When it's my time to go
do I go alone ?
Who's to guide me ?
Who's there to open the gate ?
Who's there to say welcome home ?

The days have been torn from the book
There's nothing between the covers
but that dubious look

No hands of man can reach me
No clock can measure
No wind will chill
No thoughts remain
No tears left unwashed
by rain

I will go to the music
I will crave the light
I will not fear
Nor lose sight

Between the day and dark
I will choose to follow
If I lose the way
It will be my sorrow

So let my hand go
Whisper something
beneath your breath
I will see you there
beyond the grip of death

When in-laws pay their visit
a cloud descends on the family:
when will they leave?
A day is like a century-

how they talk and advise
with such alacrity and impunity
they can't be contradicted
or they'll turn enemy-

too eager they are
to share their past history:
' Do you know I was the Beauty-Queen?
  All the handsome young men fell desperately for me!'

The father-in-law must have his say:
' I was a Colonel in the Royal Military
  in Flanders Field I fought with distinction
  to our country I brought honour and glory!'

  Meal-times are moments most trying
  nothing suits their tastes-- not even to the slightest degree
  so they suggest dining out for the whole family
  but they will not volunteer to take out any money!

What I'm not
is more important
than what I am
therein
is truth
and authenticity
contained-
the intrinsic grain

for what I am
is but externally framed
by convention
and self-protection-
an iceberg
with the water-bottom
hidden and unknown

such is the limitation
of our human nature
we struggle
to be genuine

but too often-
in vain!

Living life 'fully'-
a hyperbole
it's not possible

perfection
can't be attained-
better say 'living meaningfully'

even
the whitest snow
does some imperfection contain

There's a void in my life that I can't explain,
A vacant wasteland of untouched terrain;
A candle waiting for someone to light . . .
Who am I missing tonight?

Was he in the crowd, did we pass in the street?
On some occasion did our eyes chance to meet?
A faceless form slips in and out of sight...
Who am I missing tonight?

Does he think of the girl  that he never met?
Is he cursing Fate for this unpaid debt?
Does he also ask as he dims the light:
"Who am I missing tonight?"

Now Time has reclaimed my borrowed youth
And I fear I shall die not knowing the truth;
But I'll not be silenced, though  Death tries to smite
My relentless cry, as I'm drawn toward the Light . . .
Who was I missing each night?

You are on a very long list
of those who can’t though
they persist.

Learn the lesson of Achilles
heel: there's something that doesn't want you here.

You hold tightly the images
of misguided faith, role
models and illusory joy.
But graven images topple
as slow as dry rot and
Pandora quietly fills your
box of toys.

Your house is projected
and frozen in time.
Twenty layers of
wallpaper are peeling
your mind.

Rooms untouched like
100-year-old Mason
jar preserves. You can't
eat fruit kept for so many
years.

Your choice of worlds
kept the patterns; no
new beginnings mean
the same old ends.
You may not break all
the rules, but you sure
make them bend.

Grace seemed to touch
you as you walked a
mile or two seemingly
content. But no matter
how amazing the grace
was, you can't be where
you never went.

As long as scapegoats
hang on crosses all along
this highway like rows of
pigs hanging bloodless at
the slaughterhouse, and
as long as Western
religious pop culture icons
and other social images
replace what is real, the roadblocks and washouts
will continue to keep you
there. Achilles protected everything but his heel.