smudges on the glass  
were wiped away each night
by a mute custodian

who found a biography
in each set of prints he made disappear
with clean cloth and vinegar

he could tell which ones
were made by children, dragged there
with promise of ice cream, later

oh, the young lovers' prints  
were unmistakable--eager tracks being led to more
and more promising carats

and the thin marks left by the frail
made him wonder, if this would be their last
precious purchase: a reckoning; a remorse

the cases held diamonds, rubies,
by the score, but the silent sentinel  
saw only the surface

that was his world,
one of transparency, and fickle
reflections

he reluctantly erased these fingered tales
the marks life left anon and anon, for he knew
it was his duty to wipe the slate clean

to allow resurrection,
renewed vision of a bejeweled
world, just below his sight

Even though I may be weak , and struggling here.
But he whom dwells within me, gives me Hope.
For it is not about me nor what I can do alone.
But it is about allowing my Savior and God.
Reveal to others what they can do through him.
For I shall always whither away when he is not in me.
But with Christ my Lord, I can do all things through him.
The same thing can be said about anyone abiding in him.
For if he can do these things through me whom struggles.
Just imagine the mighty feats that he can do through others.
Whom never lose their way , because they are always hanging on.

I visited her cottage each month, never
staying the night

through her window by the oak table
we watched the surf

on days when the sea was angry, we could hear
the waves crack against earth's spare spine

those times I liked, for she would hold my hand,
tightly, like I was her tether to the wide world

I would leave as the sun set, the moment a million
gold sparkles vanished from the waters

when I found her, I pretended she was asleep
but her eyes were open and still

staring it seemed through the same window
I sat with her and rubbed her cold hand

I stayed until the sun sank into the same salty sea
wondering if the old tales were true...

if a billion tears had flowed into the blue depths
making a soulful brine

I know mine fell on the soggy sand, disappearing
in the dusk that swallowed my tracks

white tulips
in moonlight, though silver
this night

they are near,
near, yet I cannot
touch them

nor catch their coy scent
but I smell nothing, hear
nothing

and, and this vision
of a forgiving bulb,
is fading

behind it,
in its shivering shadow
I see him

what is left of his face
what grace there must be
in this place

where the man I killed
the moment he killed me
and I, are now together

separated only by
silent soil, and a merciful
white blossom

The streets bleed violence
But it’s not what you are thinking
Tv has got you drinking up
The new age of segregation
The cultivation of gentrification
One neighborhood split by the highway
One street built up with new projects
To expel so called misfits
Lies value profits over people
See specific skin colors as evil
Or at least deviant

So, I cry out across the canyon
“Tell me you don’t believe in it.
Please tell me you can see it.”

But even the echoes ignore me
How can I save humanity
If they can’t see what I see.

I Put one foot in the grave that I dug,
Take one last hug then I shrug.
Blood pressure rising,
from trying to fight the tyrants,
but it is a losing battle
and even I know it.

So, for every inch forward
I take a hundred and one back.
Till, I collapse ready for the dirt nap,
ready for the final pause,
but maybe someday someone better
will take up my cause.