I like wakes.
Seeing her body
revealed her latter-day unsettled life
and her female beauty.
It was a final goodbye to this woman
whom we had not seen in decades.

But the wonder of that gathering
was the friends of a previous season,
the smiles, hugs, and  laughter,
together recalling memories seared -
some by pain and others by joy.
Meeting husbands, wives, and children
of people we had last seen in their youth
in just a moment told the sum
of their maturing.

Praying together,
hearing the minister lead the rituals
with humility and gentleness,
reminding us of her life and love,
brought healing
of hurts long heaped up with the church.

This gathering of souls
mystically bound -
in an instant -
pierced layers of scars
wiped away
with the balm of forgiveness,
waking our spirits.

Maybe that is why it is called
a wake.

One moment I am high
with the light of soulfulness within.
The next I am down
in the clutch of desire
and enticements.

There’s a concert in my back yard
solos and duets all day
a circus with acrobatics
clowns painted with reds, blues and browns
just feet from my perch
here as I peck on the  keys
the stars fly in
then flit away with ease
as if to tell me:
you can’t hold me long
with your seeds and your eyes
we are free to dive the skies.

So many “road stories”
from the Odyssey, and Kerouac, to Augustine.
Each rich in emotion and spirit
most of the stories
have the hero hitched to a fellow traveler
to bathe the soul in word and mood
to throb with the music.

I have recurring dreams.
I’m in a hotel looking for an elevator
can’t find my floor or room
or can’t find my car downtown.
I wander streets, and lots.
Are there road stories hidden in these dreams?

Why do I trip, fall
stay misplaced and lost
find only
transitory
destinations?

It’s late April
spring is in full swing
bursting with life
the tree lifts its arms,
waves across the field,
its leaves full of light
flutter in perfect rhythm
with the wind.

The train is leaving the station
the years gathering toward my finish line.
Each season a child frantically
waving at his grandpa
as if to whimper
this might be the last time.

I looked up the origin of the word:
from Greek “possessed by God,” it said
although enthusiasm is small in me these days –
a tiny flickering flame in a glass of red –  
still it burns hope
to be wholly possessed
beyond the earthy bed.

Words are both angels and devils
they set my mind on the divine
capture the beauty of Earth
from the budding pear tree across the way
then back here to this room where
words become my servants and masters.

Spring teems green.
Bluebonnets blanket Texas hills
yet I cannot find words for
their delicacy and glory,
nor how these tiny miracles make me feel.
How do I capture the incredible life
coursing through stems, leaves and blooms?

Yet without words no sacred volumes
to guide us
no Rumi, Dickens and Austen on shelves
no Dylan, Jay-Z, Lennon, or Parton in our ears
no Case, Willow, Khoi, Pradip sparkling in our eyes.

Yes demons fly in them
but words capsulize the depth, breadth, and passion
of the human soul
I bow to these small human creations
and how they speak the universe.