Blink,
the lightning flash
still severs
through closed eyes

Center,
on the temporary illumination
and periphery is
destroyed

Deep in the purple aftermath,
radiance remembered
as horrid ominous thunder
applauds

Defiant fear,
seeking to embody
godlike
power...


- fr

I wake up to let the dog out
And am greeted by your collective clutter--this family!--
***** cups and plates, cushions on the floor, old socks tucked into the couch, cracked pistachio shells intermingling with dried berry blood, ear plugs!

I wade into the bog of filth to begin my daily duties. I can hear your voice say, "No one ever helps me around here!"

Truly I am a modern Cinderella--I think-- beaten and worn down by those who don't appreciate me. So Christlike!

It smacks me in the face.
The realization that Christ was crucified last night  and is dead and buried and won't rise until tomorrow,
And the disciples have no idea that he will indeed rise!

I am no Cinderella.
I am a murderer going about her business without any remorse for her crime.

What a grim day Saturday can be.

when i looked at my reflection on the surface of the sea, what i saw was a worthless piece of draft wood.

i lonelily float to wherever the current carried my weak and hollow body.

though i believed i had no worth, you held onto me.
you knew i was important, so you wrapped your arms around my fragile frame.

little did i know that the only reason to why you clung to me so tightly was to keep yourself afloat.

once i helped you survive the waves that crashed your way,
once i no longer needed to save you from drowning,
once i helped you find dry land,
you threw me back into the ocean.

but thank you

because you helped me realize that i am not weak;
because you helped me realize that i am capable of carrying the heavy weight of such a burdensome and desperate castaway.

you let me remember who i really am.

since my soul was lost at sea, i had forgotten my identity.
the salty water coming from my eyes blinded me to see that i am not just some worthless piece of draft wood.

i am a galleon,

and i will conquer every ocean you can only dream to explore with me.

'Tis true what they say,
May your glass be half-full,
I discovered the same
In a quaint Irish pub.

On leaving that evening
I pulled on my mac,
The wind was wet
And pushing my back.

Pushing surely
An understatement,
It pushed so hard
My face met the pavement.
And I could hear Molly singing:
And the road rose up to meet me.

There was no sun
To blame for my face,
The burn on my skin
Was a shameless disgrace.

The road home that night
Was all downhill,
But the hard rain that night
Made it all seem uphill.

There's plenty
Of work
For this man's hands,
For the luck of the Irish
Is a tourism scam.

As for being in heaven
A half hour ahead
Of Ole Lucifer knowing
That I'm ten minutes dead;
I'm sure he'll be keening
At the foot of my bed.

Dad always said
Being Irish was grand,
If you're in North America
And not Ireland.

The monk shows me the scar
where he took the bullet
the 70s fiery rebel
is now a Shiva-ite by faith.

I try to see in his eyes
remnant of youth’s spark
believing the fire never dies
from time now buried in the dark.

The March wind blows the dust
banyan trunks make a cool shade
in the lull he relieves a past
no way could he obliterate.

A time was I held a gun
the police was hot on my trail
day night I was on the run
in the pride of being a rebel.

Cast shadows an eerie silence
now evening could no longer wait
I wave to him from a distance
Shiva waits on him to meditate.

it seems came her

adrift on mellow breezes
faintly scent o' strawberries

red dawn golden lashes  in rhythms
upon a meadow painted by
Emerson words and Van Gogh splashes

so lightly afoot
so not to spoil any of nature

listening
relaying

being
her.

The moon shines a cool blue tonight
as we entwine our fingers, laying on the baseball field
beneath diamond heavens. We lie
in silence, in the moments when the Universe reveals
itself, and contemplate the distances between one celestial body to
another, the space between
us growing as I turn south
to find Orion while you seek Cassiopeia in the north.

Shooting stars cross the sky, and we wish separately on dead
stars and dead dreams, lights already grown red and extinguished
as we whisper in the dark, passing
between phases.

And in the end we're all left searching.

The sun is gone , the lights are on , we slowly circle towards the dawn . The endless deep beckons sleep , I listen while the willows weep . Warm in subconscious revelry I lie and think of what I’d be and struggle for eternity .