A master weaver working infinite looms,
Who spans the endless dark with silver thread,
An architect of stars and quiet rooms,
Who breathed upon the dust to wake the dead.
The steady pulse beneath the ocean’s chest,
The potter’s fingers shaping living clay,
A silent shore where weary orbits rest,
The origin of night and light of day.
Yet between my fragile heart and your boundless grace
Lies a canyon carved by human doubt and space—
A wide expanse no ship could ever cross,
Where earthly wisdom turns to total loss.
To seek your favor and your gentle eye,
I’d lay my stubborn pride down in the dust.
I’d give up every dream beneath the sky,
And place my broken plans in total trust.
I’d walk through silent sands without a word,
And offer up the quiet pain I bear,
Praying that my heartbeat might be heard,
Surrendering my life into your care.
I bring my open hands, my breath, my song,
And lay my heart where it has belonged.
I offer up all that I am, and all I try to do—
Is a yield like mine enough to reach to you?
It's a new song
Maybe it'll be amended before I get to produce it
It's been fun.
I'll not say what exactly it's about
_________
you will never wake the dead
be prepared for it this time
bleed into it raw
making nickels on the dime
have you never asked for more?
??
no longer a stranger
paid-up dues, made your bed
winning is second nature
no matter what my old man said
if I could forgive, make amends
he would rest in peace without end
but I will never wake the dead
bleed into it, this time
??
th' sharper tool in the morning
afternoons, I'm delivered
hold my breath, I'm descending
there, I said it, I know that you heard
??
be daring, my darling
I'm right here, by your side
with answers for the asking
I don't know but I'll give it a try
if you could forgive, make amends
I could rest my head and pretend
but I will never wake the dead
bleed into it, this time
There was a young man who knew when
yet likes the sound of the name Big Ben
with a certain ring to it which appeals
as a bell it will sell well he feels
and the knell wake the dead once again
Alarm loud enough to wake the dead.
Need to wake to join the living again
Sluggishly climbing out of my bed to embrace the tasks of today
Feet hitting the cold floor, the chill forcing me to be attentive.
Shuffling across the cold floor to the kitchen, my morning coffee calling to me just like a siren's song.
Yawning, I blink the sleep away for another day.
Watching the machine
Coffee slowly brews with a steady, drip…drip…drip.
Patiently waiting, I get my favorite mug
Sugar and cream awaiting the boiling hot coffee, just enough cream to turn black to an autumn caramel.
I pour the steaming coffee into my mug and relish in the smell of the bold fresh coffee with its hint of nuttiness.
First thing in the morning, it’s like water after a walk in the desert.
Closing my eyes, I take it in;
Steam tumbling off, I lift the mug to my lips. With a slight blow, I take the first sip.
The sip tastes like perfection, almost making a moan slip past my lips.
Sitting in silence, I drain every last drop of my coffee as if it will be my last.
But who’s to say this should be my last.
The big bronze bell was tolling
From the façade of St Peter’s
An incessant toll above death
88 clangs from its open mouth
The Angelus Bell rang out
For the years of Francis’ life
Over the sky of Rome
A clear celestial blue
The blue of the Virgin mother
Through which we see God
Men of the clergy on the right
Royals and politicians on the left
The chorus sings the Requiem
No melody can melt away
The broken world of sin
Nor wake the dead lying alone
In a wooden box on the cold stone
As the mourning clouds rolled in
I sit, this morn, on the bed of
A dried-up rivulet,
Head-bent and full of compunction.
It’s clam-quiet except for the impatient
Squawks above which prompt my heartbeat.
I raise my head, heavy with grief.
Climbers and weevils align in a silent choir,
Singing with precision the lines of a forgotten
Mirth.
It’s 5 o’clock in the morning — a time when
Cockcrows are loud enough to wake the dead.
I cringe and slink as I traipse about in the dead woods,
Among the cadavers of river plants, decimated,
Deserted, and vitiated through seasons’ flagrant ebb.
I see shadows that sing with their mouths tightly shut.
Like them all, I, too, am lonesome, and I draw about me
The dry waves of parched waters.
On my lips is a certain prayer — a revised edition of the
Paternoster.
Return, waters, return from the underrocks, I pray thee.
My sorrows are old and fragile.
Hoots and cries and stridulations beseech me.
I have picked my way among paths that
Cuddle the feet in sympathy and soothe
The souls that hide from the earnestness of
Sunrise.
Wash my dry naked feet, O waters,
And grease my palms so cracked from
Endless chafing.
As the dusk journeys to the dawn
a crisp breeze awakens the senses
light fingers through the heavens
and shadows slither away.
The day begins as if promised
to break night and interrupt dreams
time to awake and accomplish
routines and task of living
Up with a yawn and stretch
and you look upon the one sleeping
beside you. At peace with a face
of an angel. Only if it appear when awaken.
Walk barefoot into the kitchen
brew coffee and fry bacon
if that doesn't wake the dead
throw dirt on them, smells of first morning.
You look back into the bedroom
and see the sleepy head turn
thinking how can I pick em
out on the porch sipping coffee
Watching the sun rise in full brilliance
who appears at the doorway
can I have a sip?
Sitting beside you feeling happiness
The day begins as the world turns
and your life with love
forget worries, forget problems
it feels right, another good day.
An early morning run across a misty lake
comes in, fades out of view with every stroke I take.
With pace that ebbs and flows from tunes within my head,
I hope the rhythmic rowing will not wake the dead.
I try to focus on the things that Austin taught,
but mostly, in the moment, I’m enraptured, caught
up in this misty morning ‘cross unknown expanse;
time and distance slip away in other-wordly trance…
She stood there almost unnoticed
One component of a musical layer
Until her riff came and showed
She was a mean saxophone player
Her controlled notes lazily flowing
Around that club room and bar
No restrictions on their going
As she slid them near and far
Wrapping them around and through
Each knowing receiving head
Notes that oh so sly could do
Miracles to stir and wake the dead
Her eyes were closed so softly tight
Legs akimbo astride that stage
Speared by that one spotlight
Playing a maturity beyond her age
You could feel for just a little
A jazz epic in the build
By a talent more than brittle
As not a note was spilled
Then as the spotlight shifted
She stepped back into the band
And the standard she had lifted
Slipped back in to the bland
She stood there almost unnoticed
One component of a musical layer
Until her riff came and showed
She was a mean saxophone player
He stubbed his toe, the elders said.
He is howling and wailing to wake the dead.
He is not a werewolf, I argued with them.
He is a ghost, my little cousin, Clem.
He is being ridiculous the uncles roared.
Their blood pressure was up, it truly soared.
We cannot get him to quit screaming Aunt Tootie reported.
I did what I had to do to get this conversation aborted.
He is a GHOST I told them all sternly and mean.
This whole thing is a really implausible scene.
Because, you weirdos, think farther than your nose.
There has never been a ghost who had any toes!
It was my first summer job
I didn’t feel quite ready
but I tossed all hesitation aside
it was time to stretch my wings
I felt lucky and tried to measure up
as summer camp counselor
on this beautiful woodsy island
where nature abounded
I was a full week into it
things were running smooth
I was starting to fit in as best I could
until it happened late one night
In the deepest darkness I met my nemesis
a teenie weenie itsy bitsy mouse
I let out a scream to wake the dead
that echoed clear across the lake
Coincidentally soon afterwards it was decided
they didn’t need quite as many counselors
I’ll always remember them polite as could be
as I was being thanked for my services
Read on air by invitation ~ May 19, 2021 'WORDS & MUSIC'
AP: Honorable Mention 2021
I've hurt myself again.
I fell in my bedroom den.
The world went around ,
and I let out a sound,
That I'm certain could wake the dead.
I twisted my leg when I fell,
Strained a tendon from what I can tell.
I saw my physician,
He said here's the question,
How long can you give it to mend.
So I'm taking vacation for now,
And my boss is having a cow,
'Cause four others are gone,
And he sings a sad song,
He counted on me to attend.
I said, Sorry I can barely walk.
It hurts when I stand and I balk.
When I sit it gets tense,
And the pain is immense,
And my face turns the color of chalk.
I'm sorry I must ask for grace,
But my work is too hard in this place.
I've pulled a muscle,
And you bet your bustle,
Right now I ain't running no race.
AS IS 26
As I sit by waiting for you to return.
My heart loses sight because without the blood my eyes would start to burn.
Memories of you gone often bruise my chest.
Feelings since that have passed but others only manifest.
In this sympathy like state that only causes pressure.
Heartache wouldn't hurt if only I didn't test her.
Now let them see what has really come of this.
A truly lost soul with no wish except for a last kiss.
A kiss that could wake the dead and starve yourself for nights.
Lose the will to breathe and end all internal fights.
As is, is what I speak of.
Dreaming of that day when I first found true love.
Never promising the day but only waiting for night.
Crouched by my window breathing in remaining light.
To secure the surface so my mind can take steps.
To ensure stability so my heart wont recess.
Walls of red dripping light
Heavy on my flight or fight,
I am the Igor gaurding these hallways.
Hunchback green with a crimson stare
Past the gates of Truth or Beware,
I reside on the house on the hill.
Floors that creak and stairs that wind
Taunt the these scary demons of mine,
You cant conjure these ghosts that reside.
Dracula's coffin, Frankenstein's chair
Ride on the back of the Wolfman's hair,
But Im the monster they all still fear.
What they dont understand-
They raise their torch and sharp pitchforks
And poke at the beast within me.
Gaslight the extremes
with a frightened flair
As I haunt these rooms
Who would dare to step in here?
I am Quasimodo personified.
And all the townspeople chant:
Demonic Devin under the bed
While Emotional Emily could wake the dead.
For Manic Mary never fear
Paranoid Pete will bring you to tears.
Insecure Ira has banshees screams
But Schizo Stan has nothing on those streams-
The haunted attraction lives inside me.
Now Enter me,
Im a Castle Freak-
You misunderstand my daydreams.
See me,
Im that sideshow creep-
I need a therapist to conduct this exorcism.
I Thought I heard a Trumpet
I thought I heard an echo like a trumpet far away..
It was carried on the breezes;
That swept in across the bay.
I listened at my window as I watched the eastern sky..
light up with wondrous lightening;
and the clouds began to cry.
I thought I heard a Trumpet;
and a loud victorious shout....raising high above the thunder...
With Angels all about,.
I wakened from my slumber..in the darkness on my bed...
To a glorious rowdy ruckus
Loud enough to wake the Dead.
I thought I heard a Trumpet, It was a sweet surprise
As I rose to meet my Savior.
And to look into His eyes.
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