We never went after applause.
Never tried to carve our names into stone.
What sticks are the little things:
holding someone’s hand
when they’re falling apart,
holding to what is real,
even when it burns
trying to do right,
even if nobody’s watching.
Death will come,
slow,
patient,
sure.
We’ll meet it without fear,
without regret.
When God calls,
we’ll stand up straight,
unafraid.
Because the world
won’t remember our names—
but it will remember the hands we held,
the courage we slipped through
and the quiet pieces of kindness
we scattered along the way.
There's a path that winds its way, through shadows dark and deep,
A journey of solitude, where none can creep.
No companion can walk alongside, no hand to hold or guide,
A solitary voyage, where body and soul must divide.
Unlike life's vibrant roads, where laughter echoes free,
Where friends and loved ones stroll, in joyous company.
This journey's different, a lone pilgrimage, devoid of sound,
Where footsteps fade into silence, and hearts are left unbound.
The most poignant sorrow, is the disconnection's pain,
No words can bridge the gap, no visits can remain.
When one departs, they're gone, without a tomorrow's light,
Leaving memories to whisper, in the darkness of endless night.
In this lonely passage, we're left to face our fears,
With only shadows as companions, and tears that dry through the years.
No laughter echoes back, no smiles to warm the way,
Just the weight of final goodbyes, in the fading light of day.
Yet, in this solitude, we're forced to confront our soul,
To find the strength within, to make our hearts whole.
For though the journey's lonely, it's also a chance to grow,
To find the peace that lies within, and let our spirits glow.
A Meeting With Amitabha
On my way to meet with Amitabha
The Buddha of infinite light,
I ponder my life, my place in the world
Its trajectory, and my mortality.
Who is it that dies? What is it that goes on?
And where is this infinite light not found?
We all die, but how we do it
Makes all the difference.
They say how we live is how we die,
And so if this gives any solace
As we live our life, directly knowing what that is,
We get a glimpse what our death will be like.
The beauty though of being alive
While we are alive
Is we can always change its trajectory.
And so I head out to meet the Buddha Amitabha
As he sits resting, ever peaceful,
In his infinite light.
(9/13/25)
It’s whispers.
Can you hear them?
I don’t want to,
but they force me to.
Sitting in an empty room,
with no one—
just a cigarette in my hand.
Every time it touches my lips,
it kills me
and makes me want to avoid it—
I know that cigarette is not good for me,
but I like doing something
I know is going to kill me.
But he likes that I do that—
killing myself, he whispered to me,
saying, “Can we switch places?”
I said, “How can I get into the wall?
You are a shadow.”
But how…
I was talking to a shadow
in a room
completely empty and dark.
The whispers say to me:
“Look at me.
Look at the darkness,
and feel both sides of it
that you don’t think exist.”
I thought something was wrong.
I kept hearing him
until he said:
“Come closer…
to someone else in the room,
because my name isn’t dead.”
When I turned on the light,
I saw nothing
but my shadow dancing in front of me,
my body frozen, watching.
And when I looked back,
something was coming out of the wall
with a cigarette,
saying to me:
“I like doing something
I know is going to kill me."
I was looking at a dying man who was asking me for a stone I had in my pocket. He wanted it to survive, but he was a sinner—because a book said he made fun of people and abused them. I watched him grow pale and wondered: should I help him because of his situation, or let him die because of his deeds? Then I thought, why should I care? And I continued walking along the footpath.
As morose as it may sound
I know I’m really just another
Death row man.
No,
I’m not locked away
For a crime I have done.
I’m free,
But that doesn’t mean
I’m still not on that row.
And that also doesn’t mean
There isn’t some crime I could have done
That would have me lock away and unfree.
I’m sure there are stacks of crimes
I have done
Just all in different lives.
And some of those lives
Are in the past
And some are in the present.
And those guys
Are now locked away
While here I am still free.
Death row, in the here and now,
Free or not
It matters little in the end.
What matters is our willingness
To be redeemed
And the peerless opportunity to be free.
So you
Who are on death row too
The question is, what are you going to do about it?
(7/27/25)
We spend our time on wasted days
And cheaply sell our souls for ways
To cheat the forms of our decline
And stretch the skein of borrowed time
I was helpless,
I was shining.
You were knowing.
and bestowing.
When my steps were unsteady,
you held my hand.
You were ready.
Age is just a number, you said
grinning broadly like a
little girl repeating a loving fib.
You wanted a protector,
a guardian of devotion.
But I am not your Paul Bunyan,
the mighty timberman in your dreams.
In my twilight, I remember so many
mighty forests burning to cinder.
Frailty disintegrates the will.
Big-strong-protecting-men wilt with age.
They offer their pleading eyes,
longing to be cradled.
Maturity is mortality ticking.
I was helpless,
I was shining.
You were knowing,
and bestowing.
When my steps were unsteady,
you held my hand.
In life's grand tapestry, we weave our tale,
Striving, reaching, against the winds that assail.
Yet in our pursuits, a shadow cast,
The specter of death, inevitable and vast.
Battles waged with vigor, dreams pursued,
Yet mortality's whisper cannot be subdued.
A test unyielding, a foe untamed,
In the dance of life, death remains unnamed.
No matter the triumphs, the victories won,
The final battle is yet to be shunned.
Through the labyrinth of time, we tread,
A journey to an unknown realm we're led.
Who can conquer the inevitable night,
Challenge the darkness, embrace the light?
In the symphony of life, a poignant refrain,
Death's melody persists, a haunting strain.
So, strive we must, against the fading light,
For in our struggles, we find our might.
Yet humbled we stand, in the face of the unknown,
For in life's grand design, death's seeds are sown.
The sun does arise,
On the valley sweet,
The birds & pups wise,
Call our kits to meet.
The hoots & hollers,
Sound loud for miles;
Yet! Amiss is one collar,
Lone in the Sky Isles.
The sun does down,
On the green hills tired,
Lining the vale round,
Our pets to bed retired.
The whistles & purrs,
Chime in the crisp wind.
All but one bed stirs;
Our dear numbers thinned.
Long time does pass,
Bleak winter does come,
Hoar-frost is the grass,
Warmed by a low hum.
We stand together,
Upon valleys sharp,
Wond’ring: ‘just whether,
You’re hearing, fain, the sky harp.’
Green, gold, gray, old, from thence they pass away.
And from the dawn, the night is cast,
What's due to mortals falls at last.
From the dirt we were made.
In the dirt we have stayed.
We were given a map
And from the path we have strayed.
We loudly complain
Every time we are hurt
And yet, for some reason
We all still stay in the dirt.
From the dirt we were made.
In the dirt we have played.
We have all heard the voice
Of Edward Hyde and obeyed.
And we wear every sin
Like it’s our favorite shirt,
Enjoying each minute
As we all play in the dirt.
The prayers that we have prayed,
The wages we are paid,
They will fade in the end… They will fade.
With the ease we revert
We’d best be on alert
For we live in the dirt… We live in the dirt…
We all long to be saved
From mistakes we have made.
Will we fade in the end? Will we fade?
We are quite the expert
In reliving each hurt
For we live in the dirt… We live in the dirt…
From the dirt we were made.
In the dirt we’ll be laid.
As we exit the light
And sink down into the shade.
We just wink at our past
With our future we flirt
But it all fades away
As we’re all laid in the dirt.
The oldest voices whisper below the ground.
Hands pull on roots — wind-beaten, gnarled —
stories woven through the fabric of time.
Bark peeled slick, leaves flattened,
the wisdom of what makes whole lies
between finger and thumb,
passed along like a flame, a prayer.
But the soil only knows part of the story.
The other half lives in breath,
a noise wafting through the room —
a voice wrapping itself around the injured,
knitting them back into themselves,
as if words alone could summon strength,
draw poison from blood.
And when the breath becomes thin,
when there’s no salve to ease the pain,
there is no anger here.
Only the stillness of understanding:
death is on the far side of the cure.
There's freedom in a poem.
It's just a little leaf
or a feather floating by
on the breeze.
No one could ever take it too seriously.
It's far too small to really make a difference ... right?
So a poet can relax
and drift in tranquil waters
and set his paper boat to sail
upon a sea of clouds.
Because it's just a moment.
And surely there will be thousands more ... right?
How can one be weightless
unless they know
there's always another chance?
[... until there's not ...]
13 October 2024
The pain is shored up, hidden behind bricks,
But it shows through tiny, myriad cracks.
Deception fools the deceiver, plays tricks,
Discretion does not allow the heart to relax.
The soul bears all, bares everything to love,
The mind shuts away betrayals of trust.
Faith vies with disbelief, faces trials tough,
Loyalty oh so often submits to blatant lust.
Why sacrifice all when the other offers none?
Who’s to blame when the house crumbles?
Does losing in love truly mean having won?
Is the path smooth when upon it one stumbles?
Suffering, sorrow, solace: sacred soul sisters.
Mortal human, listen to their soft whispers.
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