The House on the Shore

the seagulls call
the tower’s tall
the ocean wild
his spirit mild.
quiet dreams
the kettle screams
the sun comes up
he fills his cup.
and sweeps the room
without a broom
no fuss or fight—
he keeps the light.
in storm, the glow
will let them know
those seeking docks
find only rocks.
the sun goes down
but none will drown
while darkness prowls
and north wind howls.
the sand is clear
to never hear
another voice—
it’s his own choice.
the sun comes up
he fills his cup
the sun goes down
no one will drown.
the shadows turn
and he will learn
what silence is
to live like his.

ocean dark and wild.
wrecked and beaten up.
guided to his light.
at the door She Knocks.



3/7/19

Yet I Know Peace

I have no answers.
                                          only questions.
Long-winding roads with no end.

I have no speeches.
                                            only silences.
Snowfalls on white-frozen grass.

Whispers from rainbows
and echoes in caves–––
I have no certainties.
                                      only reflections.

1/18/19

You Can Run

You can run from the darkness,
Lungs burning, legs aching,
until you think you’ll fall
sprawled in the dust of the road
and no one will look for you.

You can make camp in the night,
Sitting around a fire
with hearts who know yours,
sending your laughter up
to the stars with the smoke.

But it’s only so long.
Your shoe treads wear out.
Your kindling dwindles.
Until you sit by your self
in the dust and the dark.
And no one is looking.

You can only run
from the from the darkness
so long.

 

6/8/18

Her Own Drummer

Even armed with a wristwatch,
time is something
I never learned to keep.
Always one step ahead,
one step behind,
my own syncopated drumbeat.
I tried to keep time like chickens–
cultivating it, counting it,
trying to plan
for the next three seasons.
You can’t keep time like
chickens, no––
Keep time like children.
Close to you when it’s young,
wandering in its adulthood,
until one day it comes home, and
you don’t recognize yourself anymore.

 

3/2/15

But the Tulips

In like a lion–
the skies grey
and unforgiving.
Marching on.

The woman ahead of me,
it’s 10 AM,
she’s got two
twenty-ounce
cans of Coors on
the counter.
And nothing else.

I’m holding tight
to my soda pop;
my tears tell me–
sugar’s too low.

I need the lift.
I’m addicted to my sadness.
I keep falling
off that wagon.

But the tulips
are rising–
their pale purple
not so different
from that unforgiven sky.

 

3/1/18