Conversations With My Dad

People suggest

we ought not imagine

conversations with

the dead.


The afterlife we’re told

often speculation

a creation of our own need

to reconnect.


Yet if it weren’t true

they’re listening,

then these tears that

fall would not be real.


I have conversations with my dad,

the difficult questions,

the hard to know answers,

I know he’s thinking for me.


I suppose what he might say

standing here in the room,

is the same answer he gives me

from faraway where he remains


Waiting, hoping, wishing are all

positive realities toward doing.

While the Presses Run

While the presses run, people continue to be real,

if in a day I change my focus,

the shell I’ve composed will remain on the surface.


While the presses run, the value of love does remain,

if in a moment she sheds a real tear,

nothing in the world will satisfy her impressive fear.


While the presses run, society has a certain makeup,

a sort of balanced hypocrisy to live by,

we all become responsible parties to questions why.


While the presses run, ignorance will wreak its havoc

upon those soul who cherish closed doors,

the rest of society might continue to personalize wars.


While the presses run, can we possibly give ideals time,

rather we sequester our minds with shallow

immediacy that disallows any true dialogue to grow.


I stepped outside in the morning sun, a glorious day,

to find the paper box on my corner, turned on its side.

Finding My Way

While I listen,

I watch hands that will flail,

a purpose, a manner, a passionate desire,

to know, to understand,

we reach for our grasp,

our cathartic tour through life,

some sojourn, a journey, for some a quiet discard,

from whence we came.

I wonder though about hands,

how defined are we really,

where do the surprises come from,

state of mind,

state of hypocrisy,

a societal dreamscape

carries the weight of that which we have


I’d like to know peace,

if that is something we can stroll toward,

with every sound around us,

whether the beautiful chord of gee,

or a vibration, some energy beyond

our narrow scope.

I would then find solace,

this could soon be my piece

That Disconnect Scream

Feel it,

the moment when it occurs,

can’t quite speak to it,

but you know its there,

won’t be until later,

when breathing becomes easier,

that we can begin to process,

just why that happened,

what caused me to look you in the eye,

and fail to say ‘I love you’

what is it that gets in the way

won’t let me knock down the wall,

the invisible glass

separates what I really feel from what I want to say.

Feel it,

when it occurs,

the disconnect is there,

no matter how loud I scream inside,

not a word, no utterance,

my eyes are even locked tight to protect my soul.

I wish I could,

let my internal demons be released,

certainly not to harm,


to allow that goodness to always remain.

Find it,


If Time Permits


I would like to understand these simple things.

I have a list

If I let myself go, there are many avenues

my thinking might explore, ponder, imagine.

I might even create  a sweet notion that causes

reflection …

When we do take the time to step away,

step off the platform,

allow people to engage, interact, respond

to one another

rather than leading the imagination.

Perhaps then it is that we

our common selves,

our part of a greater entity,

begins to, once in a while, not everyday learn

acceptance …

If time permits,

I would like once,

to create a certain energy,

that with everyone in every way,

allows their lives to relax and find peace,

to believe there is a way,

to understand, to recognize, to speak

openly and without distraction or descent,

only to,