Category: Poetry

Watching The Sunrise

Simple really.

Nothing complicated

about watching its spectacular

image rising

over the horizon.

Makes you wonder

for a moment,

just a thought,

how small we really are,

and how magical

is the sunlight on a summer’s day.

Watching the stars overnight

and falling asleep in the sky,

a peek of morning sunshine,

lights up the world around us,

any chill turns warm,

like a thermostat in the house.

Yet this is real,

this energy,

this orb before our very eyes

lights up our world.

When I Was Alone

I used to cry a lot,

the tears readily

descending my cheeks.

If I let myself go

the sobbing was

rather spectacular,

to tell a tale.

When I was alone,

I would stare out windows

count the slats

in my blinds,

waiting for the sunlight,

and then watching the light

descend into another night,

while the tears might remain.

While alone

my mind would stir,

I’d imagine all those scary

things that haunt our mind,

when left alone,

our own devices,

no longer working

in the manner we might wish.

When traveling alone

I remember seeing the world

with my eyes

naked to the world around me.

I would have to stand up

without assistance,

make sure no one around

saw my life unsteady.

Instead I would wish

the many faces nearby

would see a man

with a settled heart

and a yearning soul.

As A Little Boy

He would play with rocks

different shapes and sizes

some skippers,

others too bulky,

heavy ones

and little pebbles.

He’d release them in water,

watching them float

making waves to help them

move along the clear floor,

the rocks were everywhere,

and he could play for hours

forgetting everything around,

only he and the wet sands

with rocky shorelines,

and summer vistas.

As a little boy,

he might only remember

these things,

the moments by the beach

where rocks everywhere

represented his own

quiet and safe world.

When a little boy,

he thinks little

of the consequence

of having to experience loss.

His world is in front of him,

waves play with his rocks,

he can choose his skippers

or the ones he lugs

with all his might

to make a big splash.

As a little boy,

he wanted somehow,

someway in the summertime,

to make a big splash.

Early Hours

A starlit horizon

eyes awake

thoughts for miles

already torn

wondering

not only the day ahead

hours turn into

new life, new eyes.

Wonder of beauty

soft and supple

this newborn philosophy

needs nurturing

hands to guide

such is a

birthing soul.

What will she love

when bringing joy

into the hearts

of all who hold

her humble beginnings.

Three Years Later

I still want to figure it out

even when it doesn’t matter,

I think about those days,

all the different ways

we did live our lives,

we did hide our sorrows.

I think about the time now,

the what ifs

the why nots

the constant barrage

of never knowing how.

We live a certain way

in our society,

the ability to walk away

is sometimes easier than sticking around

then there’s that missing part,

that missing what we never want to return.

The Dawning

Now we wait

for that’s all that happens

anticipating

she’s readying herself

we are excited

it is the dawning,

a child in our midst,

about to take early breaths,

those first moments,

that miracle,

the birth of a child.

Think about the beauty,

a precious gift,

cannot imagine

a more definitive

reality

of what is the

human condition

in all its

innocence.

I’ll feel humility,

this treasure

a grandchild

holds promise

there is something

wonderful about

the birth of a child.

She is my baby,

holding onto her child.

Many Stories

I don’t know which one

to tell, to elaborate upon.

I have all these moments

call them experiences

all with a common

denominator, a sameness

that I can think about

that I can’t think about.

I have all these stories

they are the mold of my life,

every little bit of strife,

every time I feel fascinated

I find some way to reduce

the harmony of my passion.

When I was a younger man,

the story had just began

of a young boy in crisis

he’d lost a lot in his short life.

He knew people grew tired

he was fatigued himself

figured it was only normal,

lived that way every day.

He wondered when the day

would arrive he might look away.

A Wandering Mind

Here in the moment

greatest fears revealed,

the body stunned

almost motionless

frozen in time.

Seems a thought

brought this fury

in the mind.

Seems everything mattered

when suddenly

no recourse

is available

only the pit in the stomach

that quiet

monster of pain.

Second guess ourselves

now, again, always

a wandering soul

lost searching

a lasting memory

forbidden fears,

always that scrutiny

steals peace of mind.

Seems stability

takes a sabbatical.

Watching Sunsets

Simple really,

sitting on a hill,

gravel path leading

to my favorite observation

tower, leading my mind

beyond the moment before.

I’d climb the steps

knowing I’d reach the top,

sitting above the trees

landscape below.

I could look forever up there

and still be standing alone,

my thoughts my own,

my world around me.

Still no answers

I’ll decide when to leave.

There is that guttural feeling,

the slippery slope

of wondering what if

instead of knowing why.

I’d watch sunsets

all day long

if the time ever allowed

beyond that one setting sun,

began another evening

of watching my fears

dance around in my head.

Gaze along the treeline,

looking hard to see my home,

never finding anything

reminds me of that one time,

when in the heat of summer

I could feel the world around me,

hanging tight to the rail

of my favorite observation tower,

thinking about the gravel path

got me where I needed to be.

Listening to Joan Baez

She sings a song,

and I begin to weep.

I want to though,

it’s what the music asks.

Takes me away,

on a journey,

somewhere deep in my mind,

where everything speaks

of being human,

learning to live

with that we have

and that we have not.

There’s something beautiful

in a voice,

a passionate breath,

telling stories,

minding her own tears,

talking about love,

about loss

about anything

makes a good song.

Listening to Joan Baez

in the twilight of a starless sky,

the gray of a winter’s night,

waiting for the next storm,

winds of change,

the ground is frozen,

waiting for the fall.

I listened to her voice,

made me want to cry,

everything I believed

seemed so simple

in that time,

a yesteryear,

when questions remained

always looking around,

hoping someone might

suggest an answer,

turn me on to a new path,

makes me wonder

if I might ever

find it again.