A beetle begins its shift
where the day left off~
at the edge of a stone
it has moved before.
It tests the surface first,
tapping once with an antenna,
then proceeds,
lifting each leg deliberately
as though the ground requires
confirmation.
A pebble blocks its path.
It pauses,
gives a soft scrape,
nudges it half an inch
then continues,
the adjustment noted
only by the beetle itself.
On bark,
its carapace catches
the a pale pull of light~
a thin, ancestral shimmer
that recalls the long night
its kind has always known.
It inspects a fallen leaf,
turning it slightly
to read the underside~
a task completed nightly,
never hurried,
never skipped.
By dawn,
nothing looks changed,
though the beetle has worked
every inch
of its small world.
And yet the dark feels steadier
even in our quiet daily labors~
minute corrections
that keep the hours aligned,
and meaningful
until the first pale light
lifts the edges of the day
and carries work
forward.
My heart, though silent, beats steadier, then
Love is written in this gentle voice
Cool winds, playing softly, a moment, when
Gentle thoughts offer no other choice
Singing a chorus of love that believes
My spirit soars to new heights, I can see
Beyond the music of the tree who grieves
Sweetest song, so rich and brave, wind can free
Secured by faith, the joy of love shines bright
Sweetest tones of hope drift over my life
While notes of peace rise from the sunny light
I feel the sway of music that heals worst strife
Thrown about by the dreadful winds of change
Like a leaf in the woods, whose fate feels strange
Within minutes, a gentle wave comes to nudge your consciousness
Stars appear bluer than you remember
Globus, the lump in your throat is gone
Memories emerge that remained unthought for years;
A strangely lit corridor;
A den in the woods
Back in the present, all is still
Nothing just happened
And it is a gift; a comfort.
The world is tinted back to the colour you understand
You feel your heart beating in your fingertips
Your hands are steadier than you have ever known
Your skin is attached just right
Up to this moment, life has provided you with just the right amount of destruction
To let you Understand.
Past injuries can be observed with detached interest
Sunlight behind closed eyelids glows in reds and oranges
Lay back and experience
A swirlycap high
"Fall seven times and stand up eight," the old proverb sings,
A lantern lit for weary hearts with weather-broken wings.
Each stumble shapes a steadier stride, each tear a clearer view;
The strongest trees are those that learn to dance with storms anew.
I cannot choose the winds that blow nor every hill I climb,
But hope can turn the roughest road into a path through time.
When doubt declares the night too deep, I answer with one spark,
For faith remembers dawn before it brightens all the dark.
So I will rise with grateful hands, though yesterday was long;
The scars become a quiet proof that brokenness grows strong.
"When hope takes the first brave step,
tomorrow finds the courage to follow."
I found the first letter under my pillow,
in ink I recognized before I recognized the words
my own hand, but steadier.
Braver, somehow, in the loops of the y.
Dear diary, it began, in my handwriting,
though I keep no diary that anyone else could find.
It knew things I'd only thought at 2a.m.
It knew the name I never say out loud.
I caught it once, in the lamp-light,
bent over my desk in the shape of me,
holding a pen the way I hold a pen,
writing something I would never have the nerve to send.
I didn't stop it.
I think some part of me left the desk lamp on
on purpose, that night
some part of me that wanted to be spoken for.
It signs my name better than I do now.
No hesitation in the final stroke.
No crossing out. No starting over.
Just my name, sent, sealed, and meant.
Last week I found the final letter,
already folded, already addressed
to the one person I never worked up the courage to tell.
At the bottom, in handwriting identical to mine, it said:
I am you, but the part of you that stopped waiting.
I hope you don't mind. I already dropped it in the mailbox.
By the time you read this,
it will already be theirs.
is not the same
as mine
My Sinnerwoman
smiles when she’s caught
in the rain,
she’s enjoying
every sensual thought
her feet slap the Earth
back to its beginning,
and the air whips
through her sweaty hands
running
up the wall of a hill
the mockingbirds
cheer for Sinnerwoman
halfway to the top
an albino deer
spots the saint in her
when they meet
eye-to-eye
on the curve
of the disheveled trail
A plastic bag
dances, pirouettes,
in the middle of the street
more graceful than the trees
in their steadier sway
Sinnerwoman growls
“damn lazy littering
bastards!”
balls it up in her fist
to bring back home
“Oh Sinnerman,
where you going to run to?”
Home
I’m always running home
Speaking through fingers,
leaves stinging that lingers,
and it runs like shivers
that run down your spine.
Bruises and imprints
on insides of fingertips,
on feelings and visions
of when you were mine.
God does not waste pain,
or waste space, so explain,
how do I stop thinking
of you all the time?
Texting and calling,
and writing and drawing,
runs steady and steadier
on the decline.
Speaking less of the mess,
and fighting and stress,
helps fingers stop speaking
and hang up the line.
The dawn breaks soft upon the world,
A hush before the dawn, begins to stir—
Change comes not outward, but from deep within,
A flame rekindled, small and sure.
We cannot sculpt the souls of those we meet,
Nor force their dreams to blossom or to fade,
But we can shine, and in that gentle light,
Show them the beauty courage made.
Praising the labor of another’s hands,
We find our own grow steadier, more kind;
To lift another soul ascend,
And leave no lesser self behind.
Dream vast, and help another dream come true,
For empathy transcends the mortal fragile frame—
It passes through the air like morning dew,
And leaves no heart entirely the same.
No flag, no party, can divide the stars;
The soul is brighter when it loves to see.
Love yourself, and watch the world respond—
A mirror not turned inwardly, reflecting unity.
So lead by being gentle, firm, and free,
For in your change, the world can see,
At fifty seven your doing fine.
Seven months sober. Two months out of rehab takes it toll
Into darkness maybe heard unseen numbers are small on paper,
but they feel like lifetimes to me.
Then you appeared—after all these years—
like a quiet miracle I never expected.
Your message didn’t just reach me;
it woke something I thought was gone.
You’ve brought writing back into my days.
Every word I put down now
is steadier because the way you listen.
It isn’t about making anything perfect—
it’s about breathing in a way
that feels alive again.
I don’t know where any of this leads,
and maybe that’s the best part.
Right now, it’s enough
just to share the late–night thoughts,
the small truths,
the pieces of me I kept hidden for so long.
Thank you for finding me.
Thank you for seeing me.
I’d love to hear what’s been moving through your days lately, when you
Tell me. You excite me every time
When i care to listen
Seven months sober. Two months out of rehab.
Those numbers are small on paper,
but they feel like lifetimes to me.
Then you appeared—after all these years—
like a quiet miracle I never expected.
Your message didn’t just reach me;
it woke something I thought was gone.
You’ve brought writing back into my days.
Every word I put down now
is steadier because of the way you listen.
It isn’t about making anything perfect—
it’s about breathing in a way
that feels alive again.
I don’t know where any of this leads,
and maybe that’s the best part.
Right now, it’s enough
just to share the late–night thoughts,
the small truths,
the pieces of me I kept hidden for so long.
Thank you for finding me.
Thank you for seeing me.
I’d love to hear what’s been moving through your days lately, if you feel like sharing.
'What does the ticking of a melting clock sound like?'—overheard in Dalí
_______________________
A clock made from ice
lies on sun-scolded tiles—
the ticks go
slower,
steadier,
harder—
as the pool of water
grows,
wakes,
devours—
The ticks become a pounding
beat
as the clock melts
into throbbing muscles
From timeless to time—
From time to flowing blood—
When forms collapse into echoes...
that’s when the carol ends.
childhood and old age,
in many ways are alike,
but with an antithetical difference.
when with time,
as children grow steadier in steps
and clearer in speech,
the old become,
staggering in steps
and faltering in speech!
Solitary walk beneath a moonlit night sky.
Sparkling river reflects moonlight as I walk by.
Geese are flying in the clouds so high.
I also see the northern lights in the sky.
Not so solitary anymore, people at the baseball field.
Houses and a church with their lights, I put on an eye shield.
Suddenly a tree appears to look like a person, so I yield.
The street light flickering brighter as the truth was revealed.
Dogs are suddenly barking from houses afar,
As I walk the street viewing glowing islands so far.
Clouds unveiling the night stars, then I see a bright star.
As I continue to smoke and fill my lungs with tar.
Solitary walk beside a moonlit river sparkling forever.
I am listening to music that fills me with fervor.
My heart pacing steadier as I take in the flavor
Of a delicacy of a drink on which I sip and savor.
The squirming boy was almost too much
Barber Bill was getting aggravated
Did they always wiggle like this? He wondered
Actually, they did.
The thing is…
Barber Bill’s hands are not steady any more
He probably should not be cutting hair of small boys
But he will continue,
Believing himself much steadier
And younger than he is
Feeling twenty, instead of his sixty-four.
i have music, mayhem and meaning in my life. a score for more and a part to the strife. i’m grounded but not without a flight plan. a steadier step for a fall apart man. It’s like i mean it and seen it. it’s a take on a stroll. a hand out for a hero and a hope not on hold. it’s a tell tale when i fell low and miss that's a mess. a heart on a here frame and a kiss that's a test. i got made up and a mind full for a clear and a now. a past time for a good rhyme and a big for a how.
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