Preview / Born With Wings
Most of the poems in this collection were inspired by relationships, spiritual searching, & deep introspection while diving into the unknown.
A friend once told me that what I write does not come from me – it comes from God and moves through me. I hope she’s right. “In the midst of silence, there was spoken in me a secret word. But where is the silence, and where is the place where the word is spoken?” - Meister Eckhart
In shadows, light is present In deeds, humanity prevails. The frailty of human endeavors lives in all of us. The struggles and triumphs each of us achieves are both similar and unique.
FOREVER The Sunday sun is dying and the golf course proved the victor once again. Saturday’s entrails lay strewn across memory lane. Monday’s monotony waits out there, somewhere, for the chance to remind me of the human chains that clank behind me five days a week, fifty-two weeks a year. If I’m lucky, I can cheat death long enough to play one final round and wake up on a Monday to read the paper while drinking coffee at my beach house after I retire. Until then, I’ll sit in traffic tomorrow and the next day, turning up the radio to drown out the incessant noise of impatience while envisioning the last putt on the 18th green, and smile as the ball rolls, languidly, then drops out of sight with a clank, not at all similar to Monday morning’s chains.
WALK STRAIGHT INTO IT, NAKED If you feel called, you must go. No longings, fears, or expectations. Take off your glasses, your binders, your chains, your known existence. Take off those gloves you wear for protection, those shoes that lead you astray. Walk as if you’re on air. Move tirelessly into the unknown; smiling, feeling, loving. Walk straight into it - naked.
A QUICK WINK TO THE MOON The death of night usually invites me to throw off the covers, say hello to the sun and eagerly swing my legs over the edge of the bed to carry my body through its daily activities. But the clock on the nightstand is glaring 2:00 a.m. – night is still alive. The moon is balancing the books, tallying my attendance. So, I pull the covers over my head attempting to muffle the tapping of the calculator keys. Someday the moon will show me the ledger filled with evidence of all the nights I’ve spent in quiet solitude, or let slip by without a walk outside to view the stars or wink at the moon.
FUEL FOR THE SOUL The muse has shown herself, exposed the truth, bared her beauty, opened her soul. “Here I am!”, she screams. But it’s not me she’s talking to. It’s that fire inside me that she wants – that something that will expand her, add to her fire. I am merely fuel for her soul. If she could rip it out of me, if she could find a way to grab it, put it in her purse and apply it like lip-gloss, she would. But I don’t make her go to that extreme. I offer it up willingly, like an offering – not to appease her, but to experience her. So, when she knocks on my door, I open my eyes, my arms, my heart, my soul, and let her in and feel her burn.
Preview / Forest of Doubt
Separated into 3 sections - Love, Life, & Death, this collection of almost 100 poems was gleaned from several journals written in the early 1990's and published in 1995. They embody the thoughts, emotions, and musings as I tried to make sense of the world around me.
Second Edition: Some of the poems in this edition have been modified, slightly, from their original versions.
Self-Interview Poetry is the expression of the essence of the soul. It is a chaotic form of transcendence from the known into the unknown; the bridge that connects reality and dreams. I’ve always been intrigued by meaningful lyrics and thought-provoking songs. I am inspired by song writers and poets: they can paint a word-picture unlike anyone else. The poet is merely a messenger, delivering personal ideas to your door. What you do with them, is entirely up to you.
JOURNEY THROUGH THE TREES Dreams in my backyard that hang from the trees, sometimes weigh the branches too much for me to conceive. I walk through the forest and count the endless leaves, and when each one finally falls, it takes a part of me. Sometimes I sit on the branches, let them carry me away to distant, mystic places where I hope to someday stay. The trees never die, unlike so many things. When I look to the sky it’s overshadowed by the leaves. Sometimes when I’m lonely, and things aren’t what they seem, I find my feet taking me on a journey through the trees.
THE CALM TREE Everything is infinitely fine in the first hours of the morn’. One man over death does pine, another proclaims himself newborn. Of life’s mysteries one may ponder while rays of life struggle free. The openness of one’s wonder is induced by the calm tree. The feeling of oneness with the world is powered by the streaming light. No truth or lies need be unfurled when morning rules the night.
SILENT SHADOWS The shadows on the wall, dance. In tune to the music. The silence in the air, soft. A falling feather. The memories of her return. The door creaks. The mind escapes the tomb. Called reality.
THE ANOINTING Quiet is the dawn. Tiptoeing slowly. Waiting to strike. Frightened, curious dawn. Life eagerly awaits. Birds sing, echo. Grass sparkles, moon and stars fade. Imminent light showers, anointing the land. Awake innocent one. Let’s not waste the hour.
HARBOR OF THE LORD The eve of Christ’s birth. Come join me in the celebration and meditation of the birth of our Savior. Let’s dissect the myths and false religions of the world and turn this misguided, alienated ship around to drop anchor in the harbor of the Lord. Let’s rebaptize the loss of the souls. Hallucinations and delusions of the sanctified barbarians of the new world are immortally impressive upon the wandering lamb.