Quietly, ordinarily, and without heralds
It arrives, and you know—the truly good;
And you run after it, to fully grasp and hear
Not in full understanding yet, but it feeds,
Every moment: ever richer, ever illuminating,
Ever the more profound; mutually enlarging
All that's heard and known darkly from before
And Life! ever the brighter, the exalted, and the unspeakable!

But
i want to think— that is it!
i want to recall them
to reconcile with them
i want to make peace with my memories
Heart

Living is a gift
and each experience
is an opportunity.
No life is wasted,
no thing is useless,
and anything that exists
has purpose.

If I had meant that much to you
You’d have made a way to see it through
A plan to try and keep me yours
But that subject… still a little sore
So, I’ll venture out and close that door
Because I was living long before
And now I’m free to live some more
                      Just without you

There is beauty that makes my heart ache
There is beauty in every breath I take
There is beauty every time I come awake
There is a beauty so profound that it can't be fake
There is a drop of grace in every little step
There is a bit of hope in every word I write
There is a little love in every child's eyes
There is a hint of heaven in the miracle of life
There is joy that defies all reason
There is peace that passes all understanding
There is hope that burns eternally
There is love that transcends even death
There is the truth deeper than this reality
There is the way which brings me to life
There is the life, and it is so beautiful
And oh, how I love, this Beautiful Living!

To write the poem,
The one that you'll be known for,
Even beyond the day you fade to Heaven.

It takes a lifetime,
So if I'm lucky,
I still have 86 years,
To make that poem happen.

If I had a time machine,
I'd go back in time,
To talk to ten year old me.
I'd tell him this,
The next four years of your life are going to be painful.
The next few years we be hard,
But don't let that distract you,
From giving life all you've got.

Country Roads, Dusty Towns

I.
Shifting skies paint my journey,
as I carry the me I’ve become.
Budapest, oh refuge of light,
tattoos your lessons into my skin—
wisdom etched deep, surrender tendered,
a new self rising, full of life.

But the roads turn dusty,
and the smoky windows of home
consume the tissue of my being.
The me I thought I’d carry back
is buried beneath the sorrowful weight,
dust smothering, airless.
Inside me, I am buried again.

II.
Sweet home, bitter walls,
where every stone has found me,
every wound still heals, still weeps.
A mother who never chose me.
A sister, favorite in her shadow.
A brother, his cries laced in poison.
No corner spared—
each breath a test of endurance.

Yet I learn again to survive,
for living belongs to Budapest.
Here, in all-year-winter-town,
I crawl to the surface,
stitch myself together with hope.
Goodbye to the me who couldn't stay whole.

III.
Budapest—Kay’s arms,
a borrowed peace,
his better house in town.
Yet cracks of betrayal whisper louder now.
Five years marked in shadows,
love fractured but familiar.
I switch my code, detach my soul,
find my peace in the spaces between.

Even as I know:
these roads will lead me back,
the cycle will return,
dust will cling to me again.

IV.
But this time,
hope is louder.
This time, I carry the dream:
a house that is mine,
walls free from echoes of hurt,
a life where survival steps aside
to let living take the stage.

Country roads, you know what to do—
take me back, for now.
But one day,
lead me to where
I’ll never have to return.

my friend came by the other day
as a leaf in the wind he has blown
from street to street
            town to town.

a wanderer he may be
but not at heart--
he longs to be attached
to a tree
                               any tree.

in spring and summer the leaves
     are green and
                              attached.

summer slowly dries them out as the tree
                    prepares for winter.

my friend the dry brown leaf
blows in his perpetual autumn.

we all grow in our own time
and season:

winter dormancy

         spring regeneration

                   summer fulfillment

                             fall  preparing for the
                                                  
          ­  inevitable
season of death.

these seasons of the soul
are the very essence of our existence.

     they teach us

        temper us

        fulfill us.

but there are those who do not see
the purpose of the seasons.
to them winter means only

                             cold

                                       snow

                       desolation.          

spring means only

                    rain

                mud

                            flooding.

summer means

                             beauty to mock
                                the heart in
                                     winter.

i trust in the wisdom of the seasons.
nature teaches us lessons in her cycles.

let the  l
                e
               a
                  f
fall to the ground.
let it rot into cold

    stark

                        winter

           desolation.

spring will come.

bleak gray will become bright colours
                  of spring.

the beauty will fade again but will
reappear in winter's own stark beauty
though it may be cold and gray.
then spring will come.

          spring-will-come !!!