Yes, I’m dining alone.
Thank you, fine sir—
This table I’ve known.

I take in the room,
Parties fill every chair.
Happy couples swoon;
I see their sad stare.

Yes, I’m dining alone,
Not by choice—but by fate.
The lonely diner atones,
Sits quiet, in place.

I see you there,
hiding from the light.
Come, sit with me.
Let’s share this good night.

The glimmering stars
shine so bright.
Look up with me.
Let’s share this good night.

See the moon flicker
as it rises to its height.
Stay here with me.
Let’s share this good night.

Now the night has passed,
Soon the sun will rise bright.
Thank you for being here.
For sharing this good night.

Hiding my sorrow,
no one sees me there.
No one will notice—
I’ll hide my tears in my hair.

I watch and I wonder
if anyone cares.
No one will notice—
I’ll hide my face with my hair.

The world feels so empty,
and I’m lost in the air.
No one will notice—
but maybe… someone might care.

I don’t find it hard to be sober.
Being social and sober—
that’s the hardest part.

It seems like everyone has a vice.
They call it “Cali sober,”
but I can’t do that either.
If you’re masking pain with anything,
you’re not sober.

I stopped drinking on the road,
living a life of quiet solitude.
Hotel rooms, empty diners—
I’m not the type to drink alone.

Even eating at the bar feels heavy,
lonely beneath the hum of televisions
and clinking glasses.

I have friends.
But when they drink,
I shrink.
I always want to leave.

I’ve always been anxious,
but now it’s sharper—
more present,
more real.

It’s been a year
since my last drink.
Twelve months passed quickly,
but the pride remains.

Clarity came soon after—
clear as the sky after rain.
But being social
still feels like walking into a storm.

Because everyone drinks.

I’m not the one to call them out
when they get loud,
when they stumble,
when they slur.
But I no longer want to be there.

So I stay home.
Alone,
more than I’d like.

Searching
for someone
who sees the world
the way I now do.

I find myself
on the outside looking in—
like standing on a porch
at someone else’s party,
hand raised to knock.

I peer through the window:
laughter, smiles,
cheers rising like music.

But I don’t knock.
I don’t go in.

I didn’t stop drinking
because I had to.
I wasn’t destroying myself—
not exactly.

But in hindsight,
alcohol lit too many fires
I spent years trying to put out.

And that—
that’s the hardest part
of being sober:

Living in a world
that drinks
like it breathes.

I love Sundays—
waking slow, stretching wide,
one last day to savor,
wrapped in the warmth of morning light.

But then it creeps in—
laundry piles, grocery lists,
gas tank half-empty,
a whisper of duty pulling me forward.
I hate Sundays.

Tasks complete, I stand outside,
admiring the work, the order,
knowing the week will not demand
more than I have already given.
I love Sundays.

Yet as the sun sinks low,
so does my heart—
the weight of the week ahead,
the early alarm, the Monday grind.
I hate Sundays.

But imagine if Monday was ours to keep,
a four-day week, the American dream.
More time to breathe, to rest, to live—
now that’s a Sunday I could always love.

Christian nationalists have crowned Donald Trump
as their new Christ—
because he is everything the first one was not.

Jesus was poor.
Trump is rich.
Jesus was meek.
Trump is a bully.
Jesus lost.
Trump obsesses over winning.

If Donald Trump and J.D. Vance met Jesus today,
they’d ridicule him—
a single, childless hippie
preaching peace in sandals.

They’ve rejected the Sermon on the Mount.
Turn the other cheek?
They scoff—
“That got us nowhere.”

To them, love is weak.
Mercy is soft.
Kindness is woke.

They look down on Jesus
because he was poor,
because he forgave,
because he didn’t fight for power.

How did we get here—
where loving your enemy is weakness,
and loving your neighbor is radical?

They scorn the teachings of Christ—
not because they don’t understand,
but because they don’t serve them.

Christian nationalism isn’t about Jesus.
It’s about the pursuit of power.
And power is their only god.

They ask us to give
when we have so little.
They promise to protect us—
protect our way of life.

But why must we give,
when we already have so little,
and they have so much?

They say it’s to preserve a way of life…
But whose life are they saving?

Is it our way of life—
where we struggle, scrape, and survive?
Or is it theirs—
where they ask for more,
and take even more,
from those who have none to give?

If those with plenty gave a little more,
there would be food at every table,
hope in every home,
peace in places worn by sorrow.

If those with wealth shared their hands,
the world would heal
faster than it ever broke.

A better world is not beyond us—
it is just beyond their greed.

I want them to shake you-
not to break you,
but to stir something deep.
To rattle you, gently,
from places I’ve let fall asleep.

To spring anger—yes—
but only where healing begins.
To draw tears,
like cleansing rain,
and decorate the silence
with something real again.

I want them to leave you wondering,
just quietly wanting more.
Not confused,
but curious—
like standing before an unopened door.

I want my words to shake you,
not to harm—
but to hold.
To bring you to the floor,
only so you rise
even more bold.

My words should empower you,
Implore you to want more—
more peace,
more light,
more truth than ever before.

To leave you hanging—
not lost,
but suspended—
in a breath,
where something new is just about
to begin.

Because words can move—
and I hope mine move you,
like kindness in full bloom,
like quiet strength
in a still room.

I never meant to be alone,
But life just carved that path in stone.
I’ve had some friends, or so I’d say—
But none of them would choose to stay.

I see the crowds with hearts so bright,
Their laughter glowing in the light.
They gather near the church each day,
To sing and praise, to bow and pray.

But even there, I felt no peace,
No calm, no joy, no soul’s release.
I slipped out quiet, walked away—
Still searching for a better way.

I talk to folks while on the grind,
A passing word, a glance, a kind.
But something in me makes them pause—
Like I don’t fit their world, their laws.

I thought I moved like all the rest,
But maybe I don’t pass the test.
A little odd, a bit astray—
Not built to walk their kind of way.

I wander now where silence sighs,
Beneath the stars and ghostly skies.
I hope a spirit sees my pain—
But all I feel is cold, like rain.

So loneliness becomes my friend,
A shadow that won’t break or bend.
No hand to hold, no voice to say—
“You’re not alone, come stay, just stay”

Our world runs on hard work
The sacrifice of self,
With no regard for safety,
Dropped into the Earth to mine coal.

Generations of miners
Uncles, fathers, grandfathers
Rose from the mines,
Their skin darkened by dust, not sun.

But who will take their place?
As generations tire,
The work remains,
Yet no one volunteers to fall deep into the Earth.

Have we denied ourselves a workforce
By coddling the young?
They sit in gaming chairs,
Lost in fantasy, where reality is not.

Unwilling to do the work of their fathers,
They’ve seen the pain,
Heard the cough,
Watched lungs blacken with coal dust—
In a society that turned its back on them.

And would I take that chance?
I can’t blame them—
I understand where they stand… or sit.
They do not know the sacrifice of kin.

They are the Yeah, No Generation.

May I Be the Last Thing on Your Mind
As you end this day and slip into sleep?
May I be the calm that softly finds
Your resting thoughts, where silence runs deep?

May I be the peace where your dreaming starts,
The hush that lingers, warm and kind—
A whisper held in your quiet heart,
The very last thing on your mind tonight.

I lost my safety net
the day she left this world.
The one who caught me
when I slipped,
when I stumbled,
when I fell too far.

I lost my guard rail
the day my mother died.
The one who kept me
from flying off the road,
from crashing into the dark,
from losing my way.

Now—
I’m stuck.
Stuck in a rut.
No hand to catch me.
No arm to steer me right.

And maybe—
maybe that’s grace.
Maybe that’s mercy.
Because at least I’m stuck…
and not
drifting
away.

I was tasked to clean it up—
but the mess?
It wasn’t mine.
I stepped right into your ****,
you led me,
right into it.

Now we both reek,
covered in the stink—
of choices I didn’t make,
but still, I’m forced to sink.

You lit the fire,
I brought the hose,
but somehow I’m the one exposed.
You played the victim,
I played along,
now I’m left wondering
where I went wrong.

They point at me—
the smell too strong—
but they don’t know
who led me on.

You wiped your hands
while mine stayed stained,
you walked away,
and I remained.

Cleaning up
what you left behind,
still gagging
on the ties that bind.

So next time you’re looking
for someone to save—
remember:
even heroes
get tired of graves.

I knew in a moment—
my heart fell fast.
In your eyes,
I was caught—
in a love
meant to last.

Your hand in mine,
like a thread through time.
And in that second?
The world
was mine.

You laughed
like a song
only I knew.
And I held
every word—
like it might not be true.

Each look
was a fire.
Each touch,
a flame.
And nothing we felt
ever once
felt like shame.

But your father—
he stood there
still.
With a wary stare
and a warning to ****
what we had
before it flew too far.
Said:

Love takes time, son.
Don’t chase a star.
It burns too bright.
It fades too fast.
Young love is fire—
but it never lasts.

He told me to walk.
To spare you the pain.
To disappear
before we both go insane.

But I looked in his eyes
and I said quietly—
If she’s gonna hurt…
Then let it be me.

Not the man she believes in.
Not the one she adores.
Not the first love she’s known
who then slams the door.

If I break her?
Time might heal the ache.
But if you do it…
it’s a different break.

You’ll teach her that love
isn’t worth the risk.
That it ends
in silence,
in rules,
in a fist.

Let her feel it.
Let her fall.
Let her rise,
even if she crawls.

Because love—
even young—
isn’t always a lie.
It can teach us to live
even when we say goodbye.

So if it must end…
then I’ll take the fall.

But don’t be the reason
she builds up a wall.

Let her believe
that her heart can be free.
And if it must break?
Then let it
be me.

I gave you my love—forever.
But forever was mine to give.
Now loneliness is my forever,
And alone is mine to live.

I gave you my heart—forever.
My heart was mine to give.
Now broken-hearted is my forever,
And heartbreak is mine to live.

If today were my last, I’d live with no regret,
Embrace every sunrise, every sun that’s set.
Reflect on each step, each joy, each pain,
In the dance of life, sunshine and rain.

Each breath a treasure, each heartbeat dear,
I’d savor the moments, hold loved ones near.
With laughter and love, and tears that fell,
In the story I wrote, I’d find farewell.

For life is a journey, a winding road,
With burdens shared and kindness sowed.
So if today’s the last, my heart would say,
I’m grateful, I’ve lived well, come what may.

You say—
You don’t agree with me.

My opinions are heard
Engage until enraged
I’m using my words

against you.
I’m  speaking the truth
Based on facts
and you’re not using facts.
You’re repeating false claims

I’m speaking truth.
Not to win—
but because it has to be said.
Because silence
lets the lie live longer.

And when I am in power—
if I’m wrong,
then use my words against me.
Hold me to them.

I hope you do.

Because I speak the truth,
and truth must be heard.
Even when it hurts.
Even when it turns on me.

Let the record show:
I stood on truth.
So use my words—
not to destroy me,
but to remind me
who I said I was.
hood

Dear Mother,
I want to tell you how lucky I am to have such a wonderful friend in you.
You’ve shown me such strength, and I knew you would guide us down these difficult roads.
My heart goes out to you.
My loss seemed great—but insignificant compared to your loss.
I know how much you love Dad,
and I can only hope to find a love like yours.

I’m content to have known the love in our family—
the love that keeps my heart full as I move through this life.

You’ve held our hands
and guided us through our darkest times.

I keep thinking about how I will carry on
with this empty feeling of our loss.
Still, I hope you find peace, now that his pain has stopped.
His suffering is over.

He told us about the place that was prepared for him.
His faith empowers us all.
If there’s a heaven—he will be welcomed.

We must carry on.
Your strength is the power of love.

You told me:
The love we knew will never diminish.

You told me you didn’t dwell in the past,
but if you could go back,
you’d go back to have more time with Dad—
six years ago, before he was sick.
We were so happy.

I thought about this conversation
as I traveled back to California, brokenhearted,
with your words still in my head.

I was inspired by your love.
So please know—these words are from my heart.

Your loving son


Six Years Ago

Six years ago
I told you
I did not dwell in the past—
but now,
I want to travel back.

One life was good.
You chose to go.
Six years ago,
I would like to go—
for just one last
glance at you,
your shadow cast.

But now I’ve found
that time has passed.

I love you, Dad.
Maybe these memories last.

Such love you gave—
no effort shown,
with open hands,
the love you’down.    

Faithful without restraint
My loss—God’s gain.

So hold him close
where we once did.
His life, for you,
he did give.

If you told me I was wrong,
You might be right
Truth runs blurry
In this fractured light.

Now lies wear robes,
Declare themselves true,
And I, once sure,
Don’t know what I knew.

What once was logic
Now fades and strains,
Bent by power,
Twisted by gains.

What fits your truth
Becomes your proof,
But the cut still stings,
And pain needs no truth.

You say it loud,
You say it clear
But just repeating
Doesn’t make it real.
A thousand times
Won’t make it true
A lie, dressed up,
Still won’t do.

Hunger doesn’t reason
It just consumes.
And I’ve been forced
To live in someone else’s truth.

Hackles darned and threaded tight,
Dubbing blends to shape and hide,
Hook disguised as nymph in flight—
The bait,
The lure,
A scaled-up knight,
Who swims beneath
The sun’s bright gleam,
And hides within
The water’s dream.

My rod pulls back—
I give a cast,
Ten to two, then two to ten,
I let the fly drift past again.

It drops in place,
No sound, no trace,
No tug, no pull, no race—
Until I twitch and snap the slack,
The hook sets firm—
I’ve met my match.

The water slaps,
I hear my shout,
A trout! A trout!
I dance about.

I tug the rod,
I turn the reel,
A fight too strong for me to feel.

And when the net secures my prize,
I stop—
and look into its eyes.

Compassion, sudden and alive,
I free the hook,
I let it dive

We’re both really lucky you and me
Until tomorrow ,
We are both free

Oh child,
so young to be alone,
no means to cope,
left sobbing on gravestones,
void of all hope.

Now searching for a home,
the old one now torn,
wanting for what’s gone,
lost is the memory—
forlorn.

When all those who passed,
love’s shadow is cast,
young sorrow to last,
Left aging so fast.

They speak in Scripture,
but they govern in greed.
They wear the Word like a badge,
but never bleed for it.

They promise morality,
but legislate division.
They quote the Sermon,
then sell the sword.

They say “God bless America”
but mean “God bless our base.”
They stir the faithful—
not to save,
but to sway.

And still,
the churches cheer.
Still, the crosses wave
on lawns and bumper stickers,
as if Christ Himself
endorsed a party line.

But Christ healed the stranger.
He fed the poor.
He turned over tables—
He didn’t sit at them
and bargain for votes.

They don’t walk with Him.
They walk ahead,
dragging His name
like a flag.

Scraped knuckles,
Flesh torn—
The work of shovels,
Then rake the thorns.

I scar the ground
Where roots are born,
Worms wiggle no sound
Giving life now reborn.

I picked stones in windrows,
No boundary before—
But laid them by hand,
Now they form the field’s shore.

My back now bent,
Like the *** in my hand,
I plan to seed—
Soon, corn will stand.

My skin now cracked,
Like sun-dried clay,
Hands gnarled and split
From each long day.

The sun carves lines
Across my face,
Like furrows dug—
A farmer’s grace.

My spine curves low,
Like the rows I’ve sown,
Each step I take
Feels carved from stone.

On bended knee,
With ***** I tear
This burnt earth—
I treat it with care.

Each wound I earn,
Each line I wear,
Marks the bond we share—
Me and the land laid bare.

The harvest feeds
What labor yields—
But worn hands must rest
Like fallowed fields.

You asked me—
Where do your words come from?

My heart.
My brain.
My mouth.
They move together—
like rhythm, like breath.
When I speak,
I don’t plan the stories…
They just
come
out.

From the memories—
The ones I carry,
the ones that carried me.

To those who built them with me,
walked beside me,
loved me—
then pushed me
out.

You’re still there.
In the stories I tell.
In the moments that rise up
like waves I thought had passed.

Friends—
They’ve given me the words,
the courage to speak
without the shadow of doubt.

Spirit talks—
In the echo of every footstep taken,
in the silence between
laughter and tears.

That’s life.
Right?
That’s what it’s all about.

We all feel the same things—
joy, heartbreak,
the ache that sits just under the surface.
But we hide it.
We hold it down.
And doubt?
It doesn’t walk alone.
It comes
with company.

So let’s talk.
Let’s remember—
what made us happy.
What made us cry.
What made us doubt everything
we once believed in.

These are our building blocks—
of motion,
of emotion,
of memory.

This…
this is the story.
This is what life is all about.

Words chosen with care,
left behind like whispers—
scrawled in a quick hand,
on paper torn to look like a heart.

Held to the sun,
a love-shadow cast,
heart drawn in mustard
on a sandwich half-masked.

Steam on the mirror,
a whisper of grace,
uplifting words
for the start of your day.

Etched in the sand
before tides sweep by,
written in smoke,
love’s note in the sky.

Scraps of paper,
notes left everywhere,
have outlasted our love—
but still linger in air.

Love sent me searching, longing for more,
The kind that don’t knock—it kicks down the door.
The love that you showed me was twisted, confined,
Not trinkets or words stitched frozen in time.

Love is a feeling, it crawls down your spine,
Fills up your heart, takes hold of your mind.
It’s not always gentle, not always kind—
Sometimes it hurts, leaves pieces behind.

Love sends you reeling, hoping to find
A flicker of joy from someone in time.
But love made you angry, it tore you apart,
And the love that you gave me—
It bruised my heart.

Not of my kind, not born from the same—
I’ve learned that now, it’s not all a game.
But it’s hard to show love when you think you know how,
When your past plants a flag and won’t let you bow.

I learned from my father, my mother was kind—
Their love carved a space that lives in my mind.
So the love that I carry, the love that is mine,
Is gentler, is deeper,
It’s not of your kind.

I asked myself daily—
What would Jesus do?

Did you read the Word of God?
Preach it amongst the followers?
Find comfort in your parish?
Fellowship in the church?

Do you walk the walk?
Or just talk the talk?

Do you follow the teachings of Jesus?
Do you help others?
Give of yourself—
The shoes off your feet,
The clothes off your back?

If so,
You walk the walk.

But—
Do you tell them of your good deeds?
Read from the Word?
Practice what you preach?
Or do you talk the talk
But don’t wanna walk?

Do you follow in His path of righteousness—
Or are you just righteous?

Do you practice your religion,
Or parade it?
Do you heed the words you read,
Or twist them when it’s convenient?

Do you show kindness to the less fortunate?
Do you care for the poor?
The marginalized?
Do you teach them the ways of God?

“Blessed are the poor in spirit…”
“Sell your possessions and give to the poor.”
“Love your neighbor as yourself.”
“The Kingdom of God is for the poor.”

Jesus Himself showed compassion to the poor.
Healing the sick,
Feeding the hungry,
Speaking out against injustice.

So remember His words—
Before you use them as your own.

Walk the walk.
Don’t just talk the talk.

“Whatever you did to one of these brothers and sisters of mine…
You did to Me.”

Not one the same,
But all as one—
Different paths,
Same rising sun.

Thinking thoughts
That feel aligned,
Needs not one,
But all combined.

We eat to live,
We sleep to dream,
Our voices clash,
Yet still, we scream.

A cry is heard,
A hand extends,
The hurt we feel—
The heart that mends.

We rise, we fall,
We learn, we grow,
In separate soils,
But roots still show.

And in the end,
We all return—
Ash to ash,
And urn to urn.

Not one the same,
But all the same.
We bear one name:
Human.

So different,
But so much the same.
We don’t walk the same path,
But we came from the same name.

We find strength in numbers,
Power in presence,
Comfort when we gather—
A sacred kind of essence.

The wisdom of our fathers,
The stories they told,
Passed down like treasures,
More valuable than gold.

We’ve stood in different places,
Lived in different lands,
But still—
We carry the same name
With the same proud hands.

The miles may stretch,
But they can’t erase
The blood we share,
The bond we face.

One name.
One line.
One heart.
One flame.
Different faces—
But the fire’s the same.

Yes, we are family.
We wear it like a crown.
The Goodrich name—
We hold it down.

Our roots run deep,
Our love runs wide.
Whatever may come,
We stand with pride.

So here’s to the name,
And all it became—
Different, yes…
But built the same.

When your child was born,
you laid her on a blanket on the floor.
You crouched low,
looked her in the eyes.
You goo-goo and gaga’d to draw her in—
you came down to her level.

As she toddled through your home,
you dropped to one knee,
met her where she was.
You spoke gently,
corrected softly,
always guiding her—
down to her level.

As she grew,
your words stayed kind,
you negotiated with patience,
nudged her with wisdom—
still
down to her level.

But now she’s grown.
A woman, yes—
but still your child.
And now, you talk to her as your equal.
You try to relate adult to adult.
But you forgot
to come down to her level.

Because even now,
she looks up to you.
She needs your words
not as a peer,
but as her parent—
measured, loving, grounded.
Down to her level.

I’m sorry your bond is broken.
Not because you changed,
but because you couldn’t find
that shared ground again—
that quiet space where love meets understanding.
Because you didn’t
come down to her level.

Dressed —
to reflect our mother’s respect.
Left —
on the steps,
waiting —
What to inspected.

With little intent,
we — boys —
unable to pent,
spilled down the stairs,
our mischief —
a crooked sklent.

No fear —
for the unkent.
Our joy —
wild, content,
without pause,
without consent —
for our mother’s lament.

Her eyes —
narrowed and bent,
as she breathes —
in our scent.
Emotions rise —
then ascend,
but all she shows —
is dissent.

We—
too young to repent.
Boys —
full of descent.
Her smile —
soon blent,
but her love —
never pent.

With arms bent,
mouths full of incent,
spitting mud —
with wild intent —
we drank —
from puddles.

Hey—
Look up. Be still.
Life won’t wait and time won’t chill.
It moves with or without your glance,
So don’t just scroll—give now a chance.

Being present ain’t just “being there,”
It’s showing up with eyes that care.
It’s hearing meaning past the sound,
And feeling what’s beneath the ground.

It’s catching more than just the loud—
It’s reading silence in the crowd.
It’s not just nodding to pretend,
It’s listening like you’re with a friend.

Don’t wait to speak—
just wait and hear.
You’ll see the world become more clear.

‘Cause moments fade and chances fly,
And you’ll miss life just blinking by.

So don’t drift off or disappear—
You’ve got a mind, you’ve got an ear.
You’re not just watching—
you’re the scene.
Be part of life, not just the screen.

Be here.
Be now.
Be wide and true.
Be present—
The world is waiting for you.

You sent them my way,
Put yourself in my path—
Smiled as you passed.
I missed your signals.
I missed your signs.

You brushed my arm,
Put your name in my head,
Smiled, gave me your card.
I missed your signals.
I missed your signs.

You cut my hair,
Put your hand on my head,
Smiled as you said that…
I missed your signals.
I missed your signs.

You watched me waiting,
Put your hand in my hand,
Smiled as we discovered—
I missed your signals.
I missed your signs.

You offered your love,
Put your ring on my hand,
Smiled, shared the moment.
I missed your signals.
I missed your signs.

You asked me to share,
Put us now, not me,
Smiling together.
I missed your signals.
I missed your signs.

You needed my help,
Put matters aside—
Smile fell from our face.
I missed your signals.
I missed your signs.

You should have known
Put these issues aside—
Smiled, and remembered.
I missed your signals.
I missed your signs.

Do my politics matter to you?
What I say,
Who I stand for—
Red or blue?

You talk down to me
when I stand up for my right.
You call me stupid,
like what I believe has no place in the light.
Red or blue.

Every conversation—
a confrontation.
We don’t listen.
We just wait to speak.
We don’t hear each other.
We don’t see each other.
Red. Or blue.

But when I show up to work,
and you’re the one on the table—
heart exposed,
life hanging in the balance—
should I even stop to ask:
Red?
Or blue?

Because out here,
in the real world,
that line we draw in our minds—
it disappears.

When it’s life or death,
when it’s breath or no breath,
when it’s me and you—
I have to be red and blue
just to deal with you.

Not because I choose to,
but because I need to.

Because underneath the votes,
beneath the noise,
we are more than colors,
more than sides,
more than lines drawn to divide.

And maybe,
just maybe,
we could remember that—
before the next fight.

Red or Blue

You visited me last night,
In your angelic, glowing light.
I saw your shadows dance with mine,
Your golden hair, a holy sign.

Your smile—it wrapped around my fear,
A gentle pull, you drew me near.
No need for words, no need for sound,
Your presence was where peace is found.

You brought me comfort, soft and true,
A moment shared with only you.
One I won’t forget or hide—
It lives in me, it grows inside.

Your hand reached out to calm my soul,
In silence, somehow made me whole.
Your aura wrapped the night in grace,
I saw the stars light up your face.

To be with you—it stilled my mind,
A sacred hush, a rare rewind.
Though brief, your light erased my fear,
And left a warmth that lingers here.

When morning came, you slipped away,
But I still feel you in the day.
So if you can, return in flight—
And find me on some quiet night.

I left you
standing on the hill.
Not in anger,
not with hate—
but with the quiet ache
of knowing I could not stay.

I told you
it would never be my home.
Not because it lacked beauty,
but because it lacked foundation.
Still, you asked me to stay,
to shield you from the wind.

You wanted a protector,
a wall against the storm,
but I am not the wind’s master.
I am not the mountain.
I cannot hold back
what was always coming.

I watched as your hill
began to erode—
not from neglect,
but from the nature
of what it was made of.

I tried to build it up,
to shape it into safety,
to sculpt from sand
a fortress strong enough
to hold us both.

But you can’t build forever
on something that washes away.
And love,
as much as it longs to stay,
needs something solid
beneath its feet.

So I left you
standing on the hill,
not because I stopped caring—
but because I finally saw
I was sinking too.

We are born with kindness in our hearts,
a quiet urge to give, to share—
but giving all would leave me bare,
standing where the weary start.

So many turn their heads away,
passing by with lowered eyes,
ashamed of what they can’t erase,
of empty hands and silent sighs.

Some pockets hold only dust and air,
while mine hold coins, a privilege earned.
I ate with ease before I shopped,
no fear my fortune might be turned.

I do not judge, I do not scorn,
but pity lingers in my chest.
Their path is one I’ve never walked,
yet sorrow whispers, manifest.

If I had wealth, would I bestow
or clutch it close in quiet dread?
It’s hard to know until you’re there—
just like the ones who beg for bread.

In the town of York, Maine,
on these two acres,
stood the house my grandfather built
for my grandmother—
the MicMac.

As a child, I played with my sister and brother,
while my mother and grandmother bustled about:
rooms to clean, linens to wash,
the clothesline filled with sheets
drying in the summer breeze.

Grampy’s lawn tractor out back,
the Cadillac parked in front.
Family came together here—
we always knew the door was open.

This family business helped so many,
more than we will ever know.
Friends, aunts, uncles, cousins—
Grampy and Nanny Beagan.

A late-night knock on the door
delivered a message
we would never forget:
the loss of my Uncle Murray.
His memory stays
in my heart—
and on my chin.

Mary Ellen is there
as Nanny makes me an ice cream shake.
Grampy in his chair,
sipping a highball,
watching the evening news.

In Murray’s dresser,
I find his music albums—
and a pair of pants
with Magoo
embroidered on the back pocket.

A picture of Murray,
in a knit hat,
sitting with friends.

Mom and Dad are on their way to Florida.
Christine, Shannon, and I
are going to the MicMac.
Nanny always made me feel better
when I was sad without my parents.

When Mom was in the hospital,
Nanny and Grampy held us tight,
keeping our minds
from how much we missed her.

One October,
we moved into the MicMac.
Mom would run the motel
while Dad went off to work each day.

Those were good times—
with the Chick boys,
and Jeffrey next door.
There was always something to do,
a new world to explore.

We all grew up so fast,
as time passed us by.
Graduations, weddings, funerals—
we returned
to the MicMac.

Through the years,
it’s become hard
to live the life
the MicMac requires.
The days are long.
The bell will ring.
The grass will grow.

But I always hoped this day would come:
so Mom and Dad could walk away
with the pennies they earned,
and the time
to enjoy the life they deserve.

This place—
this MicMac—
has made us rich with love,
filled us with joy,
and given our family a home
only we can understand.

I will miss her.

But I am full—
with the love
that we all know
as MicMac.

Thank you, Gramps.
Thank you, Nanny.
Thank you, Mom and Dad.
Through your hard work and love,
you gave me
the riches of a lifetime.

I will never forget the MicMac.
Nor will I give back my key.