To Enchantment

Oh, once, I walked the forest,
so light on my toes,
with delicate fingers
skimming the ferns,
on all the worn paths
the deer had so carefully
walked before me.
And how silently
they’ve learned to step,
where above the light jumps
from branch to branch,
till reaches the floor of the forest,
where the small mice live
and in the underbrush
they make their houses.
Squirrel and owl too,
to sleep safely in the
the trees that are tallest.
Here in this memory,
where I often walk now
in that place that awaits me still;
a return to enchantment.

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As If

I lay down my arms,
as if I could.
Would you find me
spent, head down,
arms listless
in silent, quiet breaths?
Inhale deep,
then exhale
slow, repeat, as if,
my worry could, might,
leave me, leave,
but child, do not
leave before me.

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One Day

Have you lived long enough
oh, weary flesh, to recognize
the difference?
that I am not you,
and you are not me
and so I will discard you,
one day,
as fast as I slipped into you
to leave you in a heap
and I will never look back
nor wish to ever once again
be encased in such a garment;
so limiting, so heavy,
though wear you now, I must,
for a little while longer only, endure.

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Maybe our kisses,
they do taste like oranges
as the peels fall
from our hands
with the smell of citrus
on our fingers.
but you say
“no, it’s vanilla,
with this hazy smell
of lavender.”
and as your kisses
travel down my neck
to the edges
of my shoulder,
“as if grown in two climates;
one cool, the other warmer.”

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How forgetful we are
as we live the dream.
Oh sleep, oh sleep,
with our eyes shut tight.
Oh, when, oh when
will we awake?
Tomorrow is but
a day away!
With our faces buried
in the deep,
and covered with feathers
under his wings.
But an egg, but an egg,
and how soon
the shell is about to break.

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This Life

There is always the memory of you,
whoever you are.
Like a flood, like a kiss,
with arms like a warm blanket,
“and oh, how I have missed
your love,” this life.
Where I have traversed
how many landscapes, and you?
You, as though the shadow
who stretches out always
one step ahead of me,
and ever reaching,
to grasp hold, to stop you,
to turn around and say, “hey, look!”
and finally, materialize.

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And now you’re thinking of that song
by Lionel Richie,
“No? Adele then?”
when I’m just reaching out
in the only way I know how,
because, yes, of course, you are
always my silent, listening friend.
“Until the end!” I say,
because now the past stretches out
so much farther then what’s left of
the string that proceeds into the future,
that so many doors are closing
with only one left, it seems,
so few will remain to open
to walk through or meet, there at
the precipice of this life to the next,
him, who perhaps will walk through
it first from the other side
into this place where we exist.

“I prefer the first song as opposed
to the last. Look it up. Listen again.”
Remembering once when I said
“hello,” and you looked so completely
dumbfounded, and now? Perhaps
through it all, I’ve grown a fondness,
the way a song ends, when the
needle finally hits that blank space
on the vinyl static and then lifts,
the arm swinging with a drop and
a click. “Yeah, like that,” is how I like to think
from here on out, is where I exist;
in that distinct sound where it ends.

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Black or White?

The incessant
knock at the door
keeps asking for words,
but my mind is
too full already.
Are you so blind
you cannot see
the chessboards
set to play
for the many?
For the world is asking,
no, demanding,
“please, pick your seat,”
for either side is
yours for the taking.
“Black or white?”
for one is your demise
and the other,
another’s saving.

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High Burn

I set it to a high burn:
this want.
kettle, pot,
doesn’t matter much,
or maybe it does,
maybe it doesn’t,
but someone needs
to claim the torch.

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Jessie’s Girl

I was spelling the wrong
word right,
while you were telling me
the opposite
meaning to life
but I wasn’t listening,
was I?
And how long
the shadows cast
against the hot
Summer ass fault
when in the last hours
of the day
there is no one
else to blame
except those who stand
in the mirror
across from us;
a poor reflection, true,
when I can’t hear
the meaning
through the sound
of the consonants;
right word, wrong context,
trying to write against the
sound of the lyrics
to Jessie’s Girl,
that’s all this is,
when all the while
I’m just wishing for silence.

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New Endeavors

Hey… just wanted to to write a quick post about a new endeavor I’ve started. I’ve decided to put my poetry into volumes (book format), which will be titled by year.

So far, I’ve completed Volume 2011, which is comprised of all poems written within that year, but will be working on subsequent volumes/years to make them available for publication over the next few months.

With over 1600 poems written since 2010, and most being posted here on this blog at one point or another, I thought it would be nice to have them in book format, as it makes it more tangible and easier to actually find what I’ve written.

It’s been a fun journey though: scribing words, and one I plan to continue, though, Art’s been finding me in many different avenues as of late; having recently taken up painting, but that’s another endeavor that’s just about to launch via my website at

Stay tuned for that, and as always, thanks for reading!! Especially those of you who have been following the words (some good, some not so good), over the years! :)

P.S.. Thought I’d also mention… there is a book already that comprises all poetry written in 2010, titled ‘Fertile Soil’.

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The Outcast

So this little labor of love finally came to fruition; a children’s story I wrote and illustrated about a little black sheep named Benedict (and I’ll post the write up on the back cover of the book below).

Only took me almost a total of two years to finally get it to print, but I couldn’t be happier with how it turned out. With the storyline and the color in the illustrations, it really pops, and so I hope small children will come to love it and Benedict just as much as I do.

I know when the idea came to me, to start this painting series way back in May of 2019, it seemed sort of random (or at least it did to me), but I started it anyway, in faith that whatever it wanted to be would emerge, and so here it is: a story about belonging, inclusiveness, and learning to love and appreciate what makes each and every one of us unique.

Anyway, if any of you have small children, grandchildren, or know someone else who does, I’d love it if you’d consider ordering a copy and then reviewing it. It’s available through Amazon Prime. Right now, Amazon only offers it in soft cover (it’s glossy though), but my hope is that this book will eventually get picked up by a publishing house and can be offered in hardcover as well. It’s a total of 38 pages, which is the average length for a children’s picture book and meant for small children (ages 1-5). Here’s the write up on the back cover:

“Have you ever felt like an outcast, like you just didn’t fit in?

Benedict, the black sheep, often felt that way too, until one day, after encountering the Good Shepherd, he realizes that we’re all different, and that it’s our differences that make the world a better and more beautiful place.

A story about belonging, inclusiveness, and loving and appreciating what makes each and every one of us unique.”

Thanks for reading and for allowing me this momentary departure from my usual poetry post. And stay tuned, because my Art website is just about to launch and so I look forward to sharing that too with you in the very near future. “)

Here’s the link for the book on Amazon: The Outcast

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The Untameable Sea

Are we the ocean,
the lake
or the river who runs
between them?
For if the body consists
of 60% water,
is this why my eyes
resemble the seas
of the Caribbean?
or why at times they
breach the borders
of their oceans?
For when down falls
in great big drops,
then dry’s to leave
a trace of salt.
how much salt
does the body
then consist of?
For surely, we must be
what they say then: the sea,
who disperses
itself by rivers
which run through valleys
to pool into lakes,
who too, will eventually
breach their edifices.
For if the rest is
40% clay,
then yes, they are right,
we are and
always have been
the untameable sea.

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The Last Word

Maybe you were the last quiet whisper in the dark,
the last thing I heard,
the last word,
before I closed my eyes and dreamt away
a sleepless night you were.

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One Day

“One day I will find the right words
and they will be simple,” said Jack.
“In the notebook, by the nightstand!”
where you look, yet “keep asking.”
Where I have torn from the binding
“how many pages have gone missing?”
Yet how many are there yet, to fill?

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Dreams Of Old

Oh, must I get dressed?
Must I awake?
For all this
daily slumbering makes
for dreams that come
asleep or awake.

Can’t tell the difference,
asleep or woke,
when dreams are seen,
eyes open, closed,
still come regardless,
these dreams of old.

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I am trying to remember myself,
forgotten and somewhere lost in the words,
I dig through the pages;
letters, words, sentences,
and how many run on and without an end?
For who knows and loves me,
and without a reason they can’t explain?
For I’d find myself there, I am sure of it.

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I found a space in God,
a simple space,
where sound was quiet,
with no thoughts needed,
nor words, nor language,
only being,
and I was wanted there,
I was welcomed,
where there are no walls,
where there’s only reason,
a space called infinite,
where love keeps going,
and stretches out
to never reach an ending.

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Life came and found me
like the bee finds the flower,
picked and plucked me
and pulled me to its nose,
said I looked like a daisy
but I smelled of a rose,
than carried me gently
as it took me to its home,
grabbed a vase from the cupboard
where it placed me in water,
said I’d die here in this home,
“I’ll die here in this home?”
“Yes, by the window,
where you can still grow.”

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Drunk On Rain

This soft sound of rain
from heaven falls
in pitter patters lightly,
and tiptoes across
the earth’s surface
drinking, as if from a
delicate teacup,
or maybe it’s a bastards
stein mug. Drunk, drunk
drunk on rain; the Earth,
with all her musings
of Spring pregnancy,
with everything underneath
in an embryonic stage,
the rain, rain feeds.

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