The Sands Of Grace

Though my soul strolls

by spiritual steps

my heart stumbles

amid wayward feet,

within I walk by faith

as love for my Lord.

 

But when my prints

bear sin’s stain

I discover He carries me

so the traces

in the sands of grace

only reveal

what was forgiven.

Gulp

Sipping from the faucet or bottle,

a swig of supposedly pure 'Adam's Ale' is blissfully savored,

while in the inner recesses of fear there lingers

a nagging wondering in subdued anxiety — is it really safe?

 

Then is stirred that pillow snorted menacing vision from somewhere unknown,

about nights when a thick fog hovers over some body of water

creating a foreboding shroud as if being held in place by an evil force.

 

It hides what swims beneath the surface —

gray and slimy hideous, reptilian forms, born by a wicked witch's cursed hand,

who have stalked for eons the countless havens of aqua domains,

rising only occasionally to look for prey

among the mortals, wandering too near and end up disappearing,

leaving behind only splashes of blood

which are quickly washed away.

 

Within the bubbles and ripples of untold tides

these vicious unearthly beasts also deposit

the little seeds of their essence.

 

Odorless, colorless and tasteless, they are never noticed,

even when we swallow them in what we drink.

 

Later, they fester in our brains,

torturing us with nightmares while seducing some to visit

the nearest liquidity realm where they also can become a feast.

 

So drink fully and enjoy,

knowing you too might someday become dinner.

Cheers!

 

 

SHRIVELING MATCHSTICKS

Matchbox sitting on the shelf,

shaking inside from the bitter cold

still refuse to strike that match,

can't waste them, ever.

 

Icing chill bites deeper,

day's lament for worthless weather,

dying in pneumonia's rasp, visions of reaper's sickle

painting an eerie shadow on my bedroom wall.

 

One more rib stabbing cough,

phlegm comes to the lips, soul begs for warmth,

screaming to light a single match,

can't waste them, ever.

 

Shivers quake the body in horrifying tides

like a foreboding tremor of death knell warning.

 

Last of cough medicine exhausted,

lungs hurting deeply, the infection fluid inside

slowly suffocating the capacity to breathe.

Mind pleads to use one precious matchstick,

can't waste them,

ever.

 

Then the nightmare collapses,

waking to a new day, healthy of body, dead in spirit,

trust's matchbook lying on the soul's shelf,

never opened to risk a flame,

to warm or light one's life,

can't waste them, ever.

 

Colorized

Rainbows of the heart

boil behind lucid pools in veiled views,

they simmering and erupt

in countless unexpected expressions,

fiery claret stares burn their blaze

from the pot in suppressed thoughts

those brewing and bubbling infernos

ready to explode over any stress.

 

Then there are the calm cerulean glances

filled with their cool tints in control,

they can chill or freeze with a stare

form icicles with their look.

 

Both hues lie beneath

never truly knowing for sure,

which one will be seen.

 

Depends on the weather

that is stirring inside

and what season is in the mind.

 

Sometimes they occur together

as mixed signals

like a mystery you can’t solve,

just have to wait until

the mood reveals itself.

 

Flawless

Could we handle everyday

where nothing broke,

no one failed or made a mistake?

 

We speak of the Garden of Eden

like it was paradise,

yet would it truly be flawless?

 

For doesn’t most humor

arise out of blunders

and seeing irony cause error

so we can enjoy

the sublime nature of mishap?

 

What would there be to laugh about

should nothing ever went wrong?

Can’t imagine being enthralled

by every hour without a single worry

as life become utterly stale

in its matchless essence

because everything always

worked exactly as expected.

Plus there’d be no lies worth telling

from a world where all was ideal,

no scandals or even crime

since it would be utopia,

only no heroes either

for the villains would be been wiped out

with no news really to report

other than guess what

today will be perfect in every way.

 

Maybe that is even the real hell

after death

a place you go nuts

by always getting everything you wanted

or each wish coming true,

hard to think it would be other than terror

if there was never a thing to complain about.

NORMAL

Normal

is the deed

without guilt

A carving of repercussions

having

no pain.

It is the warmth

of a balance

between honesty

and acceptance

whereby

we can close

our eyes

with smiles

instead of sobs.

But what surrenders

unto the minions of nods

doesn’t always serve

any dressing of peace

with which a soul can be shod.

Prints Of The Soul

Of all the traces left by mortal means,

the lofty laces of the soul,

touch with an airy essence of ethereal feathers,

slowly stroking with soft indentations

into the many layers of life.

 

For they craft with everlasting tattoos

and leave a mark so vivid and haunting,

which brings the artistry of eternal expressions

across the mind and heart.

 

Where flesh has culled the solidity of momentary clay

with the spirit there is pressed what never dies,

molded by those digits moved by divine whispers

that convey the images beyond our reality.

 

It is by those wispy creations

we feel the purest of blissful caress,

because they stir the caldron of timeless tangential nectar

filled with the broth of euphoria, tranquility and serenity.

 

While we may cherish and possess

those artifacts of vanity,

what endures with more sway,

summons an indelible etching upon our existence,

are the prints of the soul.

Frayed Yo-Yo’s

Instinct is the truth you can’t hide

that voice within you are unable to deny

and when it shouts the facts

then ignoring them is never a victory.

 

Love is not meant to be a yo-yo

always dangling by a string

between the sky and the ground

happy when it is in the clouds

in deep agony when smashing into the soil.

 

To be dependent and not magnetized

have those moments of pure suffering

is a journey on a rollercoaster

while sitting on barbed wire.

 

Some times fear of loss

becomes a sorceress who controls,

yet inside their remains the reality

you can’t build paradise

on a earth where there is so much waste.

 

There is always pain in absence,

but even more in continuing to wander

a land that has as many tears as smiles

than to escape the game

and look ahead for that place

where happiness truly exist

without constantly walking barefoot

over hot coals in disappointment.

My Glass House

I hear the past howl in my mental glass house

like some insane, deranged banshee of a spouse,

hate will come as a butcher to rip open old scars

again I feel trapped in a torture chamber with bars.

 

It will be the same movie that’s featured every day

with past enemies as stars in that brutal, abusive play,

they’ll strangle my calm in flashbacks of being their prey

until I’m left shaking from remembering their harmful way.

 

Then I’ll exhale a breath to blow some peace over my mind

hoping it will make my rage be quietly cooled and refined,

but those conversations of anger are relived in all they so maligned,

my serenity is shattered once more and the calm I craved is declined.

 

Perhaps all the echoes of each heart searing thought could die

if I had a way to look backwards and invent a believable lie,

which could take all the melancholy clouds of guilt from my sky

so I at last would be able chase away the ghosts with on final good-bye.

 

But I know the morning will summon another bout of the same

where I’ll paint my brain with dapples of remorse and shame,

be left in a quandary of how not to accept the burden of the blame,

even find some other person to be at fault who I can call by name.

 

Living in that fragile abode so frail in the framework of sanity

is held together with a certain obsession for my pride’s vanity,

wallpaper with forgiveness scriptures comes from Christianity

while remembering being imperfect makes one apart of humanity.

 

THE ANCHOR OF ROUTINE

Today

was exhausting,

Just dong the compulsory

mandates

within the ticks of exhaling

were a laborious

indulgence.

But would life

ever be as sweet

without the mar

of humanness

to bleed our

essence

so illusion

didn’t control

our thoughts?

The answer

comes in quirks and pains

where we rejoice

over the things we treat with disdain.

Storm Watch

Timbres in thunderous tendrils

thread the tranquility

they rip at the veil of security

with their tones in stress,

while inside holding

onto the frayed fabric in calm

when time’s wayward wisps in weathering angst

comes as ominous and gray foreboding threats.

They seen with eyes so accustom

to the perils of life’s storm watch.

 

Peaces is the refuge within the mind,

a shelter of memories and strength

that doesn’t hide from the rumbling booms,

but accepts their inclement cymbals

as a serenade in stamina

because you never can avoid the tempest times,

can’t find a haven where rain doesn’t fall.

 

It is the seasoned spirit of aged glances

who can view the brewing mantle in dread,

which often sweeps over a day

with the tangled teeming touches in dismay

and stand calmly with confidence

completely aware there are rainbows to come,

another destined moment in reprieve

soon to replace the stains in trials.

 

Still within the heart shudders

amid each new wave in test,

for being human means to never stop feeling.

 

Just ever resilient in the assurance of maturity

over being able to visualize clear skies

no matter the temporal setting in the clouds.

Faces In The Wind

 

Whispers gobbled by the wind

where the heart sings its melodies

and nobody hears the sound

because everyone is trying to scream

their own message in the breeze,

make their face by the solo

one known to someone by the harmony,

let that deep urge inside be heard so clearly

so the feeling of being swallowed,

completely lost in all the chaos

doesn’t destroy the desire

to find a way to be a chiming essence

and more than a mere murmur in life.

 

During the midst of all that clamor

when you offer an sympathetic ear

that will truly hear that notes within,

which come from another life,

suddenly it inspires with joy of gratitude

over how perhaps they will be remembered

in the middle of thinking you will disappear

when futility strangles in such intensity.

One life  so touched

finds a reason to keep believing

there is a chance to be

more than a music quickly forgotten.

Then truly feeling so thriving again

with a need to keep trying

instead of simply giving up

where quiet makes you like a ghost.

Roses Of The Night

Precious petals that bloom in the heart,

held in their delicate, frail life

like dreams and love stories

told alone after dark,

because there is no one to listen

unto the tales that flower

from touches never known.

 

Still inside they are written,

kept alive within the eyes

just praying someone will see them

and recognize the hidden pains,

for it is a book only opened

in the silent shade that follows sunset.

 

Each page was penned

with a prayer and wish

that was expressed in a diary,

but sealed away in a library

no one is ever allowed to visit.

 

Ever day those words

hang on lips that were blistered

by betrayal and abuse.

 

Yet still the writer inside

clings to the hope

someday to meet the one true love

who can share what is on the lines

expressed as those roses of the night

then see the beauty others miss

so they won’t keep wilting

in the black emptiness.

Fill Me Oh Lord

 

Please pour out your spirit like a rain

over this chasm of hollowness

where my soul languishes in love’s void.

Immerse me in your divine grace

let it wash over me and fill me fully

for I ache from my own emptiness,

just a shell of life so vacant

and lacking a sense of fulfillment

 

Long have I wander the wilderness in vanity,

naked and alone, lost without hope

covered in the stains of my impurities,

fatigue plagues my steps of this pilgrimage to self

where I feel soiled and scarred

utterly bedecked with sadness.

 

Grant me the cleansing

of my wayward garments,

clothe me in raiment of your grace

until I can know the serenity

only you can bestow

in compassion and forgiveness.

 

Reveal to me the vision eternal

show its light in my darkness,

let it become the fire in my heart,

which will at last allow me to see

the place you intend my life to dwell

then cherish its sanctuary with the praise

over how makes me whole.

Trinity Clashes

Deep in the chasms of bleeding, luminescent sarcophagus

where the scribes of our essence chant their secrets

the tethers to reality fray

binding the mind, body and soul.

 

Spirit ascends to lofty layers while sewn to earthen facets,

brain begets its throated passions, visions steam in fancy's tea pot,

flesh obeys as servant to king pulse,

all working in rhythm to a sun's stop watch.

 

Inward the ghosts of our stumbling resolutions

weave festoons of Nirvana and Hades into the sandman's litter box.

 

Between the pillars of conscience

erected to keep the crumbling house of sanity

from suffering dementia's earthquake

one strolls as a mirror enigma

calling out for help with mime language.

 

Hoping to find a maze with a map

that doesn't lead to another halo dungeon

where the screams from our triune essence are soften

by the death groans of our mortality.

 

Staying The Course

In the soul resides the compass,

a spiritual sextant focused on what truly matters,

never adjusted to guide vainly towards self serving destinations.

 

Though the inner sails must honestly

be driven through challenges unto the rudder of one’s faith,

even if the voyage naturally crosses harsh sands in demands,

devout eyes are always affixed wisely upon that charted passage

to continue through the terrains that tax.

 

It’s the journey that floats from within,

very intense and tightly wound in passion,

for it is a sojourn that ever summons

a joy of trusting in more than hands

and lets a divine captain pilot that wheel.

Regardless if there are woefully windy threats

stalwart views are never swallowed by approaching crests

so vaguely defined and bearing a sense of ill will.

 

Because inside remains heaven’s chart,

aware it doesn’t get reached by hastily chosen changes

as the steadfast steering of life.

 

To hold in earnest with every ounce of conviction

allows that eternal essence arise as energy and purpose,

brings a calm amid the turmoil and tempest

until the barren wilderness of doubt

fades in favor of a horizon shining

with a sun revealing God’s hands,

which becomes that lighthouse

kept burning through long vigil in struggles

where the trip was monotonous

and burdened by dunes of melancholy’s grains.

Trinkets

Souvenirs collected from races to rainbows

stored in a toy chest after broken

as the world keeps shrinking

because each trinket loses its magic

quicker than the one before.

 

Slowly sucked into an abyss

where everything collapses on top,

can’t turn up the volume

on the stereo in the head

loud enough to stop

that feeling off falling,

completely vanishing

down a rabbit hole like Alice In Wonderland

because it is filled with plastic truths and emptiness.

Then desperately clutching at a commercial break,

some new flash in thought to reveal a treasure

rich enough to end the reruns,

which keep making each night

another hollow shell with a ticking time bomb

just hoping it will explode

and end this misery

of ever probing beneath each façade

constantly seeing the truth

then living with the awareness

they aren’t the giants imagined

who could squish your problems.

Of Dawn

Of dawn

that dares to write my soul in crimson awe

and raise my thoughts beyond anxiety's dew.

Seeing in aqua's mercurial mirror

which carves its face as a watery mask

in the cradle of a stony vale in wonder,

a song serene unto the spirit

floating my heart over the jagged edges

where I stand on a cliff in melancholy's paralysis

awaiting the panoramic canvas waves of visionary rush

to immerse me in the pure bath of ecstasy.

 

For in a heartbeat lived among the rocky ashen clefts

beneath the stunning streaks of sanguine and saffron ribbons

tying together the ebbing hues in turquoise,

my life transcends the daily feast from angst bakery

finding heaven's fingers leaving their craftsmanship

upon this fragment of mesmerizing, natural artistry.

 

The wind sweeps across my mind with its tangential kisses,

felt with an angelic breath of inspiration,

becoming part of the rustic jewel's facets

one more glow to shine

from discovering in this moment of complete awakening

an inner sunrise from the light of God.

 

The Promise

 

Her radiance glows from deep within

echoing with passion's whispered seconds

in the quiet eve of shared hearts

where she and her love

let the night take them on a journey

to see a future written in memories

of two hearts living as one.

 

Waiting for the cherished event

that would bond them forever

insides she tingles with images

about all that marriage will mean.

 

Adorned as an angel with gift of a veil,

cameo necklace worn around her neck

adding a chorus of joy's song

unto her thoughts.

 

Lingering in the pulse of pure euphoria

expecting it to be their wedding song forever,

being the vow they'll give with their soul's surrender,

the promise that pure love always longs to keeps.

Golden

Day burns bright in glistening sparkle upon the mind

every gaze a glorious feast to celebrate

when the soul awakes to find beauty among each tale of light.

Finding gems in the auras of discarded radiance

old dilapidated buildings once cold, become inviting,

as the world erupts into a splendorous labyrinth of gardens

inhaling the textures, scents and sounds once ignored

ghosts of lost labors speaking in rusted out old buckets

lying on the ground of an abandoned house

liter even uttering its own legends of abandonment

all wrapped in the brain as a interpretive, burning scroll.

 

Cruel and grumpy goblins of fleeting encounters, turn to angels in the heart,

creation unfolds in caresses of vibrant awe with concrete and steel become art works,

embracing even that haggard and ragged man with the cardboard sign

with a precious sense of respect for all creation.

Life retires from the habit of addictive indifference

hands reach out to drape a new dawn upon the pleading mesh of suffering humanity,

when there is treasure seen beyond a pocket book,

moments touched as the quintessence of richness, cherished as golden.

Sky Diving

Vision flights form their chutes

to bring the sky’s airy calm

down to the earth as lofty solutions,

they hold the promises of panaceas,

little drills to dig into suffering’s soil.

 

How it is supposed to impale poverty

so springs of potency can gush

and become the wick of illumination,

shine as cures to social injustices

all before the sun’s array in reality.

 

But they often bend and break

when used as actual tools

for their metal is mercurial and unstable,

unable to truly summon any sagacious well.

 

Wandering that wilderness

of unredeemed enigmas,

ever looking for some flame

that can somehow offer an incense

in utopian illusions,

which can be inhaled to replace

the futility of trying to find

what will endure any day

by the gossamer nails to build

those fleeting phantoms of idealism.

Punxsutawney’s Prophet

Oh Phil give us some light

please speak some hope our way.

 

When I think of this February event

can’t help wondering

if by chance the groundhog

had some special part in other weather activities.

 

Did Noah have one on the ark

and ask it to see if it saw a shadow

so it meant six more weeks of rain?

 

But we never know,

can’t say for sure,

just imagine Noah’s would be as thrilled

from that shadow sighting too.

 

Makes me remember a joke

about Easter off all things

where this eight year on in Sunday School

was asked to explain the meaning.

 

Said it was when the Lord came

out of his tomb,

the teacher was thrilled

until little Sally added

and if He sees His shadow

it means six more weeks of winter.

Drops

There is no umbrella

to shade from the rain in the heart,

the pains and stains of tears

showered during storms from lips.

 

Wrapped in the towel

given by the one met

who came along

and gave love’s cloth

as a way to dry

water that flowed from the eyes,

but in the times of smiles

those moments that helped

take away the past hurts,

sometimes the ghosts come

who bring their torture devices

by flashbacks that sting again,

all you can do is close the eyes

until the drops in the mind,

each image of suffering

squeezed into that reflection

finally evaporates from recalling

someone is there hold and care

through the seizures in recollections.

While doing the best to hold on to that thought

when alone in the long afternoons of echoing sobs.

 

Each Breath

Each breath

we take

can be a lifetime,

when we are loved

and remembered for our hugs.

 

Though the darkest shadows,

I raised this prayer of verse

for you time of struggle,

hoping it helps to encourage

with his promise of how his eyes always see,

never forget, nor abandon his angels.

 

May his mercy and healing

drape you in the serene, assuring weave

of his spirit's everlasting garment.

 

Lifting so tenderly

your life and need

towards heaven's merciful throne

where you are never without

God's hand holding on to yours,

comforting in his quiet caring caress

letting you feel by his presence

how you are not alone.

 

Knowing too that no single care

goes unfelt

by the heart of God.