If I could cut these words
from the marrow of my bones
shift from the blood of my heart
I would, I really would

Words that would to make sense
of this helter-skelter, bad mad
sad world;

Brother of long ago,
your words lay the
path I now tread
as I stumble through
this life.

Brother of times past,
you sang the Song
I sing as you
sorrowed through
life, walked through
the shadow of death
with Him by your side.

son of my Father,
your words dropped
from heart, cobble
the ground I walk
and pray on, lead
me to a Voice
I am beginning
to recognize...

troubled soul,
abode in dark night.
inkiness of self
bleed out and
make light
a heavy heart
entrapped
in trappings
of a world
of lies

heartbeat

ba-dum

Life, it is my own
hold within earthen hands
that spring forth young,
grow old and fall by the
way side.

ba-dum

Life, my choice
What I do where I go
what I say with whom
I stay, all the why's
of the wheres and whats
are mumbled and jumbled
to become mundane
as the air I breathe

ba-dum

Life, becomes heavy
and labors me, lashes
me to her sails rides me
mercilessly and I do not
blink because I think
Life is in my hands

ba-dum

Life, puddles and sunshine
blurred in meaningless when
days begin to walk the line
of sameness of starkness
of the great big WHY

ba-dum

Life, begins to become
lost in the sound of
another heartbeat
stronger Heartbeat
much bigger more comforting
than my own

ba-dum

Life, a Heartbeat
not my own but
something sown
into earthen hands
takes roots and knows
where to go

ba-dum

Life, a thumping in
my ears, Oh God,
pulsing in my veins
My God, I hear
Your heartbeat
in my own...

....BA-DUM

Stories

We are surrounded by them;
cloaked so tightly about us
the words soak into our skins,
text becomes a part of our bones
and we cannot help but to weave
our own,
for ourselves
for our children
for the lovers at our sides
and for strangers at our gate

yet it is not enough to
be surrounded by the rhythm
of words spoken or read on page
but as hunters we pursue
words on paper right
into our lives
or
as gathers of tales told
from mouths joyous
to share and reveal
plots that are not
of us, of we

for past words rise phoenix
to generation and generation
to them that search
and gather, to those
who weave and display;
truths become legend.
myths become truths.
And the rhythm of all
bump along, tag along
in a cycle
we construe...

and we are a melting pot
of this infinite mystery
for some of us refuse
to live out our own text
and parasite another
until difference is no more;
merge and become one

and we are a mosaic
of this unending riddle
for we cherish within
the beginnings of the self
both the borrowed and unique
and continue to strive
in our fragmented selves

stories become us and we become stories
intwined and never ending is the tale of our birth and death

you've become books on shelves
though your bones are long gone
and the learned ones of this age
yawn, skim yours thoughts
As your followers
attempt to play the Frankenstein
and fleshen your words
as though you were there -
reading to them your wit
and your wisdom...

And here I sit,
among the rows
facing the stacks,
writing a poem
about poems
and swimming
among the titles
before my eyes,
wondering if
I should pause
and pull
any book
and briefly,
for a moment,
be captured
by the momentum
of a poet
and their attempts
to relieve
the boredom as I
go among the rows
and stand before
the stacks

book covers

As they say and
continue to do so
"judge not a book
by its cover"

but

I am captivated
rather by
the titles that
hook themselves
into the flesh
of my brain,
causing at times
to lift my
right hand to
the spine while
the left hand
slaps it and say
"get back to work"

a prose painting of a moment

Cranberries in hand
I stand upon
the stool
And survey the
faces of my domain,
faces that have been
translated into print
with eyes that
never blink yet
read the reader
leaving imprints
of self upon their
fleshy minds

(causing these victims
to translate more faces
into worded pictures)