Every Night

the satchel lays under the bed,

packed for size,

just the essentials that later define a life,

right now,

well, just a bag with some assorted goods.

Put me on a freight heading west and it suddenly,

like the click-clack of the tracks,

becomes everything we own in the world,

leaving the rest behind.


I think if I could live my life that way,

I might be less afraid of what I know today,

more intrigued by that which lies ahead,

those moments,

the brush of a shoulder,

a stranger’s smile on a sunny morning,

whenever any thoughts before that smile,

became surrounded by worry,

concern, defeatist theory, the everyday

glass half-empty man.


I occasionally look at the bag underneath my bed,

and see it sort of smiling knowing I will never lead.

Change WIll Evolve

Though skies continue an effervescent blue

the world around may change

gather strength to survive a lesson

one time

each moment drawn together

while life’s reason beckons

a lonely heart wants to be there.

Take me to that place

where I no longer have to


to confusion,

my trepidation

beside your insidious


Instead I will leave,

cross the tracks

inside a dream only to allow

a moment might its mystique


move me forward with purpose.

I would leave behind the shallow

nature of discipline

restore again a benevolent drive  toward

creating a manner for which we might all

arrive; leave behind the roadblocks,

those avenues of indecision.

For a moment

while glancing backward

we can again sense where we have been,

and now who we might become.

Travel forward, bid adieu

sweet departure.

Wait, Why … When?

( I would ask for feedback, as I consider submission with this piece )


I walk past every day


while waiting

in wonder I imagine

where in time we wander

when a fleeting moment takes me away


Only if true this departure


seductive in romantic airs,

a symbolic gesture toward passion.

Will there be a solution

beyond that visual apparition

keeps me nearby

waiting, bags packed again.


Step forward in motion

cry for the breeze that implies

a change in season,

perhaps a new autumn.

For a time,

have not a single chime,

yet hear as I stand,


for that silent arrival.


Distant sounds,


my bedroom as a child

listening to a world out of reach,

and wondering if my smitten innocence

might answer the call.

Is the whistle only heard

by those wandering souls

who wait in subtle repose?

That arrival is a necessary move,

a symbiotic revolution,

beforehand, as brief a quiet departure,

Wait …