He reminds me of a mandarin orange,
easy to hold and easy to peel
with a slightly rough yet firm exterior;
sensitive to the cold.

His character is that of the sweet flesh
like his gentle words and actions;
with sour tangs that emerge on rare occasions
like a nudge of loneliness from being homesick.

But his mind and soul are the little seeds buried
deep within the depths of his eyes and his heart:
he stays rooted despite in drought; persevered
and grown to enjoy the fruit of his labor.

There is something about the mandarin and its layers
which bring me much more than luck,
love, and even life.
All of it—he—brings me home.

On that half acre of swamp,
there sits rotting wood, countless species of pests and bothers
history of love, hate, pain, and growth,
there sits a home, a house, a building, full to the brim,
with memories? Impulsive decisions?
Just a lot of "stuff"...

Right off the path the lawn sits untouched,
mossy patches, clovers and thatch, weeds and flowers,
ever since i was little they've been there,
ever since i was little Iv'e had such luck,

What happens when they sell that property, does the stuff go to waste?
That "stuff" was born of waste and now when i need luck the most, winters frost sinks those clovers much like the "stuff" in the ditch down the road,
But does my luck sink as well? Or will it grow and bloom next spring into something greater?

You're favorite color was red,
like love
and blood.

I think about this as I gaze at the roses outside my window
they are so beautyful, yet so strong.

There are seventeen roses on the rosebuish.
That was your licky number,
you told me.

Well, I felt so lucky with you.
But now I see that I must have walked under a scarlet ladder
because I have lost you

or maybe a black cat crossed my path
or seventeen red cats.

I don't know what happened. All I know
is that I miss you,
and you're two red lips.

(With a nod to Forrest Gump.)

Sometimes there weren't enough rocks.
Sometimes nowhere near enough tears.
Sometimes no matter how far I ran,
I was slowed by too many years.

Then once in a while the rain would stop
and the clouds would thin just a little,
long enough to show me the stars,
enough to shed light on life's riddle.

Is life just a box of chocolates?
Or can we choose whatever we please?
Are each of us here with a purpose?
Or are we feathers on a breeze?

Can our choices make a real difference?
Can we navigate the storms that we face?
In the end is it down to old father fate,
Or is there an offer of grace?

In front of the bar
a thin guy in an oil-stained t-shirt
pulled out a pack of cheap cigarettes
from his front jeans pocket.
"You got a light, buddy?"
I pulled out my black Zippo.
He turned his pack upside down
and a single gold coin fell into his palm
along with a half-smoked cigarette.
"What's with the coin?"
"I always carry it," he said.
"If I drop dead,
I want the ******* who finds me
to have a good day."