Good poems are like winter
When the fierce wind
Strips trees to X-rays
Nailed to the blinding blue

When the rain scoured air
Cleansed and clear
Pared down to Nothing
Reveals everything

When world, warmth-stripped
Left uncaring, cold
Shakes us awake
From our ambiguous dreams

Good poems are like winter
Much removed, little left
But those few remnants scream
With blood curdling power

I'm a poet
I write
for the sole reason
of writing
I just want to bleed
my heart out
on this piece of paper

Father thank you for this day
that comes softly and quietly
I stretch and yawn in my way
enjoying my coffee silently.
Watching Venus light the morn
before Old Sol takes reign
as the rays on the hills adorn
just as you first ordained.
I take up your book and read
the gospel is full of good news
your words are  mighty indeed
in me - the Spirit renews.
The world continues to falter
confusion and chaos and hate
people have left from your altar
abandoned themselves to fate.
I still pray and repent of my sin
I still ask for forgiveness from you
you've erased where once I had been
forgotten the man I once knew.

Remembering the times
When we went our free
Mask-less

The wheels of today, heavier than yesterday
Face the expression of other, masked
Get to task

The world is busy, independently
Social meetings in ruins
Empty chats, veering the talks

Care and support given out free
Distance ever increased
Measured the steps

Live today and try to be safe
When tomorrow comes
Repeat the same

Remembering the times
When we went out free
Mask-less