The Journey…

Conception, birth and then the process
of growing older; dying is in the future
as the lifecycle travels quickly and then
the final chapter written. There are no
exceptions, only an age and date separates
all living beings.

Strength lies in the middle growing, developing
a sense of self…we bloom or we lay in waste with
the fading of seasonal growth. Life is not totally
built around your dreams, but of what impression
you leave behind during your journey.

Weep for the past and drink in the thirst of the
years that may come, be strong of heart and foresee
with the eyes of a visionary. You may at times feel
that you were never young, life being a prison of weary
pain, remember this you are not what you feel.

Deep within there is a remembrance and emotion hidden
in the heart, quiet. You may be a ghost of what you
once were…but you are still a living being and the
world applauds the reason for your birth.




Crazy Old Lady…

Once all satin and lace in the right places, boldness and bravery you possessed, your honor others did not protect.  Shunned by piety, sought by sinners, the road to hell paved by the winners.  Below the towering trees, you sleep snug and tight, to have a house of brick and stone you had no right.  Now body plump, hair gray, wrinkled dress, time has left the lady of the streets frayed.  Children sneak and try to spy, your mind gone before your body to the great by-and-by.  Now an old lady you toss your head, remember your beauty, your wicked deeds, speed of time is not on your side and you will grow older and older before you reach the great by-and-by.  In you, ourselves we see, overlooking our own blundering notions, jealous of your freedom to do as you wish with such devotion.  Crazy old lady your life in words cannot be described, and least we forget…we will all be judged together in the great by-and-by.

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The Adventurous Man

Born to be a wanderer since his birth,

born after untamed adventurous times,

his soul still fills with wonder and joy, he

continues to dream as he embarks down

another one of life’s unknown streams.


His thoughts never change whether he

sleeps or wakes the imagery warmth of

the sand on his naked feet or a salty breeze

upon his golden skin, still he dreams.  A

snowy mountain pass where eagles fly,

enjoying life only as he can, wandering

the banks of the rivers, sandy shores, he

embraces time this adventurous man.


He cries for the earth before it faced the

greed of man, his vision of the world, of God

and his soul, most who know him will never

understand.  Drinking from the stream of quiet,

his voice when heard is a mighty roar, spreading

calm and logic from shore to shore.


As the dark waste around him widens spreading

through rivers, valleys and streams, he holds

his vision of a surviving earth close to his heart.

This adventurous man believes in change, in

surviving, in hope, living in today and not the

past; living each moment as if it was his last.


Tongues of Fire..

The mind in a caged sleep, tears shed,

the thoughts of false caring that others

portray is a lie.  Their spitefulness in

thought held captive the sleeping mind

not allowing it to wake.  There are those

that cannot be trusted, they show concern

for their own selves and their own greed.

They are always on the prowl to take, take,

and take.  They cause pain to the minds of

the blameless and find in it joy, their tongue

of fire knows not the truth.  Yet, they will ask

you for your prayers, to engorge their own

needs.  If they touch your life, it will never be

the same.  Run, Run, Run…



The Hour is Late

I would not allow you to

love me fair-haired boy, yet

your flaxen locks blowing in

the wind brought me joy.

Your knowledge was that of

the earth, your touch softer

than new fallen leaves; like a

spider, a web around my heart

you tried to weave.  Promised to

another I could not break God’s

law, you were a rare find, all

goodness and kind; my heart I

placed in a tower made to erase

you from my mind.  The years

have gone quickly I often wonder

where you could be; oh fair-haired

boy where are you now that I am free.




Waking with a poet’s sigh, always alone,

in a fantasy world, mind and heart has

gone to live, to write a poet’s song.  Heart

made to live alone, words abundant

thoughts strong, the poet always alone.

Cut the strings that hold back the tide

that carries words like a bride; to the

blank page a groom of her dreams,

bonded together to the page they cling.

Happiness, humorous, sad or deadly,

at last it laid upon the poet’s desk, the

last word written; the poet did their

best.  Within the poet, darkness

dwells as it looks for a brighter sphere,

a home for the well of words, where

words may find a home; but the poet is

always alone.


Imminent Thoughts…


Drinking from a vial of dark sadness, cannot

forget, will not forget; mind reeling, mouth

twisted, choking; this pain is not terminal it is


Pain, an accumulation from the past that lingers

in memory, drifting in dreams, floundering on

invisible winds of winter; searching through the

impenetrable haze called tomorrow.

A frosted pane, bare branches waving does not

clear the cobwebbed corners of a grieving mind.

A fractured mirror imaging the soul dances

among the sunlight, a pit of Hell or tower to the

Heavens fear is no longer the builder of an

unfinished life.



Honeysuckle Memories at

On a warm summer day, an old soul returned to a place where parts of it had remain for years.  Waiting while misplaced pieces of it floated through life on waves of tears.  Many gathered on this day all had the same ancestral blood flowing through their veins.  Some came out of respect; the unbroken circle… was there for gain.

These mortals had tried to keep the old soul away from this final commemoration. They did not care about its many years of painful isolation.  Death had not fractured the unbroken circle had gone unchanged for years. The return of this old soul brought to the cloistered multitude panic and fear.

Disregarded, invisible with no right to be heard, the Old soul was damned in their every fearful word.  Watched closely, made to feel like a thief, an intruder daring to be a part of their hypocritical grief. The old soul tried to enter this circle of mourning, doors slammed in its face.  A reminder of why it was not wanted in this protected place.

Unwanted at birth, cast out on a journey at an incredible cost, to penetrate the unbroken circle was a battle that would forever be lost.  The old soul believed there was a time to grieve, a time to pray.  A time to remember when an innocent soul simply forgotten and tossed away.

On soft breezes, those that gathered could be heard with a pretense of moans.  Their voices echoed memorials where truth was silenced the real story hidden, inside of the unbroken circle truth forbidden. The old soul stared down at a mound of dirt waiting for love that the grave could not offer, while the unbroken circle gathered and divided their coffers.  A loving soul had returned to where a part of it remained years, it gathered up the pieces of its heart and wiped away its tears. The shattered old soul had returned on that warm summer day, to grieve the loss of never hearing “I love you” or feeling a parent’s gentle touch.  It needed to tell the unbroken circle when children are unloved their lives are crushed.



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In the distant sky brooding

clouds roll, like boulders

between our souls, mine

trapped in human form;

yours in heaven gracefully


A tear, a prayer, is that your

light flickering from afar, my

eyes are dim I can no longer

cry; still I cannot say good-bye.

I had no power to save you,

weakness lies within me,

bitterness follows me in my

dreams; nothing will ever be

the same, nothing is truly, as

it seems.