I do not pass in this world idly
for there is much to do.
I do not hold on to ideas or others or myself too steadfastly
for many things do change.
I do not take today for granted
for tragedy strikes without regard.
I do not choose my words lightly
for they shape the world.
As such, I do not take action without careful thought
for that is the mark of destruction.
Finally, I do not aim to judge another soul
for mine is the only I control.
You bound strong sandals on my feet,
You gave me bread and wine,
And sent me under sun and stars,
For all the world was mine.
Oh, take the sandals off my feet,
You know not what you do;
For all my world is in your arms,
My sun and stars are you.
I may not be
I may not be the fastest
I may not be the tallest
Or the strongest
I may not be the best
Or the brightest
But one thing I can do better
Than anyone else...
To be me
I remember sitting on the dock
in the summer.
The sky was too deep for stars.
Gentle lightning struck the mountains beyond
the lake, shadowing
out every stress of my existence
with pure energy.
I have no wisdom from those moments.
I remember only the peace of floating idly.
There was no need for thunder.
There was no need for rippling in the water.
There was no need for the distant calls of the loons.
There was only the simple silence
and my brain’s imagination of the chaotic show
that may or may not come.
The world outside me had fallen into
an infinite vastness
between each distant fractal of light.
I am not a religious person.
I don’t believe in God,
and I think divinity is subjective.
But I’ve always believed in the entropy of nature
as it delicately chooses leaves
to twirl in a pending storm
like a quantum fate.
Dusk is a named fish;
a coy koi stinging the sky
with its timid tail.
Sing slowly with heart.
The world will wait for us all;
together, on fire.
Blank pages are the most aggravating aspect of writing. A dead tree, defiled by human interest, can apparently taunt quite well. I want to shred it--to rip it and throw it away. My carnal urge is to destroy possibility. But why? Fear. Waste. Boredom. Ongoing projects are boon to my blank pages. That's why all of my blocks of thought begin so atrociously.