Thinking the Essence of Man

Who are we

he said

over a beer with a friend,

troubled by the circumstance

of a gender bending


in his mind,


in another’s

an opportunity

perhaps to find Grace

between man and woman,

to know some

spiritual guidance

will take our lives much further

then simple rejection.


Oh, but simple is not truth,

this analogy

seems a convenient

escape beyond our

self-described realism.


Man is not alone,

in a sweet testament

could if found

embark upon a journey

perhaps a sojourn

of forgiveness

to know only that


might, may, could, will be

a savior

in the fault

of human pride

the human condition

as it plays out


Whisper Security

I was told everyone carries the same anxiety,

I walked into the room and asked the man boldly,

can you tell me what it is they fear so assuredly,

he said, that’s not the issue, the point is variety.


I’ve always wondered about the man in the suit,

the woman groomed with a svelte sweet look

I’m curious do we all carry the same sordid boot

that one will kick our ass if our sanity we unhook


Perhaps we’ll always play to live out a non-sequitur,

an uncanny romantic sojourn towards finding home

we challenge the world around us that crazily roam

same streets, same words, same eyes, nomenclature.


The blood in our veins will eek the similar stain

when cut to size, we might, humility, ask remain.


Real People

Those that speak, believe, feel

Those that cry, question, deal

Those that travel deep inside a fear

might discover there’s nothing there.


I once knew a friend,

a true compadre

she would tell me when

I was having an odd day.


Last year I became resolute

I learned how to play the flute

This seems simple and trivial

much less fake and convivial.


When I realized how far gone

my ability to trust anyone

had become in an October day,

I wondered why, I’d felt that way.


I came to know there was this

quiet reality we all seem to dismiss.

That is, when life delivers a blow,

we must quickly pack up and go.


Seldom will we find satisfaction

in our own mind’s application

of insecurity and hopes decidedly

drawn upon a candid variety


of leaps and bounds

fresh new sounds

the quiet moonlight’s mist,

now so easily dismissed.


In reality we are people who love

nothing else may be placed above.

To Write a Wrong

Clever we are given allowance with our word

an opportunity to state simply the absurd.


Yet today with vast swift lines of hyper-space

so often our word becomes a shadowed face.


We slap one another gladly with the aim of syntax

always apparent, forever feeling no hidden tax


Unlike some childhood when words might disappear

into a soft moonlight, a rising sun, in arms we endear.


Forgiveness would always over-ride distant memory

again, without words, just eyes, love might agree


to overlook, to ask for another opportunity, per chance;

a disagreement settled while communications enhance


the true meaning of our interactions, our human condition

rather than the insidious nature of calling into question


any single individual with actions or motives to aptly slay

the dragon of inner turmoil so easily spewed today.


Indeed, so easily are we drawn to the nature of the easy,

a sentence here, quick phrase, an ‘fml,’ leaves one queazy.


We can try in honesty speaks (right) our world with common sense to release …

The ills, the fears, the fiber optic feeding frenzy hallows our peace.


Artist: Dani Stites

At Seventeen Again

Years later, I returned, I didn’t ask,

I just recall the time I lived there,

alone in my own quiet space,

lumbering vacant emotions were near.

I glance around the hallways

see the faces exist alone together,

happy, smiling, crying, scared

defiant, denied, demands, devoid

of all the worry that years later,

their lives will wish might be a return

to that simple time when almost a child

we could all live again, at seventeen.


Let’s not forget the nightmare exists

when every morning in a mirror,

their souls rely upon one happy line,

a smile, a glance, a potential kiss,

a date to the prom, instead of alone,

let’s recall that every step they take,

through a sea of like minded souls

contains the trappings, the stirrings,

the mystique of the human condition.

When next you round a corner, take

heed in the eyes, they’re your tell,

the windows of worry that suggest

we’re all seventeen again in awhile.


I want to live my life as a whole

individual, one that might relish,

a summer morning, without worry

of where my food will come, where,

shelter will present itself in the middle

of a haunting night that reflects

the somber reality of my life, known.


Yet, at seventeen, I’m surrounded,

so why, where is it, I stand alone.