Prints

Each soul a cloud drifting
through life's sky,
unique, temporal,
crafted by the winds and weather
that blow across one's face.

Some leaving their marks
upon other's soil,
droplets of love's rain
or the deluge's in thunderous words.

One can forget how swiftly
any breeze can change direction
or that no billowy presence
last forever.

And that what truly remains
are the prints
left on those
whose memories
remember when a storm
brought more joy
than misery.

Spaces

Weaves of wispy white,
morning's soft, elusive lace
binds itself in lilting inner notes of soul song
which cling to the spaces in my heart.

Towers of pine reaching upwards as if in praise,
poke through hint of mystic alabaster,
show way to Heaven's thoughts and God's face,
lush foliage cushions with serenity's pillows.

Bird song dances through the quiet solitude
never truly alone, for Lord's spirit ever caresses the journey.

Noon

Park's flowers
brilliant blooms
given to lover
lunch for heart.

The Unseen

By mortal eyes we only see the depths of now,
those limits of time and space
placed upon our sense.

We know of atoms,
but can’t see their infinitesimally small essence,
nor can we appreciate how divine power
is able to violate the law of physics
so that perhaps heaven is really
some place that dwells
as a spec on a electron
where immortal creatures
are able to change size at will.

While we scan the stars
for any sign of eternal life,
it might thrive as some incredible tiny
part of a paper clip.

It is all to say we define by boundaries
though they may have no reality
with ethereal sources of energy.

And what is unsaid is also unseen
when it comes to the scriptures,
where the Lord is a mix of awe and questions
what we don’t know
leaves the door open to so much,
for who says God can only take a single form
or Jesus even had to be only as a man?

Our limitations restrict those chances,
yet also there are clues,
little hints in the scriptures
how more lies beyond our thinking
than we can really accept.

Because one prophet spoke of seeing the earth
with cities and yet there were no men,
basically a place occupied by another life form
before man was created.

Where did they go?
Just another detail that fades into the unknown,
maybe they are still around and dwelling on some spec
visited by the Lord along with countless creations
that we have no clue exists.

Orbits

Within the frail form of life’s daily dome
where the heart is held in a sanctuary,
we feel the sway of those who circle our reality,
the stunning stars in caring souls
bringing hope’s light into our the crannies,
they shimmer friendship’s shining splendor,
spinning the insides in rotations
away from our sense of aloneness,
sharing the constellations over our minds
and illuminating trust in their twinkle touches.

Then there are the meteors,
calamity’s comets streaking into our calm,
bearing their fiery flames upon our thoughts,
anxiety flaring in their collisions,
leaving craters in the landscape
in which we planted our flowers and thickets
as the scenery that summons serenity.

Aware too of the orbiting presence
from the beating satellites of our beings,
precious offspring we launched in parenthood
who mirror our most passionate expressions,
ever effecting every aspect of our day,
yet giving us such joy in the midst
of the tug they place upon our feelings.

Dwelling among time in our consciousness’ globes
though never truly alone,
just surrounded by all the ones,
which revolve around our essence by love’s gravity,
willingly accepting what descends into our quiet
because no one can have a sky
that doesn’t include what influences and inspires.

Grant Me New Eyes Oh Lord

Grant me new eyes oh Lord
to see with my soul what is true
of your glory to worship
and your mercy to know.

Let my voice rejoice in praise
for the sight you give
as it shuts out all the other thoughts
when all I can see is you.

Bless me oh God with the joy
rising from casting aside ever encumbrance
that I might cherish what is truth
how Jesus as the lamb
is all the knowledge I need
totally transfixed by envisioning you on your throne,
an endless radiance of power and perfection.

Just to stand and lift up my psalm
in steady resonance of thanksgiving
when I know in my heart by His spirit’s touch
there is nothing more worthy
than my lord and savior
and I am blessed, totally surrendered
to cry out my heart’s deepest sense of love
over how in all that distracts
nothing can separate me
from singing salvation’s song
unto the one who is truly holy.

Bear me now the wings of gratitude
so I might fly in my meditative thoughts
upon the sweet rush of your longsuffering
in ever expanding inner longing
to only know you above all else.

For in your arms shall I always want to stay,
shout the adoration you summon
with such precious touch unto my lips,
today is yours and tomorrow
it is enough to live
only in the breath of every hymn
my mouth and heart can sing.

 

Healing

Searching through the blackness
of inner space’s many recesses.
Feeling the cold and isolation
while looking for answers
to all the pains and mistakes
as they come into the head
like stars in the night sky.

Spinning inward in hurling cycles,
faster and faster plummeting to the depths.
Fear spiders crawling through the nerves,
desperate to find that cerulean light of truth
shining its radiance upon what brought
the manny hurts and sorrow into the memories.

Closer and closer coming to the core
with its nova of illumination’s explosion
and at last feeling its warmth
when finally being able to see
what had caused so many errors,
totally covered thoughts with guilt.

Then the eyes pierce that place
beyond excuses and lies,
beyond the tales told as constellations
to distract from who we might be.

Reaching where there is heat
that heals from its reality
while the azure rays of recovery
bring a calm and new life.

Rising towards the world again
breathing without the same delusions
in a new hope and joy
from the sense of incredible freedom.

Sagacity's Siren

Souls sip
her eternal light,
which turns
their dreams
into visions.

Lives spent
creating her truths
in history's
stony souvenirs.

The Sky Always

Though clouds should shroud the day,
hope resides in the light that never dims,
that sees the rainbows in any storms,
never stops watching
for the wings inside,
which can fly regardless of the weather.

For wherever there is an umbrella of faith
the sky always
will be seen as clear,
because the soul
is sheltered in God’s tent,
His divine canopy
covers with mercy,
so even in a thunderstorm of tears
He is there,
regardless of the lightning crisis,
the Lord does not forsake.

And in the darkness
when we are alone
does His sun ever shine,
with our eyes viewing
all the peace and promise
stretching as and endless sheet
across the heart,
tranquility’s wind breath by Heaven,
to quiet the tempest within.

Being able to rest in the tornadoes
ever seeing beyond the anxiety,
serene is His touch
we can hold onto
when all else fades as vanity.

Baubles

Baubles dangle before the brain,
spheres of sunset’s inspiring pearls,
orbs floating reflection’s memories,
nostalgia’s necklace draping the sky
like bubbles bouncing in the breeze.

The heart drinks the ambience champagne
slowly sipping its steady soothing serenity.
Holding the moment is tranquility’s glass,
pierced by the sense
that twilight has its own eyes,
as if a specter is in the scenery
silently casting a spell
from another time.

On the beach within the spirit
sands of time drift with their tales,
feet touch the grains and hope to leave a mark,
to capture the hour as more than a twilight.

And bedeck life in the jewelry of hope,
those gems that float in the mind
as gentle and caressing as a warm wind,
until the beach before the soul
is a splendor reaching from within,
precious and intense,
a siren calling forth
that takes one to places
deeply potent in the purest calm.

Downhill

Slips of sanity
skid over icy elations,
will trembles
from failed brakes,
rushing past stop sign
finally unafraid of crashing.

Ghosts

In the bright fullness of day
they hide from the eyes,
but when the light is faint enough
so gray is the shade
of leaves and foliage.
Alone, the imagination’s eyes
give the sight.

It’s when bushes mysterious move
when sounds rise from thickets
and our minds decide
if they are just the wind
or some other unearthly source.

That is the magical time
where a garden seems to breath
you just feel as if being watch
and the brain creates
a hundred reasons for each
unexplainable event.

Walking away
those sensations
stick in the head.
As we feel temporarily
trapped between life and death.

Perhaps it is all fantasy,
but inside we can stop
wandering into that shadow realm
while hoping to prove
the world really is enchanted.

Moving quickly when not so sure
just in case monster are waiting,
heart pounding from every thud
that keeps echoing within
like a sound we can’t forget.

Following us home
and into our dreams
as the ghost of what
we wish was real.

 

Masquerade Scents

Paramour paradisiacal nostrils
inhaling Quixotic scents
as Camelot whiffs
become brimstone odors.

Dawn’s Prelude

The quiet spreads its silent serenity
over the charcoal and ivory landscape,
it breathes a tranquil touch
into the dark corners of dawn’s prelude,
soothing in its cool caress.

In the mist’s wispy mantle
hides the voices of birds and insect
their song echoing off the glassy lake
as a serenade that spins a spell,
flowing gently through the air,
rich in its blissful notes
that give a hush unto the mind
over what waits to greet the day.

Slowly the heart surrenders
unto the magic mix in shadows and light,
sensing Mother Nature’s hands
moving through the soft sheet of stillness,
until they embrace the senses
with calming waves.

Feeling the flush in euphoria’s fingers
comb over the pore in such peaceful strokes,
opening the mind to that special enchantment
only known before the sun rises in the sky.

Bearer of Light

Bearer of light who drinks from the soul,
piercing the veils of thoughts with his probe of illumination,
writes a spiritual tornado with his quill
to lift a broken life upon a cloud
so its wings can heal and heart find the path to truth's mirror.

On Replay

Body so naked and lymph
did this sickness have to come?
The curse of being ignored
that erodes every ounce of strength
and dreams hide in dark clouds
and tomorrow is sucked in a sewer.

But that is all unimportant
compared to the haunting,
a visit from ghosts in the mirror
who rip out your heart
when you’re barely breathing.

Worked so hard to kill them
stop hearing their voices,
only they come back again
every time some mistake
lets their whispers
of I told you so
become a cancer
spreading its poison inside
with weeping the only treatment
for the illness that rots away
all you wanted from life.

Lost

Only the wind combs with unmerited caresses
only the sun beholds the arches of the spine
where there flowers a face’s bloom
among a bed of petals seldom seen
though passed every day
by the steady stream in consciousness
who are looking for beauty
in places that will herald their own splendor.

And what is distinct and unique
gets lost in the constant shuffle,
forgotten if remembered at all,
slowly eroding in its spring of pride
because its potential withered
while fading in the light
that illuminated the inner radiance,
each exquisite detail that dwell
within the lines and textures present,
but like an eraser that wipes away images
so some eyes can eradicate
the real miracle of a single life
through the lack of water,
which comes from the well in the heart
when it flows with the words
able to given hope unto any budding stem
of a seedling spirit
totally in need of encouragement.

Our Lord’s Appearance

The Bible doesn’t give us any description
of the Lord’s physical appearance,
but at Knott’s Berry Farm
in Buena Park, Ca.,
they had a painting in their,
“Little Chapel By The Lake,”
that was based, according to them,
on a description from Tertullian.
He supposedly based it on interviews
with those who supposedly
had seen Jesus.

They had a painting
giving a portrait of the description.
And they provided a taped narration
of the image.

In this description,
Jesus was said to have red hair
with blue eyes.
This might seem impossible,
yet we know in His lineage
was David, King of Israel,
which is said to have been “ruddy”
or red in his features.
Plus Abraham’s wife,
is said to have been “fair,”
meaning she was blonde.

While no one can prove
the presentation is accurate
it doesn’t give at least one interpretation.
This painting was seen by thousands
when it was on display.

Though different from what some would think,
was still very moving
to look up his face,
seeing those piercing blue eyes
staring back.

Genesis

Upon the inaugural dais of patriotism’s plank
the symbolic herald of hope,
stood the living light of tomorrow,
our new guardian and sentinel.

His presence brings a ladder
to help lift a nation’s spirit
from the pit of deception
having been drug
across the thorny thickets
in fabrications.

Letting his voice and wisdom
wave a flag within our hearts,
upon a vision’s wind.

That we might again
breathe freedom’s air
feel the crisp breeze of democracy’s sky
spread over the land,
hands in hands,
celebrating a rebirth
of our lost dreams.

Once again to see our sacred soil
as the womb of equality,
where we follow our new leader
along a path
not using a rhetoric map
that was written by minds
more concerned about their own survival
than the common good.

Facets

Gems of hearts
so full in fire and luster,
shining through the fractures,
those matchless mars that never end
the prism of possibilities
from being appreciated
for all the colors present within.
Each talent’s hues
a rainbow in potential,
even when they are splintered in light,
still being crystals in gifts,
rare and exquisite,
unique in the facets that can glisten as a star,
burning in such intensity
while blessing with incredible images,
stunningly amazing when truly appreciated.

Stones that replaced the beating life,
are so cold and stagnant,
they are harden to the day,
no illumination in their depth.
On the surface so smooth
not a single crack visible
because nothing can dent
that insensitive façade.

While the rocks may seem so durable,
when one is looking for that choice
for what can fit a necklace of quality,
worn to expresses true value,
what glimmers from genuine worth
will always be cherished
over the pebble that appears unblemished,
but is dull and void of vitality.

Honeycombs

They drip with honey over my heart
in succulent and savory flows of amber warmth
and bathe me in the steady hum in smiles.

It isn’t a single moment’s vivid, vitality
instead it is the feel, the sound or sight
that summons a soothing wave over my mind
so I sense the balm of peace in that encounter
as it swirls and swims inside with its sensory charms,
which rises from any thought they inspire
that takes me on a cerebral journey of profoundness.

Transitions

Life is not a brick of permanent, impenetrable predictions
easily formed and forged into a foundation
that is happily obedient unto our every will.

And so, in moments of better sanity
we accept the wind as an invisible mantle,
which spreads as a metaphor over everything
so it can’t be totally tamed or controlled.

I still have my book,
the one that I write down my expectations,
it just feels so good to see the world in ink
where everything turns out according to my whims.
But there are earthquakes, storms
even the usual shakings for circumstances,
all stomping over my house of cards
though I was sure this deck
was so much more secure and stable
to endure any dangers.

Oh heaven is perhaps the haven
filled with the hope of unchanging bills,
until then we dance, make love and dream
always hoping for a date
as perfect as we can create in fantasies
who won’t turn out to be a nightmare
since we get enough of those in life
without even having to try.

Subtle

There’s three old prune minds
sitting on the park bench,
rambling about their glory days
of vigor and being gods.
I am cardboard to them
something to hang on a tree
a nice artificial image
to augment the scenery.

I walk through the corridors
each cracked and worn hallway,
hear the moans of sobbing scholars
that lived so long ago,
but their words sing inside
as subtle thoughts and paintings,
does other see the vision graffiti
written on my face?

My skin speaks the air’s quill
my body soaks the sun’s sounds,
my eyes bake in the beams
radiating from the light of lips.

Yet, it all is soft tremors
leaving me a hollow, flaccid life,
a stranger, nomad and vagabond
whose home is in my head,
and will someone enter that portico of profound
where I stroll alone,
they just pass by and look the other
never letting their finger feel
each easily sensed truth.
Then moving elsewhere in their words,
somewhere I am forgotten
because compounding their drifting
is a need to cultivate facades
so they never knock on my portal
to find out how easily it is to reach inside.

Night’s Pardon

The darkness just bled away
like being sucked out of my heart,
for my hands found the candle
that shines its radiance
into that black hole
where I feel .

But I reached up
through all the ooze,
out of the ebony stew in sadness,
just feeling that euphoric blast
from having night’s pardon
to bless me with new life.

It’s a cleansing shimmer,
which now burns inside,
totally eradicating that sense of futility.

Now I can dream and see the sky,
walk with steps completely alive,
I am the renewed,
alive as never before.

Dark Angel Of Sweet Release

I remember the cold, empty days
of beatings and cruelty,
the mastery of leaving scars on the mind,
totally violating the heart,
but never leaving a mark or witnesses.

So I walked a broken jar of being,
kept my pain inside while thinking,
surely this punishment was deserved
for some sin I committed
though I couldn’t remember
what I did so wrong.

Left a shell in my existence
Nobody asked about my hollowness,
just sitting in the high school classroom,
while watching everyone else act
like they were cool,
though to them I was some kind of leper.

Later in the pain of my waning esteem,
what relief came unto my brain
the moment that voice of divine judgment
suddenly spoke to me in the night,
then I became the dark angel,
no longer worthless and rejected,
carefully listening to those instructions
to help so many suffering lives
find a path of liberty
out of their agony.

I was confused at times
over the amazingly hideous ways of salvation,
my instructions to disembowel, decapitate
and totally mutilate those I had been told
were worthy of redemption.

Preserves

Fruit of life cherished and collected
in the cool hours of reflection,
each a ripe memento of sameness
that gives its plump and juicy essence
unto what fractures peace.

And the heart tarries
over the shelves of do,
the fragile layers of stability
prepared to preserve
that harvest of what is consumed
during the steady search for serenity.

It is unvarnished of illusion,
stripped of any mental supplications
to give a look other than truth.

For in the simple honesty
life is the heart beat among
each aisle of monotonous passage
across the familiar.

Hands lovingly holding
one more harvest
of the nutrients,
which provide vitamins
giving the hours spent
in such dull contemplation
over the boredom of being
a fancy sugar rush to keep
some surge in anticipation
filling the mind with its energy
so the routine becomes gray in possibilities
rather than just black and way.

Where the Raven Rests

Archway
leads to vacant lot,
where mansion stood.

Legends claim
wizard owned estate,
neighbors swear
screams and eerie lights
heard each night.

Until consumed
by mysterious fire,
pet raven
with crimson eyes
rests on fence,
said he guards
against intruders
casts spell
master taught,
sending visitors
to heaven or hell.

She sleeps

She sleeps in shadows filled with screams,
voices moaning in icy spine spikes
only she can hear,
given drugs to calm her panic,
parents and friends
all thinking her mind has fallen
into a hopeless crypt of dementia.

World floods her night and day
with anxiety when she hears the murmurs in her brain,
as she feels tears and thoughts raging
in unseen beings speaking their tormented echoes,
insides burning with visions
that stalk from places
where she has never been.

Reluctantly accepting therapist's session,
conforming to the reality
forced upon her by those
who can feel what stalks her every waking second..

It all leaves her traumatized
and confused, trying at night
to avoid the trembling
when those unearthly sounds
come through the walls.

They say so many strange things,
blends of eerie and oddly serene,
has no clue on what they all mean,
but their sound so ominous and powerful.

Between the haze induced by her meds,
there are the moments when it almost makes sense,
still she resists the idea that stirs in her thinking,
this encounter, which flows with so many images,
is brought by golden transparent creatures.
So hard to accept the idea
she rejects as insanity,
heaven she doesn't even believe in
has whispered in her name,
and given her wings of a prophet.

You Never Know

He spent his life preparing for skits and jokes,
three decades devoted to intros for Johnny,
brought us bloopers and practical jokes,
even advised us on what beer was best.

Strolled on the screen in a few cinema roles,
did his part for the USA in WW 2,
question is, which one will he best
want to be remembered for as his life.

Thirty’s years out of 86 he hung with Tonight Show,
but when time came for that cameo in Heaven,
was Johnny who had the role first
back in 2005.

Now it makes one wonder,
did that comedian and talk show host
run out of new bits to perform,
so he called out for help
and naturally Ed can the message.

Guess we will never know for sure,
just a thought,
but wonder how he would react
standing there in that tuxedo robe
reading from some angel’s cue card.

In The Aftermath

The prophets always prevail in the post pronouncements
about the wake that follows any tidal force calamity,
vows are affixed in passionate proclamation,
in hopes this vestige of consequence
shall not become a harbinger of tomorrow’s ruins.

Then come the meetings and the speeches,
all the rally’s to end injustices
that leave their scars and blood dripped upon the mind
over a wound that no one cared
to prevent by taking away the villain’s brandished knife.

It is the legacy of dramatics that gets so much practice
by the hindsight sages that never have any real insight,
who always wait for the sacrifice of innocence
before they decide to react,
far too busy in their ardent zeal for attention
for noticing all those in the aftermath hints
visible in eyes of hurting souls,
carrying the storm warnings of a gathering rage,
which could be avoided if one wasn’t so busy
giving their sermonize philosophies of regret
over some other moment that was ignored
and now somebody has to pick up the pieces
of the preventable destruction.