I have been like a blacksmith
Who forges only swords,
Sharp blades of war axes
Or heavy hammers
With flanged points.

Such were my arguments,
They were my thoughts,
They were my weapons,
They were my defenses,
The aggressive growl
Of a defensive animal.

I had plenty of resources,
To do whatever I wanted,
I could put my mind
On my most cherished themes.
But I didn't.
For I was a blacksmith
Forging weapons in a war.

I felt the urge of defending myself
From what could hurt
My soft inner-self.
So vulnerable,
Building defenses,
Fighting with courage
And strength.
I know
I am not vulnerable anymore.

Still, sometimes, there is a call to arms.
Or something that feels so.
Still, sometimes, I feel that urge.
To arm myself against a threat,
That maybe it's not even there.
I look at my molten metal,
And I imagine all the weapons
That I could craft.

But from now on,
I won't.
I look at all those metal,
All those would-be weapons
In my skilled hands.
And I think differently.
I can make so much more
With those materials and these skills.
I can be an artist, not a blacksmith.
I can be a statue of a horse out of bronze.
A bronze statue.
A bronze horse.

Yes, that would be wonderful!
So wonderful would it be to craft something
Out of love, or beauty, or interest or passion.
So different than building walls to defend you
And weapons to arm yourself.
So much more serenity in the process,
So much more satisfaction in the end.

And so, now I will built weapons no more.
I will build the bronze horses,
Or any other thing
That will make me yearn for something beautiful.

is








not perceptable inside a shopping mall.

At the bottom of the ocean
It is so quiet, there is no motion
You to disturb, it’s so serene
Amidst the corals red and green;
Can’t see no light,nor one you need,
For to the herds of water steeds
The light is nothing but a snare,
And so are you should be beware
While treading bottom of the earth,
Where of the fuss is such a dearth,
Bur what a pleasure ‘tis, indeed,
To be devoid of vicious greed
Of those who tread the the earth above
Knowing naught of Earth’s true love

Another day and things are the same.
The sun shines through lace,
Obscuring my view to the chaos outside.
In here, it’s serene,  no pressure
To perform or produce,
Although I do.
No expectations of talk
During the day.
Everything I need is around me:
Books and notes and discs
With the record of my thoughts
And flash drives with feelings.
I have filled my rooms with
Things that fascinate and inspire,
Even after many years.
A red chair with printed pillows,
A prayer rug from Iran
On the wall above Buddha,
Brought a century ago by a lady
On her Grand Tour of the world.
My little, golden friend
Laughs at this excess.
Her photos of Florence and Venice
Cause feelings of nostalgia,
As if I was there in 1910,
When duster-clad ladies bought them
In Saint Mark's square,
Hand-colored by poor artists.
And on the other wall,
My young father gazes at me,
From the distance of sixty-seven years.
There are other houses from the past
And streets in my town
That almost look like now.
There are dark-finished tables,
Gracing the space between
The walls and the world and me.
Brass lamps glint out
Like beacons in the shadows
That trail the creeping evening,
For I am a mental traveler,
As Karen Blixen said.
She told her tales to Finch-Hatton
And Berkeley Cole,
On fire-lit evenings,
Like Scheherazade on her carpet.
I have no adventurers as my guests,
But instead, send my stories to a virtual world,
Hoping someone will listen and be inspired.
But even if the words remain unread, unseen,
I am content to write, to spin my tales
For my own ears and the future.

Out seaward to the  horizon I see Forgiving hills where lessons fade,
Projections of my desirous plea
Patiently await their farewell to bade,
Look now for at their peak the sun is setting,
With an orange hue caressed blue sky,
And white clouded streaks like thought forgetting,
Senses renewed—our demons die.
Can you see that place where intrigue resides,
Beyond those hills ‘neath the sky turned red?
For there the heaven and earth collides,
Pervading all hope in our angels stead.

When I am among the trees,
    especially the willows and the honey locust,
    equally the beech, the oaks, and the pines,
    they give off such hints of gladness.

    I would almost say that they save me, and daily.
    I am so distant from the hope of myself,
    in which I have goodness, and discernment,
    and never hurry through the world
    but walk slowly, and bow often.

    Around me the trees stir in their leaves
    and call out, “Stay awhile.”
    The light flows from their branches.

    And they call again, “It’s simple,”
    they say, “and you, too, have come
    into the world to do this, to go easy,
    to be filled with light, and to shine.”

White jet stream splits the blue sky
Serenity, I ignore what they say to me
Maybe daying be’s, laying fading beneath swaying trees
Dawning years a tease, burn away the grease
Wipe the grime away, I’m searching for signs today
Pried myself outside the lines, you stayed behind it’s okay
Thought grenade, cicadas and bees serenade,
Peeling back layers, the sour tang of marmalade
Garments handmade, dip my toes in the bluing lake
Vibrations I feel a wake, a dip in the curve
Butterfly stomach I can’t help but squirm
Serenity, I saw a white jet stream split the sky
As I wandered, I wondered why

A picture perfect serenity
of waves crashing at the shore.
The reflections of stars so bright
giving a new lease of light (life).
You see the wonder of the world lay out in front of you;
how I wish I could see the world through your eyes, even if just for tonight?

We are nothing but marks in the sand
waiting to be washed away with the tide.
The black abys of nothingness the sea offers up,
tempting fate between life and death.
Do I dare to risk being washed away in wishful thinking?
Or, do I let the cripplingly cold waves take me under?

A picture perfect serenity
of waves washing troubles away.
The reflections of a million dreams illuminating the night
providing quintessential peace never experienced before.
You see life as if it were a painting unique to us all;
everyone sees the beauty, even if not always understood.

We all leave our marks across the sand,
basking in its never ending beautiful optimism.
The unknowing views of opportunity amiss,
the most sacred, forgotten hearts finding salvation.
Do we dare to try taking risks into the unknown, no-matter the price?
Or, do we hold onto what we know, always playing it safe?