on the road of suffering
on the road of the cross
and content to travel it.

sure at times you want to throw off all your sufferings and be done with this World of tears and that is understandable. But mostly you travel with the deep knowing that indeed you are blessed to have been given your share of the Holy Cross, and offered up in union with the cross of Jesus your suffering becomes redemptive.

The radio has gone silent
No news across crushing blue depths
If whispers I cannot hear
I would give much for even a morsel
To know how you fare
Missing you
Wishing you well

If I could give but one word of advice
It would be like corn silk to wet fingers mid-shuck
You doing your best to shake them off
Sticking all the same
You asked
A smile curves at sun wrinkled corners
Once again I fall all ripe peach juicy
Right into your calloused hands
We roll and chase, playing children in an orchard heavy soaked with late August light
Green moss intensity locks with my whiskey amber stare
Breathing you in, wanting you deeper than I can hold a secret
Golden hour glows around whispering fingertips
Sipping softly of your sweetness
Nipping at heated skin
Dizzy tilt my head back until the sky goes wild with stars
Lay me gentle into tall grass
Giving promises to love me hard

who knows why a fireside poet
with words to transcend time and space
with all listening
would suddenly
take their leave.

Awoke to the sound of gunfire
Chewed teeth pacifying the burning rage against the disease
Mother's Milk a distant dream
And the sweet salt of your super nature
Caressing the cavities in my head
Swallowing the holes in my soul
as metal shards make more young soldiers whole
completing an illusion of control.

How long can you hold onto a necessary reverie?
As long as you need assuming you both agreed to dream tonight,
To face to face the side by side
To never ever lie
To reprobate the profligate
And accept the overwhelm
All allowing of the atmosphere
Loving every moment hard and soft
And every crevasse in the journey between.
Revive the sight of yourself within the mind of one who reveres
the eyes with which they have been blessed to look upon
a ****** deity,
and to worship fading gold and cracked plaster,
knowing it was born to age and die.

She sat at a table
And across from her was a
Cluster of stardust.
Its beaming fingers
Perform a coin roll dance
That seems to last a lifetime.
In a sudden motion the coin
Is tossed into the air
And with a graceful echo
Lands on the tables surface.

We all are coins.
We all are symbols of
Beautiful wealth, intelligence,
And abundance.
We all perform our coin dance.
We all have our final
Toss of time.
And we all leave behind
A unique and special echo.