Wherever you go,
Go with all your heart.
Whenever you start,
Don’t stop, just flow.

Whenever you choose,
Choose being kind.
Whenever you mind,
Don’t judge, wear their shoes.

Whenever you do good,
Good things will come.
Whatever you think you become.
Don’t be ignorant; be understood

Whenever you disdain,
Disdain becomes your tomb.
Whenever you want to bloom,
Don’t be thunder; be rain

Whenever you get wronged,
Wrongness should be forgotten.
Whenever you feel rotten,
Don’t remember; it’s prolonged.

Whenever you judge,
Judge yourself not others.
Whenever you’re with brothers,
Don’t hold contempt nor a grudge.

Whenever you are true,
Truth will set you free.
Whenever you can be,
Don’t be someone else, be you.

The world is a symphony,
whose instruments need to be tuned.
If we ever want to mend its wound,
we need to learn some sympathy.

And there he sat
transfixed
with his head
cocked to the side
pressed against
his tense shoulder

His tight chin
cringed upward
shrieking for relief
while his gray mane
draped in the drool
draining from
his dead lips
curled into
the wrinkles of
his withered face

His obtruding veins
Splintered his fragile skin
Into fractured slivers
Like splitting sheets of ice
On a warming winter river
Each flake shriveled
As the blood receded
Fading each pastel color
Into shades of grey

His bushy eyebrows
protruded over
those murky, marbled eyes
with pupils like
creamy, black clouds
lingering faintly amidst
a midnight blue sky

But as he sat
Dead paralyzed
In an eternal lullaby
He still looked alive

Have you ever stopped abruptly,
When two parts of your mind were deliberating,
And thought to yourself bluntly:
“Who is the me that is listening to this contemplating?”

You’ll realize that this me of you is the true you, you see.
It does not have a voice but is the silent observer.
Like watching tv, it’s your spectator me,
Your inner true self, your life preserver.

This spectator me cannot think or talk;
It just… is. It is the now.  It is the here.
It’s the timeless clock that does not tick or tock.
It’s you. The real you. The almighty seer.

You are not the pen; you are the ink.
You are not your thoughts; you do not think.
The mind might be perpetual violence,
But you are the tranquil silence.

You are the watcher, you are not the mind.
You are the stillness; you await behind.
The possessing entity has you mistaken,
But become aware and you’ll awaken.

I am Jekyll; I am Hyde
The Yin and Yang constantly collide
I follow the light; I live in the dark
My silhouette is never stark

I want everything; I need nothing
Honest as a mirror but constantly bluffing
I am the whole and the hole
I am the wretched beautiful human soul

How we marvel at possessions, think they make the best impressions;
For with material things we establish a close rapport.
Can’t you see we are infected by this false truth we’ve injected
Into the minds we’ve neglected, directed by commercial lore.
“These things will make you happy,” says the preacher of commercial lore,
Only this and nothing more.

There are nights we sit there spying, through our computer screens buying
Bourbon, books, and onyx watches, razor blades and house décor,
Brilliant scarfs in bright vermilion, cowboy boots coated reptilian,
Stroll through any mall pavilion, civilians shop in every store.
Like clockwork we comeback again, millions spent in every store;
We always want something more.

Like in monopoly we aspire, the best estates to acquire,
So other players can look in envy at our great high score.
With the money we’ve been savin’, we want a home in New Haven,
So we sought a market Maven, craving a house on the shore,
A vintage house with wooden dock sitting calmly on the shore.
Can we find one that’s worth more?

Queerly we lust for assets, keep on buying have no regrets.
Are we dumb or blind or numb to keep doing what we abhor?
Statues shackled to cubicles, doped up on pharmaceuticals
****** fingers raw cuticles, we’re bulls for the matador.
He dances us round in circles, pulls the sword the matador
Is the one we all fall for.

But the Maven respectfully will encourage us helpfully,
“Follow your path of senseless sorrow, leave your qualms at the door,
Carry on with inhibition, keep working for that commission,
Please don’t mind your intuition, fruition comes from spending more.”
But like layered lies there’s a pea of truth on the mattress floor;
A princess would wake up sore.

We must move past our gluttony, and join the better company
Of men meek in spirit who act humbly like the days of yore.
Realize that joy stems from passion, not this sorry thing called fashion;
Embrace others with compassion to truly make our hearts soar;
And our souls from out the shadows can truly begin to soar.
Let’s be greedy – nevermore.

How we marvel at possessions, think they make the best impressions;
For with material things we establish a close rapport.
Can’t you see we are infected by this false truth we’ve injected
Into the minds we’ve neglected, directed by commercial lore.
"These things will make you happy,” says the preacher of commercial lore,
Only this and nothing more.

There are nights we sit there spying, through our computer screens buying
Bourbon, books, and onyx watches, razor blades and house décor,
Bright scarfs in brilliant vermilion, cowboy boots coated reptilian,
Stroll through any mall pavilion, civilians went in every store.
Like clockwork we comeback again, millions spent in every store;
We always want something more.

Like in monopoly we aspire, the best estates to acquire,
So other players can look in envy at our great high score.
With the money we’ve been savin’, we want a home in New Haven,
So we sought a market Maven, craving a house on the shore,
A vintage house with wooden dock sitting calmly on the shore.
Can we find one that’s worth more?

Queerly we lust for assets, keep on buying have no regrets.
Are we dumb or blind or numb to keep doing what we abhor?
Statues shackled to cubicles, doped up on pharmaceuticals
****** fingers raw cuticles, we’re bulls for the matador.
He dances us round in circles, pulls the sword the matador
Is the one we all fall for.

But the Maven respectfully will encourage us helpfully,
“Follow your path of senseless sorrow, leave your qualms at the door,
Carry on with inhibition, keep working for that commission,
Please don’t mind your intuition, fruition comes from spending more.”
But like layered lies there’s a pea of truth on the mattress floor;
A princess would wake up sore.

We must move past our gluttony, and join the better company
Of men meek in spirit who act humbly like the days of yore.
Realize that joy stems from passion, not this sorry thing called fashion;
Embrace others with compassion to truly make our hearts soar;
And our souls from out the shadows can truly begin to soar.
Let’s be greedy – nevermore.

I live in a world of lies
Covered by velvet masks
The souls of people die
As they go about performing their tasks

I live in a world of fraud
With skilled actors all around
Crippled by the occasional odd
Whose masks hang unbound

I see peoples’ ceramic shells
Stained by daily sin
Underneath their true soul dwells
Corrupted by the lies within

I see puppets on a stage
Performing how their masters intend
Trying to earn that wage
So they can live another day of pretend

I hope that people get enraged
At all the lies they tend
I hope they try to assuage
Their tortured souls that need to mend

I hope people can learn that hell
Is something they put themselves in
I hope that one day they can tell
That Heaven is where they’ve always been

I know that people are flawed
But their spirits are profound
They have the properties of God
They reverberate His first sound

I know that if people are wise
They will remove the masks
And see with cloudless eyes
That truth is for what the soul asks

I believe in Fairy Tales
In magic swords and mystic sails
In pixie dust and prodigious whales
In dreamy girls and dragon scales
In binding spells and butter ales
In giant men and golden bales
In riding hood and racing snails
In blissful love and breadcrumb trails
In every sense the phrase entails
I believe in Fairy Tales

I had always loved the wind,
before He took you from me.

I try to remember when
those plumerias would spin
as they swirled toward the ground,
twirling white and yellow.
I put one behind your ear,
and you whispered into mine,
"As long as the wind bellows
our spirits will intertwine."

It’s been well over ten years,
and I still hear your hushed voice,
murmuring with the wind chimes
heavenly, peaceful, and calm.
Sometimes, I even feel your touch
when the wind brushes against
my palm.  I squeeze to hold on,
But nothing is ever there.

As the breeze ripples my shirt,
I cling to that memory
and wonder if I, too, will spin
when I take my final step.
Will you be with me then,
Twirling likes those flowers?
I need to be with you again.
Wind take me from this tower.