When I will die, the world will keep its pace,
Unfazed by my absence, in its infinite grace,
The sun will rise, casting its morning glow,
Life will move forward, as it always does so.
When I will die, the skies will still be blue,
The stars will shine brightly, in the night's hue,
The seasons will turn, from spring to fall,
Nature’s grand cycle, embracing us all.
When I will die, memories will linger on,
In the hearts of those who’ve known me, even when I'm gone, Echoes of laughter, whispers of love,
Will weave through time, like a gentle dove.
When I will die, let there be peace,
A quiet end, a serene release,
No mourning, no sorrow, just a gentle farewell,
As I journey onward, where dreams dwell.
When I will die, I'll find my place,
Among the stars, in boundless space,
A soul set free, to roam and explore,
In the infinite vastness, forevermore.

I forgot to die, and I forgot to ****
The parts I have inside that stop my being still
I forgot to hope and forgot to believe
That I have what it takes to be alive and live
I forgot - like - charcoal forgets embers
When it rains on it but always remembers
When a spark of life brings back the red it needed
To live out it's purpose, this cycle is repeated

Because it’s human nature to grow through what is painful
And it’s human nature to become forgetful
Be it man or charcoal, in order to remember
Who we're meant to be, first we must surrender
To undiscovered depths and tidal waves of letting go
Of what we're certain of so we can become more,

Most of the time,
Slowly.

All of the time,
Surely.

Why does my chest ache to release poetry when they are but fumbling words in the darkness that vaguely point to the heart of the Divine?

What have we become that the form of sound is sweeter than the music?

Children, laughter, the slow touch of your lover, the soft caress of a spring breeze, and the gentle falling of a summer rain. Each of these things are poetry because they still remember the breath of God.

Through the world's eyes, there can't be enough loving.
But have I loved enough?
When do I become done?

The moon doesn't care what I will regret.
The rain won't remember my stories.
The desert already knows all about illusion.

That I could control the rat babies being born and eaten by the cat,
Their tiny heads leftover in the grass.

That I could undo the night on the mountain,
The coyote that ran under my car, too dark to stop its body.

That I could prevent the roadrunner from picking off my hummingbirds,
One by one, like beetles on a cactus.

That I could keep the hawk and owl apart,
Afraid for the hawk, because the owl always wins.

That I could force the snow, or the winks from strangers on the trail,
Or the beating of my own heart.

That I could halt death at my door, my lovely door,
Set close by the rosemary and hummingbirds.
How could I leave the feeders empty?

I am not in control, but I am made of hope.
The over-feeling fool in the deck.
Heart-struck and blind to the dangers of the cliff.
I stand right on the craggy edge.
Oh—how stunning the view!
Destined to die for beauty once again.
This time under the big sky, stooping to kiss the rocks.
To lie down with the deer a million times.

The shooting star shot across the black sky, but I missed it.
Is that what sin is?

We fly too close to the hot sun.
Because nothing is more natural than burning up in the sands of the desert,
After a long fall.

But I cannot leave my hummingbirds.
But I cannot leave my deer.
But I cannot leave my mountain.

Who will give the hummingbirds their sugar water?
Who will mourn the packrats when I am out of sight?

But I must go when I go.
To be golden like the cottonwoods in fall.
The cottonwoods chase the waterways and that makes them holy.

Dying is the letting go of the deep breath.
Dying is falling asleep in the fog, when the cold front moves on the mountain.
Slipping into that courseless moment of oblivion and the long exhale.

And then there is a new star.
It streaks and shoots, lighting up the black sky.

I see it now.

All the stories fold into me.

I am finally full enough and I am done in the desert.

I don’t think there’s a God except
  I’ve sometimes felt Transcendence.

I might believe in God except
  When we’re alone, we’re wired to project,

To think that someone’s over there
  Somewhere that we can’t see. Except:

We don’t see sound and we don’t hear light
  However loud, however bright,
 
So maybe it’s perception,
  Not projection,

One more connection,
   Outside of space and time,

One more direction,
  At right angles to the rest.

And when we turn down light and sound,
  And wait with no one else around,

Then reach out with a quiet mind,
  Perhaps it’s really God we find.

In the boundless skies above, where stars in silence gleam,

We are made of heaven’s breath, in every heart’s true dream.

Born of cosmic stardust, in the tapestry of night,

We carry the celestial spark, within our inner light.

In the laughter of the morning, in the whisper of the breeze,

Heaven’s touch resides within, in moments such as these.

Through the trials and the triumphs, in joy and in despair,

We find the traces of the stars, in all we do and share.

Our spirits are but echoes, of a universe so grand,

We are made of heaven’s grace, by nature’s gentle hand.

In every act of kindness, in every loving glance,

We reveal the threads of heaven, in our human dance.

We are more than flesh and bone, more than earthbound clay,

We are born of endless skies, in the light of a new day.

In our dreams and aspirations, in the love we freely give,

We are made of heaven’s wonder, in each moment that we live.

So let us shine with all our might, let our spirits soar,

For we are made of heaven’s heart, forever and evermore.

In the vast expanse of life, where stars and souls align,

We are made of heaven’s essence, in the depths of the divine.

The ghost or a demon
From the blasts of hell
Will you trick me not
But I will lead my self to
Salvation
For I am only human

A-walking in a cobbled street,
I breathe the brittle winter air,
the crunch of frost beneath my feet.
The early hour’s sunbeams flare.
Arising in the ice-blue sky
three stone church towers stand and wait.
Their spires point to the most high
as morning sunlight splashes paint
across their well-worn windswept face.
These turrets of a sacred keep
stand silent witness, each stone traced
by time’s sharp fingers etching deep:
I hear each crack and crevice sing
a murmured prayer for us to stand
and listen to the brass bells ring
over sunlit frosted land.