The race to the top of silver rain mountain,
it's on the way down to the rivers of riches,
headed out west on golden threaded miles,
through the trees of greeds green ghosts,
in valleys of gilded breaths and golden hushes,
merchants, muses blow on as paper winds,
stay a while on beggars promises,
all to collect their coin of dreams.

What is happiness?
I dare say it's the early parts of spring
Where the blooms first start their beautiful display
Pink Hyacinths, cherry blossoms, dandelions
The eager fluttering of buttery butterflies
Or the curious buzzing pauses of a bumble bee.

The green buds on ancient oaks
Or the tiny growths of hydrangeas,
It's in the beauty of warmer days, sun bathed
And a milder evening by the bonfire.

Happiness is in company kept,
A cold beer and smoked BBQ,
It is the music we dance to or annoy the neighbors with.
It’s in the good times and memories
Creating new ones as we come together.

Happiness is a dirt or bridled trail
Verdant walls of trees and those arboreal things
Squirrels rustling in susurrus steps
And bird singing their symphonies
Bidding for applause in their skyward stage

Happiness is blue skies
With cotton ball clouds,
And sunbeams touching down
To highlight the cricket fiddling.

Happiness is in the littlest things
We barely notice, as if it were as common as a breath
But if you disconnect, let the stress melt
And focus on how alive our earthen mother is
You would see, in every step, on every twirl
Happiness is one sunlit day away.

Love will always be gone,
But never for very long.

In that way,
It's a lot like happiness.
In that way,
It is akin to contentment.

It's just difficult finding it.
Sometimes, it's difficult maintaining it.

In that way,
It is akin to happiness.
In that way,
It's a lot like contentment.

For love is everywhere,
Even if it goes nowhere.

A coward hiding behind the mask,
A coward who can’t handle a task.
A coward who can’t earn a dime—
Why can’t he see a bit of shine?

In a world full of intelligence,
There lives one lost in negligence.
He wants the power in his hands,
To write a story that understands.

The coward finally sees himself,
While finding his story on a shelf.
He stays inside his little shell,
Not knowing what to give up—
the fear, the past, or the hell.

A million different jobs.
A million different personas.
As an adult, it's hard knowing,
"what you want to be when you grow up."
While considered "normal" in your twenties,
not so much in your thirties and beyond.
In a world that's consistently changing from one day to the next,
why aren't we allowed the same respect?
We, as parents, wear many hats in order to provide,
they label it multitasking, we're doing it to survive.
Trial and error is the only way to truly be happy in life,
otherwise you're just committed to a career you despise.
That doesn't make one irresponsible, just more knowledgeable.
Two things can be true; you can have a stable career,
and still be a writer on the side.
You can follow your dreams,
and still support your family.

South coast days on end

The ante meridiem
Married to summer

People in constant motion

To the merry-go-round we go
To the merry-go-round we go

In the center
Like the mobile over my bed

Where the heart beats
Where our eyes see in teleidoscope

Inside the lines are brighter
And wider and envelop

The journey in itself
Is the gift