Poetry

  • Lonely

    But I am the wind. And my soul is alone as it blows through the jars of neat and tidy life. Oh, the aching. For, home floats free; I will never be bound. Can you not see? I will never… Continue reading

  • Withering

    A rose. Think of it. How like a rose we are. Beginning as seed, gently, a bud. How we open, slowly, never seeing our petals born; never guessing when, at last, the last will fall. And when we wither, wrinkle… Continue reading

  • Happy One

    There is a tear in my soul. They want me to smile, all the time, they want me to be fine, this world. But I am not (though I am.) There is a weeping tear. A wound unhealed and breaking… Continue reading

  • Fathers

    It started with the Fathers of the Fathers. Each ache, each man left broken by the one who came before him: not his fault, that pain, continued. But an unwanted gift, often unseen, too often delivered. It must now be… Continue reading

  • Feathers

    She fled her body, to where the poets fly. Her heart lived in that place, an angel by night light. There were feathers on the wind of day, and music, like a lovers kiss, drifting. Oh, how she loved, there.… Continue reading

  • The Orchard

    As I sit quietly, alone, with the birds as my friends, I watch the orchard sway with the breeze and I ask myself: Is it the orchard, alone, I see? Or has the orchard become the miraculous creation of the… Continue reading

  • They Know Not What They Do

    Why, when the road is so beautiful, (dappled sun on white) do these lashing tongues slice my delicate sky, so? I shall find a cave, as promised. A dear and perfect home to soothe. And I shall cherish the broken,… Continue reading

  • Seasons

    And when there is sun such as this, and when there is beautiful drift and swaying trees, I see life as it is and I know it is good. For, the mind, I know tells stories. And yet perfect truth… Continue reading

  • Careless Life

    Do not touch this softness. I see you angrily tearing at her bones, leave her be. Dear sweet, peaceful girl. For she must rest, she is weary, must rest, she has been battered and bruised by the tentacles of careless,… Continue reading

  • The Rose

    Even the most darling rose is a work in progress. Be the rose. How beautiful that she will show you the way to freedom. Continue reading