the singing sun
written december 9th, 2020

the sun sings to me
of sweet shoots and stems

while darkness dictates descriptions
of decay and disintegration

i have spent lifetimes
concealed in the dark

now i want to walk
from the darkness
into the singing sun.

"... in the end, all our journeys have to bring us home." -from "The Art of Stillness" by Pico Iyer

Making home
written June 19th, 2020

For some home is the place they start
The place in their hearts
That was love safety comfort
And so they spend their lives
Trying to get back there.

For others of us
That place we were born
Is something to be survived
Escaped from as soon as possible.

So we journey through life
Finding people
and places
and treasures
and memories
To build our home of.

Making for ourselves
This thing called home.

This poem was written on a cold winter morning in the North.

winter sun
written february 5th, 1995

laying stretched in bed
after sleeping all night
all night in my head
with the walls up

i open my eyes
to the winter sun
winter sun burning bright
bright and white and pure

winter sun is such a contrast
sparkling off the cold snow
cutting through the crisp air
brightness the only thing left of its heat

i feel the walls go back down in my head
i shut my eyes to the blinding brightness
and let the sun make its way unaided

into my self
can it make its way around the walls?
find its way through the maze?
discover all the secret places?

winter sun doesn't have vision or reason
it isn't confused by the barriers i put up
by the false walls that i have built
or the inaccurate signage

for a few minutes
on this cold winter morning
in spite of my defenses
the winter sun illuminates all of me

I thought I was through
And the day was over with
Then the words came in

The voices churning
Deep inside.my head
Are actually words
Waiting to
Get out
And recite
A poem