To be honest on paper
To write it in order
To cut a line shorter,
To give it some rhymes
And count out in time

To be honest on Paper
To edit a stanza
To have it in line,
To have it be cleaver
And have it be signed

To be honest on paper
It’s not a poem.
It’s an ugly letter.
That looks like your soul
And for no one to know.

When was the last time
I felt a raving hunger for life?
When had I but an eternity in moments,
on the edge of something vastly different?

How was it me and not you
who staked her soul high
on rolling hills of green,
took long draughts to savour, to condense
the weight of the world into one precious drink,

cup the shortest days in her palm and release them,
for her thoughts to balloon into the wild?

The delectable now—
ripe as berries for plucking in winter,
and all things, like music
must peter
into silence.

So I suppose my question to you
is not concerned with
the stack of newly-minted green in your pocket,
nor the fleet of shiny cars, but
your pure self, simply being.
It’s prodding the heart,
a tiny critter fluttering with wings, wondering:

when will you ever get a second chance at this—
all this storm
and inexplicable happiness—

or will you
go hunting for things,
whirling at mere traces
of power in your name—

or will you turn around
only to find a life
or a lie,
staring back wide-eyed
in endless shame?

© BT

Saint Garden Gnome

An obscure barefoot friar in Italy
Long labored in the Perugian sun,
Heaped rocks upon rocks, and then other rocks,
Up to a wavery roof of broken tiles,
Repairing with his bleeding hands God’s church

Then, better known – it wasn’t his fault – this friar,
With others in love with Lady Poverty,
In hope and penance trudged to far-off Rome
To offer there his modest Rule of life,
Repairing with his mindful words God’s Church

Along the delta of the steaming Nile
He waved away the worried pickets, crossed
Into the camp of the Saracens
Preaching Christ to merciful Al-Kamil,
Offering with a martyr’s heart God’s Faith

Saint Francis is depicted in fine art
In great museums and in modest homes -
And you can find him too, down at Wal-Mart,
Between the plastic frogs and concrete gnomes.

Now is the time of fading light,
when summer's sun has said goodnight;
It swiftly left with changing winds,
erasing heat that burns and stings.

The cooler days are brief and bare,
yet often shine with golden flair;
Despite the warmth that's gone away,
we marvel at Autumn's fine display.

With sweaters keeping chills at bay,
we watch the trees in colorful array;
And silvery skies with scarlet streaks,
are heaven's gifts for us to keep.

While ghosts and goblins come alive,
and scarecrows show their frightening sides;
The pumpkin path is swathed in frost,
as the 'Headless Horseman' rides across !

There's such wonder in these hours brief,
with children gathering up each leaf;
Which change to bronze before their eyes,
in the shortened days of Fall's surprise.

writing poetry, for me, has become like a eating disorder.
although instead of consuming,
i'm the one producing.

each day i strive for this unattainable image,
this glorified idea of what i might become,
and the parasite in my brain grows.

i force my finger down my throat,
causing words to come bubbling up.
and each time they are more vile than the last,
a sour odor wafting from them.

my mouth burns from the acid but it tastes like victory.
because at least i created something.
and i leave my poetry there to rot,
refusing to admit i have a problem.

too blind to understand that each time i do this i'm slowly killing myself.
i'm hungry for something that can sustain me,
but i reject every antidote.