I walked down to the Potter’s House
one fine sunny day
to find the Potter hard at work
with a stubborn lump of clay.
He poked and prodded, pressed and pounded
then sighing in dismay
considered tossing that lump away.

But now instead of a darkened frown
His face lit up as He cast it down
And worked to form and bend it
to the new thing He intended.
Though starting with hope of a chalice cup
A sturdy chamber *** rose up.

A brand new lump, when He was done
was unwrapped, moistened, thrown and spun.
It yielded gladly in His hands.
To a chalice on the table stand.
The chamber *** began to say,
“But why have you made ME this way?”

“Why am I for common use
instead of a chalice for wine or juice?”

But the Potter said frankly, in reply
“It is not yours to question why.
Don’t I have the right to make
What I wish? It’s no mistake.
I used your temperament to find
your exact calling – for your sake.”

“I did not cast you in the heap
or throw you out into the street.
You still have found a useful place
and in this, I have shown you grace.
Though a chamber *** you be,
Be the best chamber ***, for me.”

There was a time

when their eyes were locked

on each other.

There was understanding

and the door was open.

But his anxious heart reads

what is not written on her face.

He is afraid

that she is slipping away

and quietly shuts the door.

Now he wonders.

And she wonders what he wonders.

But will not ask,

afraid to read what is written there -

confirming the door is locked.

Now, safe within these walls
I can forget
the press of things undone,
days of regret.

Tonight new dreams are mine
with just a touch.
Enclosed within your arms
and loved so much.

As treasure in your eyes
I feel no fear.
We dance, we spin and float,
then, resting near -

Your warm hand holding mine
in sweet repose.
Your breathing stirs my hair,
your eyelids close.

Tonight, new dreams are yours
with just a touch.
Enclosed within my arms
and loved so much.

She’s still watering the flowers
although they’re bent and brown,
in hopes, life giving showers
will restore their withered gown.

Each morning at the window
she’s looking to the sun
expecting reaching limbs to bear
the fruit of labors won.

Then for a little while
signs of life seem to appear
but the season’s growing colder
and the creeping sleep draws near.

As frost sparkles from each stem
you will find her tending still,
pouring water on the flowers
that lie dead upon the hill.

There was a time his armor waited ready by the door.

His heart burst at the shout of comrades gathered for the war.

The darkling night would cower at the echo of their roar,

But the solitary soldier fights no more.

Too many broken shields now lie in trenches near his home,

And  countless lost and missing loves are searching for their own.

The carving is still fresh upon the monumental stone

And the solitary soldier stands alone.

The cry of battle far away sounds harsh against the night.

The tattered flag is lowered. He recoils at the sight.

No matter how he wishes he can never make it right.

So the solitary soldier ends his fight.

Notes spill out

like a confession

I am arrested.

Chords tied tightly

in progression

I come undone

Hypnotist with waving wand

bring me back again

to Rhyme and meter

rhythm and matter

Sound and resound

I surrender.

You speak

and I fall into memory, not my own.

The corners fade

Yet you are distinct

and more alive to me than myself.

Adjectives, nouns and verbs

become sight

and heart

and pace

straining toward phantoms.

Not standing,

not running,

my feet fly and you cross the line.

Thundering pulse of sweat and salt,

the race is won -

although you tore through ribbon long ago.