the beast inside,
no matter what it may bring.
I am ready.

i hear the music of the early morning,
a forest waking with the summer sun
and the scent of hemlock and dew
that i recall from my childhood.
this sacred place,
marked by Time itself, and yet, timeless,
fills my spirit with the awe of ages past,
and native peoples in whose footsteps i now tread.
the face of the rock remembers them,
and as i reach out to touch it,
i am met with a glimpse into what the Earth has seen,
and how she mourns for simpler times,
when all heard the same music,
and danced together in the hot summer morning.

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.

a long walk home,
a chance to think about a lot of things
i normally can't,
the opportunity to have a million conversations
in my head,
knowing they will never actually happen -
the only way to quiet the voices there,
as each step brings me closer
to the goal,
closer to being home.

i saw an ad in the paper,
and i wanted to answer it.

wanted:
someone to look at me
and at a glance,
take my worries away and let me know i'm loved.

but i didn't,
and now i am left to wonder if i missed out,
if they did,
if we both did,
or if i am better for not having looked down that path.
and i will never know the answer.

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.

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.

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.

when at last i shall sleep,
and take my leave of this life,
this strange existence of pains and torments,
and brief periods of rest between them,
i shall look back upon it all,
and wonder at the brilliant mosaic
formed from the choices i made,
the things i did,
the people i loved,
and the difference i have made for them,
and what they have done for me,
and i will find the happiness i seek.

"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.

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.

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.

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.

the words on the page
looked better in my head.

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

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.

it was dark, once,
cloudy and rain-drenched,
cold and lonely in my world.

then there you were.

food was tasteless,
it held no joy to me,
i forgot how to smile.

then there was you.

there was nothing but a hollow shell,
a marionette,
a pantomime of life.

Now, there's you.

and it will take me some time yet
to get used to you -
to accept that which I thought I would never see again.
but I know I'll do it -
because now, there's you.

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.

you must go on -
on the stage,
on the trail,
on the path,
through the scary woods alone at night.

you must go on -
in the storm,
in the calm,
in the dark,
even though you are weary with fright.

you must go on -
at morning,
at mid-day,
at suppertime,
when things don't feel right.

you must go on -
from then,
from now,
from hence,
because it's the only way you will find the light.

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