Reading your poems:
peeling the sweet onion i've
already eaten.

If you'll be the sea cliff, then
I'll be the rollers--
breaking on your heart, oh!
ardent lover.

If you'll be my snow field, then
I'll be your Spring sun--
hot clouds of steam rising
when we are done.

Then I'll be your fog bank, if
you'll be my wetland--
secret caresses from
velvet-soft hands.

If you'll be my seabird, then
I'll be your night breeze--
lift you in ecstasy
over deep seas.

Then I'll be your night sky, all
swimming in moonlight--
lighting your way to my
heart here tonight.

I need to pretend that I'm dying,
and I don't have much time left to live,
'cause if I don't do what I came here for,
I may miss this one chance that I have.

I've seen my friends go in a heartbeat,
their life's purpose still left undone.
Dear God, I don't want that to happen to me!
Help me to sing my own song.

Sometimes I can act like it's nothing,
pretending I never will die.
I want to believe that I'll live here forever--
Why do I insist on this lie?

I know that I've got to keep writing--
it's the gift that my heart longs to give,
and if I have spent my life writing
I won't care so much how long I'll live.

The way that I want to be feeling
when Death comes to take me away
is satisfied that I've finished my work,
that I've said all that I have to say.

I keep getting sidetracked by something--
when I look at it square in the eye
I see it's fear that I'm not good enough
to make a great poem of life.

You know that I want to write deeply
from the spirit of love here inside.
How can I sing when I bury my own
spirit behind fear and pride?

I know that great love and great writing
can flow from You through my heart--
I open it wide, please help me right now
To focus my life and my art.

Some poets
   write poetry--
others
   create it.
  
But you
   breathe love
into poetry.

May real love
   find you--
take you by
   surprise:
hug the pain
   from your heart;
kiss the tears
   from your eyes.