The Heart Of The Sky

They were born at sunrise,
two lives fated by the great spirit as a single heart,
foretold to the mystic ones during their waking dreams
when the gray smoke of divine presence
rose from their tribe’s sacred fire pits.

Their births came at the same moment though miles apart,
on a cloudless day under a brilliant turquoise sky,
the morning brought a strange, lurid wind,
a blue mist appeared driven by its invisible breath,
carried across the villages with a mesmerizing magic,
deeply it soaked into those tender young souls
and left a mystical azure birthmark upon their heads.

Love exuded from their touch at the moment they could walk,
an amazing powerful warmth flowed
so able to reach every hurt and fear,
how it calmed and soothed anyone they met.

Inside they still where haunted
by an ever sensing call of their other half
at night they saw that face in hazy visions
it lingered during the sunlight as intense waves of longing,
subdued by those conversations with that ancients seers
whose ghosts were summoned by the old woman
when they used the hides of buffalo
for listening to the earth song
of what lived and cried from its suffering.

They were the ones who sang the prayers
over the hope for a return of their lost blessings
from hunts where beast were plentiful that fed them all winter.

In their teepees they wept and waited
for the divine power to unite this couple
so their pure love would bring again
all that had been taken away.

And when the autumn leaves fell upon a breeze
finally the two tribes were brought to the same river,
eyes of destined lovers seeing each other for the first time,
knew a the feast had come they were missing,

When All Remains

"If there was nothing else,
and no one but us two..."
with all that was is just a memory
for it will always be
merely wisps in thought
next to the love we share,
I would still feel rich and blessed
wrapped in your arms
far from the cold and ruins.

Our hearts have a song
that sings above every crisis
drowns out the groans and tears,
together is the sun that shines
as a day that always gives us light.

It is the wind from our lips
rising out of breath in longing
gently brush such peace
over each other.

A morning we can face anything
because in our oneness
we have a foundation
never crumbling or decaying.

What whispers you give
keep me so strong and alive
though time and pains intrude
for ours is its own planet
within our souls,
rich and fertile,
sublime and complete
regardless of what surrounds.

Oh my fated lips
shall bear all scars
be destitute and a vagabond,
yet dwell in joy forever
as long as I have you.
 

Prophets And Experts

Oh the lips that flow with the world’s honey,
never know of heaven’s bees or eternal wisdom
where all they see and can assess
is by what their own hands can hold or make.

So when you live by faith and trust with all your heart
though the rain comes and the day is far too long
out come the soothsayers to dispense their doom
only their mouths suppress their forecasts
by simply uttering that feign omniscient, “aha, aha”
rolling their eyes with mocking glares
quietly thinking how moronic you are
for clinging to something promised in God’s word.

Unto the soldiers of the cross
who have their scars of walking with the Lord,
in the heart is held that power of His spirit
ever remembering each time some valley came
where the end was not easily seen,
but knowing that God was at the end
making sure you arrived as His hand made possible.

Now while those silly nitwits mock and snicker
over the supposed lack of wisdom you express
it is the time to just keep walking and trusting,
aware sooner or later all those who trust to their own strength
will make a mistake and fall.

That is the time a quiet curl of the lips
and mere stare at their embarrassment
is as bad as pouring hot coals on their bodies.

Then walking ahead singing a psalm
while they sit and burn in their own shame
allowing the chance to laugh a tad,
which is an echo that it always haunts them.

The Time Clock

I sit in the darkness and hear the ticks
from that clock that cancer
placed within my life.

No clues how long it will
keep on working
or when it will possibly stop.

If I could change on thing,
it would be to have this question mark,
this wondering wasteland,
suddenly turn into clarity.

To have the chance to end
all the tests and treatments,
let it come to a halt
without a morbid end.

Not that I worry over eternity,
but do wish my family a chance
for us to truly stabilize our security
so they will remained able to chase their dreams
regardless of what happens to me.

Meanwhile I trust in the Lord
seek the choices that have the most promise,
quietly chase rainbows
and refuse to stop living.

Better In Time

Knives get dull,
people eventually forget,
the snow melts
and fires finally die.

How we try to recall
when the crisis is lingers
it will get better in time,
then we exhale that stress
like a promise we lie to ourselves
that the pain will end,
sadness shall cease.

But the scars still remain,
broken hearts seldom go away,
improvement is the path of healing
where we don't deny the wounds,
rather to treat learning as the progress.

Because even in spring
there are signs that winter came
and to see it with eyes open
is to embrace change
with all its flaws and values,
while not pretending
hours will erase the past
instead of accepting transformation
doesn’t always translated into
into the death of every problem.

Blades

It isn’t the field where you fall,
along that trail turning left unexpectedly
where you assumed would end at a mansion,
which covers your mind
and consumes your attention,
utterly screaming so deep into your senses
so it totally dominates each thought.

Instead it is the blades that brush against your leg,
poke through the fabric and give it reality
that transforms the long fail trek towards an oasis
into a pit stop at the profound.

Words spoke while walking,
those assumptions of the sight,
suddenly lose their meaning,
no longer are they gems waiting to be found.

For that meadow met in its raw earthy essence
in life’s genuine heartland
has its own splendor and fascination,
provided you take time
to truly embrace the scenery,
feel its wealth with all its textures
rather than bemoan
how it isn’t heaven.

What lies before the feet
are the detours to truths without costumes
carefully and intensely touch
as either a the dwelling place embraced
filled with what can honesty be,
or just keep on telling yourself
somewhere will come that is greener.

Fete of Luminary Communion

Opulent incandescent globules radiant with the efficacious effulgence
replete with panoplies of myriad tinctures resiliently effervescent
drape in the harmonic illumined tapestry shrouding in its shimmering splendor
beguiled and bewitched in the elegant ephemeral kaleidoscope panorama
serendipity's sanguine supplication elongates in ominous oblation.

Melancholy's pallor surrenders to lustrous allures in iridescent arrays
palpitating a diaphanous symphonic resonance in numinous echoes
infused by the ever transcending easel of shimmer's litany of lucidity
night enraptures with gossamer chains of magenta, emerald, lavender and cerulean
visiting the soul as opiate hues in this mesmerizing fete of luminary communion.

Our Season's Feast

In our lives each Holiday serves its own entries,
sometimes warm and satisfying others far too bittersweet.

Sitting in a house only two years old
replacing the one my father owned that became ours when he died.

But in the twinkle of lights I remember
of the year fight with relatives that never heal dimmed their glow,
about the December without a job,
one when death by suicide ruined the spirit
as well as the occasion when my mother was dying of cancer.

Stuffing it in the stocking
with the memories of cherished first experiences,
toddler son walking at last on Christmas Eve,
having that deep gratitude of first festive occasion
after thinking my own life was about to end in the hospital,
then knowing the sweetest delight
when holding my first grandson.

Gazing into his vulnerable eyes
hoping that perhaps
I can make his own memories
filled more with love than tears.

The Summit

Her spirit strolling reflection's mountaintop
faith's wings fluttering to float with praise,
single rose of hope blossoming in spreading splendor
God's breath felt swirling through the pines,
eyes feel his fingers leaving their strokes in the branches and soul.

Inhaling the whiff of heaven's scent felt so easy on this summit
letting it revive and refresh deeply and complete,
only wishing his husband was beside her,
instead of carrying his urn in keeping with his wishes,
spreading his ashes upon the Lord's winds of grace where his spirit already flies.

Forward

And I stopped before the road curved
because I panicked over
what I couldn’t see,
sat down and pretended
to gaze upon the sky.

It felt good to lie
when it didn’t give me risk,
it felt good to avoid
for it spared me any pain.

Eventually I got bored
merely sitting,
still that bend looked so scary,
so I turned around
going back where I had came.

I heard there was an amusement park
lying past that curve
from someone who had turned back earlier.
We sat around drinking tea
feeling comforted in our refreshment
though both dreaming of rollercoaster
that we would never see.

 

The World Is A Commune

The world is a commune,
a cacophony of voices
trapped under the same canopy
all screaming their light
though driven mad with fears
for the sunset has no lasso
and sunset has too many closed doors.

We don’t earn a title
by acting before a stage of eyes
don’t receive a reward
from writing excuses
in a gold bound book
with impressive calligraphy.

Out of stagnation we escape
once we start to dream,
but there are always nightmares
within the circle of our fantasies
and there is no paradise
that we will ever conceive,
which doesn’t exists
through something else dying
the moment we start to build.

It a cycle with crisis and rain,
blessing and curses co-existing,
the only true improvement coming
when we stop running from every doom
cease pretending there are only rainbows
then build umbrellas
before we risk drowning completely.

Maturity

Aging has so many seasons of springs
by countless steps upwards
for mind, body and soul.

Yet they can also lead downward
when time has some lesson to teach,
but there is never a single staircase
one can walk without some unexpected changes
since we can’t control all the options,
merely decide the one that works for us.

I delved into mystery of hand rails
those supports that give us stability
on any direction we choose to take.

If we survive long enough
wisdom is found during our labor
with the hardest knowledge ever gained
is that there is no end to those steps,
a single group always leads to another.

Resting is not the blessing
from all the climbing done,
it is the awareness,
the revelation from having moved enough
to realized you never stop growing,
at least in understanding
as true maturity comes
after accepting ascending is truly essential
because without it
we just never discover all the truths
that come from the experience,
which without moving
would leave us so stagnant
from seeing the familiar every day.


 

Threads

The weaves worn over the heart
thread the feelings within,
how it touches with passion and fear
where we must soothe that flame.

Is there really joy in a fabric
clad upon your life
if you just appease a tailor
who carries a knife?

What we do to dwell
in the garments of life
becomes the colors of our will,
each shade of what we have for peace.

Some haunt in their textures
they are timeless in their design,
but they are hollow in their feel
when dressing for weather,
cold and full of anxiety
instead of out of a dream
that matches our fantasy.

I Sing My Hymns

I sing my hymns
as supplication feathers on the winds.
The Lord’s spirit touches within
and my soul feels the balm
of His psalmic praise.
Suddenly brought to that altar
where I remember with such clarity,
Jesus is Lord of the Sabbath.

Then every scene, sky and sea
becomes the presence of His power.
Within it grows in awareness and peace
while I celebrate His love
by seeing with spiritual eyes
how to remember the Sabbath
in deep sincere faith and thanksgiving.

Letting Him grace me with thoughts
to pause and embrace life as His creation,
allow His word to spread it wings
inside my heart and being.
Until it becomes the very breath of my day
where I cling in joy to the truth,
keeping the Sabbath is to trust Him constantly,
walk with Him ever in my thoughts
and rejoice in the blessings of accepting
each day is His gift
that should be kept in honor to Him.
So as the scripture, Psalm 150:6, commends,
“Let everything that has breath
praise the Lord.”

 

Her Jar

Wisdom pours out her waters
into the pool of minds
always offering to rinse
away the dirt of thoughts
smudged by time and wrong.

Her jar is ageless and unbreakable,
but it contains fluids
not everyone loves to taste
for some find the truth bitter
and won’t sample her fluids.

Still she stands on her foundation,
those ancient bricks of light,
where she forever blesses
all those who truly drink.

In visions some have seen her,
they have been driven to seek
the place where she resides,
some get sidetrack by other wells,
others immerse in the lure of false streams,
yet once one has consumed her purity
it forever bathes you in a panoply of possibilities.

Dear God

I sit at my small desk of thought and write what I know you already see,
inside I struggle with the enigmas, ironies and paradoxes. I hold onto that frayed faith amid the tattered moments when this world bends to break my visions,
which came to me in the middle of the night of your presence constantly evident
though fleeting so often from my feelings, still clinging to the conviction
you are there and always watching answering our prayers in your timing
while we wait and wonder about it all.

Perhaps in the countless question there you can grant us light,
enough to make sense of this life. Yet will I hold onto the belief
what is in my heart is your gift, what I grieve over as my ills. Still I feel your
deposit of a need to trust you just the same.

Now in the silence I wait. I sit and wonder will you somehow touch us in some way
that it will end all this confusion. But I must leave it to your will, as I have always.

If there is truly mercy in your ways. If you are amongst us, then grant us eyes
more perceptive than we now have.

Thank you for the times you have blessed both with tears and also smiles. Thank you
for the many ways you have influence us through the halls of history where
all mankind have strolled.

And now, I leave my heart at your altar of grace, as so many others have done.
Always will I hope somehow you will end this sadness, but always will I still know
you are real.

From the depths of my soul

William

Flutters

When the world loses its thorns
because you at last found the lighthouse
so igniting the eyes with spiritual sight,
how it flutters true freedom’s flight
no longer afraid to taste the wind,
no longer letting the heart feel desperate
for the Lord’s candle shines in that tower.

To stand on the rocks of life’s jetty
look out at the dream sea with joy
for now willing to swim and know
all the crest of experience
there are to know.

From vagabond of loneliness
unto the sweet redemption of a stand
where peace blows from the Lord’s breath.

It’s a moment of incredible happiness,
just one in the embrace of His guidance
utterly thrilled to be beyond that quest
that had stole serenity from the soul
since all one trusted to was one’s own path,
now it is cast aside in the Son’s light,
liberty glowing in the illumination of His love.

Icebergs

How they appear too small
you assume they are limited in influence,
but life is full of those unexpected creations
encountered that we take for granted
until you deal with them
finding out it really is monstrous,
spending a lifetime afterwards
just feeling the grandeur
that was ignored.

New Paint

Oh what incredible sense of peace
to think I can’t remember
every foul up, blunder and error
from a different life in a different face.

Only it does make me pause and think
is there a way to suddenly get a charge
into my psyche from my other lives?
Yeah, perhaps a blast of hypnosis
would unlock those wonderful achievements
that I did in some other life.

Now this can lead to so many questions
such as could I find out I was some villain
in another age that I really hated.
Maybe I would feel so guilty
that I would need to confess my crime
like that would really prove I was sane.

But the amazing bounty that lurks
in those shadows of past times,
makes it so appealing to know
what happen in a distant era.

Sure does get fuzzy though
since I worry most
I’ll find out I was my own ancestor
and then how can I blame my problems
on my heritage
because it would be my own fault!

Across The Desert

Across the desert of rituals, dogma and traditions
have I tread as a wounded soiled soul,
clad in my filthy rags, always stumbling,
always straying from the narrow path
even though in my heart
I wanted to be different and less flawed.

Oh, the sin inside never ended
no matter what I learned
or what I did to feel it was gone,
it just left me feeling so dry and brittle,
totally unworthy of my Lord’s attention.

Years spent in that wilderness
have never rid me of every mar to my heart,
they still cling to my life
until at nights I feel that heaviness of my inadequacies.

But the Lord’s spirit comes as a soft, cooling wind,
He breathes over my wounds and doubts,
as I hear His voice speak that wonderful word of grace,
then I am renewed in my strength,
comforted in my failings,
while reminded that of how
perfection is never the path to heaven
since none of us capable of being sinless,
instead He opens His gate of unmerited favor,
the amazing blessing of His unconditional love.

Then I feel the peace comes
within my ache
happy to hold onto his promises by faith
not because I am deserving or righteous,
just because I take Him at His word.

Endless Easements Of Languishing Languor

Azure sunrises staining the senses
while slowly the walls squeeze
in their claustrophobic press.
The cerulean sky becomes a shroud
covering the heart in a sullen, morose mood
as melancholy creeps over the heart
where tedium snares the throat
until another tick of the clock,
one more moment of boredom
pushes the mind outside sanity’s frame.

Life on replay of a broken record
bears such deep lethargic tones,
ever seeing that spiritual molasses
smother the eyes of other souls
like an infection it spreads
so every face greeted is in such despair,
bitterness and darkness bring stagnation
with a scream the only passage
out of this tear stained cesspool.

Sinking into the deep depressing morass,
self drowns in the immersion
while doubts cover every thought.

Once more the night comes
once more there is no rescue of dreams,
somehow inside clutching at the clock
for a miracle to end the ebbing essence.

Slipping between the sheets,
drained and dreary,
yet waiting for the next season of visions
because it will arrive with some new sun
shall dip the dawn in radiance
and for a while there will be peace
in the crypt within the head.

Philosophical Precepts Pontifically Pronounced

Produced panoplies prevailing precarious ponderings
practiced profound pentamblic pretense purposes.
Preparing perfect poetic plum phrases,
perseucitous piercing passages privately pristine
producing primal passions pumping precious
pioelte presumptively prideful plebiscite pilgrimages.

Pledged portraits pressing pugradome paths
progress people persuasively passed prejudice.
Pushing pleasing prods, pounding pangs poignantly,
plotting plarchurry personas providing presentations.

The Shovel

It stands in the shed,
metal rusty and handle worn,
furrows now fallow
as summer sleeps under snowy sheets.

Was a day when digging
unearthed the heart,
subtle stabs reveal the soil’s fertility.

Mind affixed in fascination
over the blossoms yet to be.
But weeds choked the life,
crops yielding less harvest
than appeared on midnight’s field.

Spring beckons in the fireplace,
in flames that remind of rebirth,
sipping on an aged brew
how it numbs the view of seasons,
no strength left to lift that shovel
from recalling what never flowered.

Encore

Behind curtain
of housewife's stage,
her mind pirouettes in memories
to homecoming queen's ballet.

Heart unclothed
during her afternoons
spent in nostalgia's waltz,
marriage symphony
never a dance hoped,
wearing mother's tutu,
dreaming of encore
unto her youth's star performance.

Finish Lines

Telescopic eyes
gaze from life's stadium,
searchers heart's flame
in body language
rather than lip's boasts.

Love's recruiter
stalking
romance's marathoners
for passion's athlete
who will cross
marriage finish line.

Margins

Math can outline your brain
calculate sums and factor in equal distances,
of them you can decipher
analyze and assess that gap for its perfection
put it on a pager, calculate the space,
but if you are a teenager
taking your driver test for the first time
it all is worthless at the moment
when you have to figure it in reverse
because the examiner checks for dents not numbers.

The Flour Of The Heart

What shifts in the fine, delicate ingredients
found within any given heart
is the flour ground by each fresh experience
sometimes its gets granny and hard to use
if tainted by something that truly frightened,
others it can be so very flaky and fluffy
in the texture felt
should love’s water be added to the mix.

When that throbbing sack inside
is opened with gentle hands
and each ounce encourage and cared about,
just seeing good in its essence
then the get made into a loaf
so frail in its serving
that any sounds of criticism
can cause it to end up flat.

But to the baker
who always uses inspiration’s oven
for a creation that is truly rich and colorful
with a flavor lasting and satisfying
each person is a raw dough in worth
capable of becoming an incredible pastries
which will be a meal to fill another’s hunger
because it was made in compassion’s bowl.

Veils

The morning holds its light in the predictable tones,
blissfully wandering the walkways,
mind set it crafted expectations,
while the world is a land that each moment
lays another brick upon the nerves
until a wall is built and the sky is hidden
behind veil of shadowy pillars
that someone else calls a throne.

Just shuffling along in compliant steps
fantasies tucked beneath the clothes
where they can be protected
from the weather and winds.

In the heart there is the glow
of a fire that as burnt so long
to heat the night and keep the body alive
because the air is held in a vase
a fragile vessel stored in the mind,
ever pouring it out to try an control
each layer of time and thought touched.

Then in the midst of the seductive illusion
the precarious lace in presumption,
nature spreads its own tempest tapestry
across the spreading sheet of reality.

Covered is the sense of security
as the frozen dandruff from a cloudy toupee
showers its own litter upon all creation.

For a while the sense of reliance ebbs
before the icy talons cling to roofs
and we have to surrender choices
unto the whims of inclement incursions.

Like intruders we cope with their marauding ways
seek the means to keep the hours sane
silently dreaming of sun tans and long summer days.

My Confidant

I feel so naked if we dare to meet
for secrets are an incense
unto my confidant.

But there is no point in asking for mercy
since it will result in some lecture
about a group of rules
that I can begin to remember.

Still, I quiver in my night
from knowing this journey of day
will mean sooner or later
my most cherished thoughts
shall be heard by this person.

Perhaps I would be brought to tears
if our meetings weren’t always
at my expense somehow,
but you see I was drafted
into their club without a way to escape,
now all I can do
is rejoice when I’m spared
sometime of spilling my guts.

Oh wretched soul I am
to have this person in my life
thank goodness
outside of April Fifteenth
our meets are only chance.

Vigilante

Seething snarls
foam form crazed lips,
villainous faces snared
from the darkness
for their brutal death
without any trial.

Rage roams in rumors
heat of vengeance
is their incense,
murder out of righteousness
always a throng magnet.

Then shots are fired
as papparazi
gather to butcher
another life’s fame.