I saw You first when morning light was new,
Yet in Your gaze, a home my soul has known.
A whisper in the winds, both bright and true,
A call that bids me never stand alone.

Your mercy rings like echoes from the past,
A grace I’ve touched in lives I’ve yet to see.
The present and eternity contrast,
Yet in Your love, both time and soul agree.

Your hands ignite a fire within my chest,
A flame unquenched, though wandering hearts may stray.
The universe bows low where You have blessed,
And love remains beyond the bounds of day.

If time repeats, let this embrace be mine,
For in Your arms, all worlds and stars align

Kafka,
Prague is poorly lit.
A guest at a cheap boarding house smokes on the balcony of his room – he contemplates the movement of the Vltava – the river’s dark reverie chills the soul.
A newspaper lies across his lap, the front page reads: How to Be a Good Cockroach.
The man goes back inside; that night, he dreamed.

My mouth is the shell of a fish —
a slow flower of a bird.
Gray flower.
Ashen flower, like a breast sprung from the word of a fish.

Vine crystallized in the spasm of a vague and splendid wing,
a blow of mouth in the reflowering of the flower
in the fields strained white —
a blow born of nothing,
into the drowsiness of the shell.

Words watering in the mouth
toward the ether of the bird —
the quiver of the flower in the fish.

Laying awake because the worry wont cease,
Heartache inside on a steady increase.
No way to put into words the dread and anxiety, my constant companion in your society.
Cant have a conversation no matter how gentle or careful I try to be. So much rage and venom I fade under the intensity.
I am so overwhelmed and confused a jumbled mess. Find myself accepting less and less.
Less compassion and respect,  less love and affection. I See the shadows in my eyes as I stare at my reflection.
What are we doing? playing a warped game of pretend? One where nobody’s happy or ever wins I want it to end!
It starts with me the only place it can. I must face the things away from which I’ve ran.
On my own afraid but i have to learn to stand. Do it all for myself no looking back no longer expecting a hand.
Broken,bleeding, and bare, carrying more baggage than i want to share.
It does no good to ask myself how or why?
But i might need a moment to grieve to cry.

the bear looked up and asked

have you written any thing today?



no, not much.



so then , no one will know

what has happened

today.



no.

black bird sings early, the same bird calls late.
new light drowns darkness, spring spins around.
black bird calls early, the same bird calls late.
sonnet sings ten beats to another’s spare sound.

who asks for word, who knows which hour it starts,
which minute, which rule of rhyme or reason.
making of lines , counting the breaks, our hearts
open. this is february, split season.
moon draws the tide, upper river pools
on spring, a note , a sonnet , a dance
where light or other prayers redeem fools,
those who rage the world sons may change perchance.

on spring we write in fourteen lines, to date,

black bird sings early, the same bird calls late.

As another summer rains again start,
Beauty once more graces the weathered field.
Cornflowers' allure sets them miles apart
Decorate as profit is theirs to yield.

Each raindrop—delight for their new petals,
Fields now agog, no longer bound by gloom.
Giving rise to dreams of liquid metals~
Hopes that endure one more season of bloom.

In autumn, their beauty begins to fade,
June to October rendezvous over.
Keeping clean the spots their petals once laid,
Leaving some for critters with the drover.

Many more months before new petals shine,
Night envelopes their beauties with dark veils.
On empty plains, butterflies start to whine;
Probing questions scattered by autumn's gales.

Questions, only nature gives their answers,
Reasons men's skill is low compared to God~
Simply great turning petals to dancers.
Taking time for bees to even applaud.

Unlike in fall that flowers start to wilt
Vibrant blooms welcome their stay in summer
Winter's chilling grip hit them to the hilt.
Xylosma even lose their charisma.

Year in year out, season repeats the script
Zealous codes nature declines to decript.