So That We May See

No greater gift was given, precious eyes that provide sight.
How desperate it must be; a hostage in a world of all night.
Only those prisoners in the realm of darkness can explain
Their hearts weeping of dependence, isolation, and pain.

Unimaginable being deprived a rose garden so fair,
A bald eagle flying freely, wings slicing the air,
Fireworks bursting on the blanket of dark, oh what a treat,
Young children laughing, or simply a stranger we pass on the street.

They also witness visions of sorrow, death, and of tears.
We sometimes complain of horrible sights seen through the years.
Mind you, with them we see things we don’t care to recall,
But realize without them, we’d have seen nothing at all.

Confectioner's Dream

I’m quickly consumed by clouds of marshmallow cream;
Wandering blindly, wading a milk-chocolate stream.
I hear a small child laugh, she quickly takes my hand,
Begging for assistance in eating through marshmallow land.
Several joined us in lapping at mounds of sticky delight;
More than an hour of consuming before regaining my sight.

I watched as the children swirled down the peppermint slide;
Certain no one was looking, I snapped off a piece of the ride.
Finally appeasing my taste buds scream,
I dipped it in chocolate from the smooth flowing stream.

I followed the hard candy signs towards banana splitville.
Stepping carefully to avoid the recent hot fudge spill.
Along with two others I boarded the last banana split boat;
Briefly I considered the enchantment of a root-beer float.

I reluctantly left the land formed from a confectioners dream,
Only to hear dreadful sounds of the dentist drilling machine.
Soon he advised me I could now leave his chair;
His work finished; he'd made the necessary repair.
He warned of indulging the apparent sweet tooth I possess.
I keep my dream to myself; his diagnosis remaining only a guess

The Lamp

I had decided the night before,
in the line I would camp.
The genie would again be there
with his powerful lamp.
I watched as peasants became kings,
eagerly crowned with royal fame.
Instantly ruling over those,
from which they recently came.

Why did I resort to waiting in such a line?
I had been diagnosed with a disease
the doctors couldn’t completely define.
The only details provided were terribly grim,
unlikely I’d survive; the odds one in ten.

“Sir; do you believe these wishes,
are only for those physically here?”
I was afraid that the chaos of it all
had confused the poor dear.

He explained his worry was for his family;
bless the unfortunate tyke.
His eyes filled with tears,
as he told of their plight.
Mother deathly ill,
father neglecting the farm, to care for his mate.
The bank foreclosing too soon,
not accepting payments deemed late.

I consoled the young boy
the best that I could,
Reminding him how close to the genie,
he and I, now literally stood.

Suddenly the genie announced
that the lamp had unexpectedly run low.
It seems there was but one single wish,
left for him to bestow.

I knew the young boy’s, a much nobler deed,
I took a step back, and gave up the lead.
I turned from former position, there at the head of the line,
Considering my odds,
and what I might accomplish with limited time.

I heard the young boy shouting,
claiming he had wonderful news.
It seems that when wishes are for others,
genies granted them in two’s.

He invited me to his home,
leading me by my arm,
Explaining his family’s desire,
to know details regarding the farm.

When we arrived I expected to see
a castle in place of a shack.
But it appears the young boy
had only wished for what little he lacked.
His family was charming,
in a pleasant, peasant kind of a way.
Not only did I receive years, but friendships that day.

Placing the needs of others, ahead of own selfish aims,
Not only pays rich dividends in life,
but also in wishing games.

Wayward Lamb

O wayward lamb why must you stray?
Shadows begin to swallow the light of the day.
It’s time to come home and rest your sweet head;
Soon the herd will be safe and comfortably in bed.
One wonders what possesses his wandering wooly soul,
Unless separated from the flock is his eternal goal.

O wayward lamb why must you cause worry?
You meander over the hill and return in no hurry.
The wolves lurk in the shadows, waiting for the stray;
One leaving the group, intending to forge his own way.
Without your master watching, his trusty staff in hand,
You’d have no hope navigating the perilous world of man.

O wayward lamb why must you tarry?
A burdened soul your shepherd does carry.
You’re naive to the jeopardy of grazing alone;
Your shepherd’s hands deliver you safely back home.
He rescues you from evils you can’t comprehend,
His undying love for you has no perceivable end.


O wayward lamb your absence has caused such unrest,
But as promised, he liberated you from selfish distress.
All transgressions against sheep and your master forgiven,
Wandering tendencies from your mind have been driven.
Seeing you return to the flock, more precious than gold,
O wayward and weary lamb, it’s good to have you back in the fold.

Runaway Trains

Sufficiently imbibing addictions of choice;
smoothing the delivery of uninhibited voice.
Inebriated words birthed from distorted cells;
garbled communications obscuring their hells.

Overindulgence soon released in eruption;
painting thirsty walls with repulsive corruption.
Throbbing reminders of ill-advised consumption,
unlikely to prohibit further feasts of dysfunction.

Patterns repeated; routines thoroughly rehearsed
The filling of prescriptions not easily reversed.
Preferring to remain passengers on runaway trains,
embracing the steel of intensely familiar chains.

Running Shoes

I slip on my running shoes,
lace them up tight.
Running each evening for exercise,
but not so on this night.

I received a call
from his lovely wife.
Seems he was distraught,
and had suddenly taken his life.
She told of me of things, awful things,
things I refused to hear,
About how I’d adversely affected
my friend so dear.

Several years ago
something had sparked our awful rage;
Something about nothing,
as I recall.
Neither of us acting our age.
Like children refusing to talk
or even acknowledging the other.
It was terrible behavior,
especially towards my younger brother.
I contemplate words
that I shouldn’t have spoken,
and more that I should.
I’d take them all back now
in a second, if only I could.

Feelings of horrible guilt
and frustration nibble at my soul.
I curse them for such small bites
preferring they’d devour me whole.
Ashamed to talk to my mother
attempting to explain not being there.
When they laid my brother in the earth,
I couldn’t make myself care.
Often I think perhaps I should join him
in the cold, damp dirt.
But I know that would put an undeserved end
to my deserving to hurt.

Pacing for hours,
perhaps I made a mistake coming here.
Always the nobler of us,
I heard his voice;
instilling in me great fear.
“My brother, why have you waited so long,
and why do you roam?”
I couldn’t answer his questions
just sat there caressing the stone.
I listened as he expressed himself
something quite extraordinary for me.
That night, my lovely brother’s words
forgave, comforted, and healed me.

After we had finished our conversation
I reluctantly turned to go home.
I looked back one last time at him
and the gift I had placed on his stone.
No bouquet of flowers
that gesture completely slipped my mind.
It was my deceitful running shoes
that I was gladly leaving behind.

Spring Cleaning

Poetry frequently cleanses
the palette of my soul.
Gently transfer of words to paper
will again make me whole.
Clearing out the dark recesses;
allowing fresh ideas opportunity to sprout.
For its better they serve a useful purpose,
than to lie stagnant in doubt.

I’ve fostered them long enough,
confident they’ll find a new home.
Giving them freedom of choice;
ability to make a course of their own.
Like small saplings exposed to the elements;
they must fight to survive.
Some will wither and die from exposure,
but others will conquer and thrive.

I hope they’ll not hold it against me
if I was premature in setting them free.
Better to let them see light and breathe on their own,
than to stay imprisoned in me.
Someday they may come back,
thankful for the sanctuary I gave.
Or possibly others may curse me
for not allowing them to remain my slave.

But surely in the end they’ll see,
it was I who gave them life at the start.
They flooded and wandered my soul
and had been given birth in my heart.
I can only hope as with a child,
they visit often when I’ve grown old.
Intently I’ll listen as they speak proudly,
of their adventures and actions so bold.

Familiar Faces

Clocks dutifully mark the passage of time,
For this vital purpose explicitly designed.
Some hang on the wall, speak nothing at all.
Others when prompted; gleefully chime.

Oddly, we’ve doled out anatomical parts;
faces and hands, but no features.
Why not a pulse from the beat of a heart,
to assist such monotonous creatures.

Repetitive work for such tedious beast,
Rhythmically tracking our lives.
Staring at night, when I turn out the light,
And steadfastly there when I rise.

Where would we be devoid dependable ticks,
to synchronize all that they do?
I shudder to think, we’d be on the brink
of the last of our orderly days.

Brief Encounters

Wings flaunting their painted luminosity,
delicately flirting with breeze.
Energetic feats performed gracefully
lacking hesitation.
Curtain slowly descends,
introductions now complete
as she trustingly finds rest on my knee.
Certain the awe of her ballet has seduced me
sufficiently and will shield her from harm.
A brief moment in time, a small slice of tranquility.

Then she continues her aerial mission,
at bid of the whispering wind.
Silently I wish her farewell,
respecting our brief interlude;
reluctant to deprive others of such worthy performance.
Perhaps a field of lilies will welcome her home,
doubtful that they will appreciate her
as much as I.

She effortlessly floats over majestic oaks;
finish line clearly within reach.
Her youthful exuberance belies bitter truth;
or perhaps naively unaware.
Flightful days of summer yield to impending fall.
Laying somewhere breathless upon cold earth,
unwilling wings having deceived her trust;
frost covering them with silent deathly blanket.

I only hope she recalls, before death closes her eyes;
the peaceful time she rested with me.

The Boy Within

Oh, for the simple pleasure of boyhood days.
Toy soldiers, worn and tattered from the frays,
Painted expressions long since rubbed from view,
Vicious battles had whittled my troops to two.
The faceless duo still stands staunch in place,
Awaiting my command, and fierceness of my battle face.

Train cars lined the perimeter of a rickety old track,
The engine; white hot smoke pouring from her stack.
The multicolored cars swirling, merely now a blur,
My urgent need for speed, the engineer did not concur.
I backed the throttle down a bit, atop the track she’d stay;
The engineer tipped his hat, and flashed a smile my way.

I summoned outlaws and cattle thieves, oh so rough and tough.
My sheriff’s badge and lawman eyes always called their bluff.
Slick Sam had robbed the coach, left three passengers for dead;
He left a bloody trail to follow, two women full of lead.
In the street he made his fatal choice, deciding he should draw;
My .45 barked twice, reminding him you can’t outrun the law.

I quickly survey the area, making certain I’m alone;
Not a little boy on the floor, but a man who’s fully grown.
Even the blind soldiers without their painted eyes,
Have no trouble seeing through my manly-like disguise.
The engineer welcomes me with his wry and gnarly grin,
He also can see past the man I am, to the boy within.

Tainted Works of Art

Originating from infallible stock;
created in his image from inception.
Simply chips of an original rock,
yet brokenly influenced by deception.

Discontent with the works we become;
although etched with tools of our choice.
Artist unaccountable for outcome,
merely lending the language a voice.

Infected, selected, worldly tools,
yielding tainted works of art.
Never considering exterior rules,
leave lasting impressions on the heart.

Blindly discovering empty baskets
containing the harvest of our hearts.
Realizing choosing of caskets,
are where meaningful journeys start.

We easily point to the speck,
in a fellow brother’s eye.
Not willingly seeking to erect,
But instead, pulling down our ally.

Slivers of the original rock,
must be cohesively weaved in the end.
Collectively….true reflections of stock.
Individually……simply chaff, scattered by wind.

Hide and Seek

Smoothing, contouring, sculpting the surface layer.
Internal demons, we superficially attempt to repair.
Replacing living flesh with plastic and silicone;
Distorting bodies into something no longer our own.

Secular progression, untamed, spreading like fire;
Empty expressions displayed for the world to admire.
If anyone asks about your busy, but empty long day
“Living the American Dream”, you robotically say.

Difficult to determine what evil lurks behind the disguise;
Science provides fitting cover for deceit and the lies.
Perhaps if bodies were turned inside out from the start,
We’d see true intentions; in some cases, lack of a heart.

A grotesque display, typically visible after we’ve died,
See the venomous emotions that have festered inside.
Repressed feelings have slowly wrought their decay;
Surely all would shudder, at the enlightenment of such a day.

We must master and tame the beast under the tenuous skin;
Removing the security of cover, for the healing to begin.
No longer conforming to weak standards prescribed by mankind.
Embracing your inner-self, surprised at the beauty you’ll find.

Some insist society is responsible for the “great hiding game”.
Let us choose carefully and wisely, when delivering this blame.
We as individuals share in the debt, that will inevitably be paid,
Only the weak of mind and of character, are so easily swayed.

Heart of Rust

She wore a heart of rust,
Painfully visible on her sleeve.
Numb to violations of trust,
By a man she had once believed.

Offering an explosion of emotion,
Only craving a spark.
Years of one-way devotion,
Left her indulging the dark.

As she considered her losses,
Mind drifted to childhood things.
Although he had broken her heart;
He couldn’t weaken her wings.

Of losers, she’d seen scores,
Coercing women they date.
Breaking and entering locked doors;
Attempting to callously dominate.

Tiring of simple young boys,
Full of hormonal mistakes.
Leaving them to simpler joys,
Like puppy-dog-tails and snakes.

Gracefully lifting from her perch
She shook hands with the sky.
Beginning her onerous search,
For a kind and sensitive guy.

Nature's Mysteries

I quickly spy her graceful silhouette,
Why does the dove so mournfully cry?
I’d gladly lift her weight of regret,
If she would promise me then to fly.

How is it the many petals of a rose
Nestle themselves perfectly in line?
No sweeter fragrance graced my nose,
Nor palette, privy to finer wine.

Clouds float effortlessly in vast sea of blue,
Do they ever reach the end of the sky?
Stacked up neatly, folded too, a magnificent view,
And all the more reason to fly.

A star streaks past in a fiery farewell.
Who chooses which wish shall be granted?
Perhaps we could ask the one that fell,
If not in a grave, so violently planted.

Limbs arc to the earth, a green showery show,
For whom do the willows constantly weep?
I listen at night, the tears continually flow,
Rhythmically lulling themselves to sleep.

Questions beget questions, answers to nary a one
No more secrets revealed at the end of verse,
Then when I had first begun.
Mysteries of such proportion; surely divine
Fodder for restless minds; purely design

She Was

She’s a message in a bottle,
That’s never reached my shore.
She’s fully open throttle,
On the sports car I adore.

She’s a needed drop of rain
That quenches all my thirst.
She’s never caused me pain,
Though meeting is our first.

She’s a single ray of hope,
My guiding source of light.
She’s fading quickly now,
Nearly out of sight.

She was a vision in my mind,
Unlikely to return.
She was such a lovely find,
Now it’s some else’s turn.

Jagged Shards

Jagged shards, mistakes of past,
Hauntingly stalk us down.
Bitter times, meant to last.
Made to wear their thorny crown.

Misdemeanors, in mistaken view,
Halting progress, even now.
Mistakes of past, more than few,
We must answer to, even more so now.

Detours

Inconveniences, leading him slightly astray
Minutes burned, in an already too short day.
Destinations, inflexibly ingrained in singular mind;
Labeling sublime scenery as wastes of valuable time.

Blinders on tight, seeking the primary route
Consumed by the mission, ignoring my shout.
Exceeding the limit, dismissing the bend
Unable to negotiate, consumed by fiery end.

Certainly not the first, nor likely the last
I’ve witnessed expiring, in pursuit of the past.
I stand here along this secondary path
Hoping to impede their impetuous wrath.

Hidden Ally

A continuous battle rages within troubled mind,
Uncertain at times which hand victory might find.
Mortal enemies, fully engaged, maneuvering for control,
Mind over matter, when it concerns matters of the soul.
Each with vested interest, unwilling to bow before the other.
Unaware I pray for certain outcome, “Be vigilant my brother.”

Simple Man

City lights only serve, to blind me to the truth;
Participating in no expedition, seeking the fountain of youth.
I’ll gladly welcome wisdom, which comes with age.
Enjoying the freedom of nature, from outside of the cage.

No great accomplishments attached to my name.
I’ll have to take a pass on fortune and fame.
A simple man, enjoying his simplistic life,
Raising children with conscience, aside his simple wife.

I hear rumors of a ladder, where success can be found;
Yet I stand content, feet firmly planted, right here on the ground.
The crowded rungs, I’ve successfully avoided their call.
My time better spent, assisting those that inevitably fall.

While it’s true, they’re won’t be a crowd mourning my loss;
Only a few close friends, standing before a plain white cross.
I only pray the words uttered, by those that stand,
“There lies a comfortable soul, encased in a truly simple man

The Seductive Lady

Reflections of her silhouette dancing just the same,
The moon partially responsible, for such ill-advised game.
The water apologizes, for recreating her image as cast,
Knowing she’d be offended, without first being asked.

The crescent participant quickly ducks behind a cloud
Proclaiming his innocence in a voice unusually loud.
One fell swoop; she could rip him from his celestial rest,
Not even the moon wishes to subject her patience to test.

Men desire to get close to her, feeling the magic in her touch,
Sometimes gentle caress, erupts into something quite rough.
She possesses such beautiful attire, mesmerizing all of man.
Push the romance too quickly; meet with bitter wrath of her hand.

No man will ever own her; her heavenly heart can never be earned.
Love her if you choose to; it will be strictly on her fickle terms.
The smooth lines of her curvaceous body, like that of no other;
A shame that her assets, invoke fighting amongst one another.
Certainly you’ve figured out her identity from the description above.
The gentleness and ferocity, all wrapped neatly in her package of love.

The Sorrow a Shadow Sees

Busily we traverse through the course of our day,
Barely noticing the shade cast down in our way.
Stepping right through with no slowing of pace,
Shadows lie watching, not understanding the race.

Worry etched in the brow, and faces painted with frown,
If only they’d take notice of those who live on the ground.
He’d attempted before, to simply impart a word to the wise,
But found his breath wasted, explaining of untimely demise.

Running full speed, recklessly down the path of a short life;
The shadow grieves, as another victim is ripe for the knife.
The reaper toils feverishly as he sharpens his capable blade,
Fiendishly smiling, as he knows of the truth they’ve forbade.

Why should the shadow care for these dying lost souls?
Running through aimlessly in pursuit of worldly goals.
It is man, who’s responsible for besmirching their good name,
Unwilling accomplices; forcibly used as pawns in his game.

They are used to conceal a theft or other heinous bold act;
It is man that perpetrates the crime, selfishly using the black.
He forces them into hiding perversion, twisting their innocent intent;
Making them awful accessories, for such things as never were meant.

I feel the need to exonerate them, at least on some kind of level,
Believing their birth is divine, twisted by hands of the devil.
For often we commission them, as a cover for a devious plan
Not by their will, you see, but coerced by sinful nature of man.

May I introduce to you, my friends, the shattered pieces of night?
When in their company, my life-wrongs suddenly become right.
Offering me a source of protection, I revel in uninterrupted bliss.
All they ask is that we slow, and appreciate their company like this.

I believe we should utilize shadows in a myriad of positive ways;
Not simply stepping through them, as we traipse through our days.
They ask little of you in return, making only one meager request,
That you allow them to provide comfort, when it’s you that needs rest.

Deceitful Layers

He peeled back another dead layer and cast it aside, a persona no longer required. Envy consuming the chameleon’s soul. Pridefully, proficient at his craft, superficially socializing, yet as inept as a politician’s campaign promise. His smile belying the gnawing of emptiness. The last puff of a cigarette by a blindfolded man against the firing wall, choosing to grin, if only to distract their deadly aim.

Often contemplating the pile of disguises that littered his bedroom floor. Living in constant fear of peeling back the last one. Revealing an empty soul, pasty, white and naked, for the world to ridicule. Desperately attempting to smooth wrinkles from the discard pile, a man in a desert, willing to sell his soul to have back the last swallow from his canteen, consumed hours earlier.

Unwilling to be seen without a mask, carefully avoiding mirrors; booby-traps set sadistically by knowing hands. Continually circling the room, an aircraft running out of fuel, anticipating the fiery crash, hoping to be charred beyond recognition, but by who? No one knows his true face, or his true personality. Disguised for such an eternity, even he no longer recalls his twisted logic, unable to solve the equation, that his warped mind had created.

Music to a Disturbed Mind

He felt he had merely existed on the unraveling fringes of life’s tapestry. Part of a picture he had never asked to appear in; he had been an afterthought, only inserted to cover up a mistake. Uneasiness was an integral part of his flawed DNA. He once had wished to be a part of his environment, but had tired of waiting at his lonely mailbox for his invitation. He didn’t know now if he would attend, even if invited. Instead, choosing to spend time with two unsavory, but predictable friends; misery and self-loathing.

The days seem to blur into night, nothing to distinguish one from the other. Time has no significance, for those incapable or unwilling to look forward or look back. Only a millstone crushing and constantly grinding an already disturbed and tortured mind.

He chugged down another shot of whiskey, in hopes he would pass out soon. In some twisted realm he enjoyed the solitude of unconsciousness and the warm drool on his chin that preceded it. It was his only defense against the incessant voices that riddled his brain.

At self-loathing’s insistence he continued to hone the blade. Taking inappropriate pleasure in the sound the cold steel made as it caressing and fondled the stone; it sounded like symphony to his ears.

He briefly glanced at his wrists, as if they weren’t his own wretched flesh; unable to determine the most recent scar. Only showers compared to the thunderstorms that raged within. Disappointed that none of them had sliced deep enough to finish the job; a fate that he knew the world had wished upon him since his vile inception.

Misery huddled in the corner, a dark plague in the room; cruelly laughing at his cowardice. It would be another grueling night spent together with friends; continuing to only listen to the symphony, as he was still too afraid to actually ask the blade to dance.

False Floors and Foundations

Celebrities, stardom, and fame; an American fable,
Like a drunken fool sitting too long at a poker table.
Fragile wings of a moth, drawn too close to the flame,
Are those desperately desiring to hear their own name.

The same paper people, cut from the same flawed stock;
Trying to distinguish themselves from an identical flock.
Attempting to be unique, in precisely the same way,
Convinced being discovered will liberate them some day.

Anxiously preparing a speech for their fifteen minutes of fame,
Unaware at sixteen, “forgotten” is now their new name.
Seeking acceptance from private clubs not soliciting members
A fire that once raged, now reduced to sad smoldering embers.

We’ve glorified themes; winning at all cost, teaching to brag,
Children wander circular paths, unable to find the checkered flag.
They return home, shattered pieces of the original sculpture,
Exhibiting failed symptoms of an increasingly failed culture.

They must learn lessons, that by now are long overdue;
Hard work and ethics; though society tells them untrue.
But where does one find theses illusive, vanishing ideals?
They insulate us against loss, when the world only steals.

Some parents befriend, thinking that’s what children desire.
A compassionate enforcer, precisely what they require.
Values and morals non-existent, nor enforceable in schools;
At home they must find consequences, for the breaking of rules.

Disappointment, anger, and pain; coping skills we must teach.
Molding of minds, before drifting beyond our short reach.
A product of what they observe, so by example, set a high bar
One that continues its course, no matter how near or how far.

Children may stray from instructions taught when their young
Cursing the ‘sadistic warden’ you’ve apparently become.
But in time they’ll return, like wandering sheep to the staff
Wishing to repay sacrifices you’ve made on their behalf.

The Machine

There was a time when I held my “Nose to the stone”
Working feverishly for hours; my fingers to the bone.
My job was consuming my mind and my soul
The corporate machine was swallowing me whole.

One unexpected day, the machine spit me out the ground;
Dazed and confused I looked all around.
There were many broken souls lying there in a heap,
None realizing the cost would be quite this steep.

The inventor of such a terrible machine must be mad;
Stripping it’s victims of the youth they once had.
I suppose we live in a world where folks are for rent,
And we toss them away when we feel they are spent.

The machine is efficient and it hums all the while.
The waiting line to get in, stretches more than a mile.
I’m sure by design the exit chute is hidden from sight,
If not, those who were waiting would surely take flight.

I felt it my duty to warn those that were eager to start;
I stumbled there to forewarn and poured out my heart.
I shouted above the clamor to the restless young throng
“Once inside the machine, you won’t hold up long.”

One of them laughed and said “Look at you, Man,
You’re old and you’re weak and barely can stand!
He continued his rant and said with a hoot,
“Why should I believe such a crazy old coot?”

I answered, “Warning you of the future provides me no gain;
I’m telling you the truth to spare you great pain.”
I pulled him close and saw his eyes all a gleam
I whispered in his ear, “Only a lucky few escape the machine!”

Invenitable Journey

Sailing the waters; laid down by heavenly hands;
Fluidly bridging the chasms, between foreign lands.
My vessel slices the tranquility of aquamarine glass;
Trails dissolve quickly, soon after I pass.

My seafaring brother’s accompany me only a short time,
Then circle widely, sensing this battle is mine.
Wisely choosing to have no part in my desolate task,
I thank them for escort, as I put on my mask.

Further and deeper, into foreign waters I reluctantly go.
For unknown reasons my apprehensions begin to grow.
Great fear consumes me; observing the now wicked sea,
Angry teeth gnashing and lashing, wishing to devour me.

The vengeance of sky, swirls and coils, and continues to hiss.
I woefully consider, the taste of her venomous kiss.
Briefly, surrender tempts me; the safety of my cabin inside.
The ferocious fangs of the serpent not easily denied.

“I’ll not go to the depths of the awful abyss!” I defiantly cry,
But my courage short lived, as the life of a fly.
Aware of the fetal position I’ve assumed, he wickedly smiles,
Drunken with pleasure, he revels in my secret denial.

I wake from fitful sleep; the beast has stolen what’s mine.
My treasure he’ll use, against the next victim he finds.
This time able body succumbed to fragile young mind,
The next encounter, a wiser opponent he will find.

Stowed in the hull, I discover a shield and sword to defend
My precious cargo against, such an unjustifiable end.
The demon of control and I will clash in a watery dance
It will be with purpose his head removed, not merely by chance.

The Heart of an Oak

Shades of gold and red brilliantly signal the changing season.
I’m mystically called there, although can’t give a reason.
Many believe I’ve returned, only to hunt once again.
It’s deeper than that; I’ve come to visit a dear friend.

I sit quietly in isolation amongst the elms and oaks,
For I know it is them that speak to some of us folks.
Just the mention of this would suggest I am mad;
So hesitantly I tell of the conversations I’ve had.

I remain motionless as the black turns to gray,
Knowing a twig snap is enough to keep them away.
I stare at the twisted old bark until I make out his eyes,
He’s looking much older somehow; I notice the lack of his size.

As he speaks to me I see a splintered spot in his trunk;
His voice is barely audible, lacking its usual spunk.
He welcomes me back with a warm woody smile,
“I’m glad you’ve returned friend, it’s been a long while.”

“You see, many things have transpired, not all of them good.”
I sensed he was troubled, by the complexion of his wood.
Even his posture revealed deep sorrow; his limbs drooping now,
I desperately wanted to comfort him but I didn’t know how.

I notice at his base a pile of broken limbs and dead leaves;
Then I quickly realize it’s his mate he understandably bereaves.
He tells of a terrible dark night, when the howling winds came;
They were beaten with hail and pelted by wind-driven rain.

He felt they had endured and survived through the worst,
Storms they’d seen many, but as for tornadoes, this was the first.
I could envision the devastation as he described the terrible crack,
The vial and relentless wind had finally broken her back.

I thought it ironic; usually it was I who poured out my grief.
He had always listened intently, not twitching a leave.
Finishing my story, he would willingly offer advice for free.
What would you expect, from such a wise and discerning old tree?

Before I made my way home and our talk was completely through;
I said good-bye to my friend, for the last time, this we both knew.
I promised when he passed I would honoring him in some fitting way;
Reciprocating the caring and friendship he had show me the first day.


Now as I sit in my easy chair, summer again fading to fall,
I no longer must be in the forest to answer his call.
I gaze at the timepiece made from the precious heart of his wood;
Our friendship is eternal, much longer than the years that he stood.

If you are a hunter, as am I, and often find yourself in the wild;
Let go of restricting notions, and have the faith of a child.
Let this story serve as reminder, you can take it from me,
If the opportunity arises don’t hesitate to speak to a tree.