There in the belly of the city
Way down there where it's dark and gritty
Lives a very complexe man
There in his Window he stands
Watching the atrocities that parade down his street
He's seen the dealer's and the junkies meet
The homeless that set at their feet
The thugs that prey on the weak
Children abused that turn them meek
It plays out every day of the week

He's seen it all
He's watched humanity fall
It's hard for him to digest
On this life's problems his mind rest
He knows there's not much that he can do
He watches and writes it all down, he's one of the few
Sent to bear witness to the inhumanity of man
To make us think of where in this life we stand

Yes he is a poet
His watched it all and wrote it
He has a big heart
Which makes it hard to play his part
Of watcher in the tower
As those below cower
But his calling he is sure of
To watch the dying of love
To watch the darkness closing in
To watch all of man's sin
To sound the alarm
Of humanity going wrong

He stands at his Window and cries out
But no one pays attention to his shouts
So he soaks the page with ink and tears
Hoping that at last somebody hears

Sorry, I have to go.

                                             - Why?

It's calling me.

                                             - Who?

Life.

I heard Isaiah call to say,
Listen to me in silence today,
Let the sacred light guide our way,
Isaiah called to us to say,
Listen to me in silence today,
In quiet stillness in your hearts,
Listen to me, don't let us part,
One light of God to lead the way,
For Peace on Earth, let us pray,
Listen to me in silence today,
I heard Isaiah call to say.

I’d imagined twilight
Dripping like gentle strokes
Atop a canvas we’d thrown out,
Out window hours ancient – a, “light’s off,”
And shadow’s play,
Bitten lips and muffled pant;
The secret that’d eat, masticate,
*****, gorge atop more
And add to the first eternity knowing "end."

So the stars fell, “twinkle-tap-tap,”
For planets break, dust and tear
Atop our pillow post-ecstasy,
An only accomplishment and still
Breathing this only and
Remaining lonely’d thought,
“The other’s still right;”
Could I be so very wrong?

And she leaves with part of me upon back,
An ink wrought celebration of years later,
And imagined, the pour, not poor,
But immortal retreat
Born my buying one ticket
And later romp awry Reynosa;
The rattle of tequila, pool-***** and pockets,
Sweet, sweet, “Lenore,”
And the home she’d promised,

The home we eventually abandoned.

If you can be poor with someone, you are rich.
If your well is dry, you are the bridge.
If you can go with them with nothing, you are something.
If together you chase your true calling, you can stop running.

-Gloraeanna

I feel fingertips vibrating
playing the notes of excitement
like flesh covered tuning forks
recently struck.

They quiver and resonate
boundless potential
humming to find the right note.

Within their quaking grasp
not quite out of reach
yet just far enough to risk falling
into a ravine of uncertainty if stretched too far.

Aching bones and coiled tendons
dreaming of grasping
that which whispers at longing reach.

Clench tightly and hold strong
let that quivering palm be your tell.

Your world and your calling,
are ready for you.
Trust your knowing hands
just let your heart swell.