Dreams Printing in Sand

man, woman and child holding hands on seashore

I imagine the sun, on my face the wind in my hair as a child squeals near;
The sounds of a bickering fight turns to tag “just don’t go out of sight!”
A commanding voice, a voice that knows its mind, confidently heard
Assured inside but with eyes that seek after me, eyes that desire mine.

What would it be like to know the thoughts conveyed in a look,
familiar to the questions they bring and the humor in the squint?
I imagine my silent reply through laughing eyes and a brow hooked
In a shrug “Now what did you expect from our mini-reprints?”

They’re so precious and cute with so much of you,
Thank you for this potential spark, I dreamed it could be true.

Patron Saints, a Study of Dying Rhymes

grayscale photography of cemetery

I dedicate this humble verse to Saint David patron of poems,
whose beating heart rhymes with mine.

Perhaps I should dedicate this next line to Antony of Padua,
the saint of lost things like this poem that wanders.

As a student I would be remiss to leave off Saint Ambrosia
the saint of all who long to learn, but with my track record,
I should probably add Saint Jude the saint of desperate situations.
I’m sure those two are friends by now since they so often go together.

If I make it through this semester, Saint Dympna would be a more
fitting saint to accept my mad ravings, but if I don’t make it,
my family will have to dedicate a few lines in stone to
Saint Joseph of Arimathea and Saint Antony the Abbot.

“Here lies a lost ‘poet.’
His heart died for want of rhyme,
And though these lines don’t show it,
The addiction he swore off… except for this last time.”

W.B. Yeats tombstone beside tombstones

Father Figures and Silly Sounds

My dad transforms for children.
His rational, practical thoughts cede control to a
primal bear.  Perhaps I still remember his iron grasp,
and roars, reeling about the living room:

Bruza, Buzz, Burr
“Ima get-yah!”

Grandpop couldn’t stop laughing at toddler me,
He would chuckle at who knows what, I was being serious!
His eyes would gleam beneath that broad-brimmed-farmers hat,
and I still remember them the day he let me “drive” his old Sears tractor:

Brum, Brumm, Bra-rar
“Don’t go too fast!”

My brother’s boys are his spitting image.  They mirror
his long limber limbs and haystack head, and his sly sardonic smile,
at their sister’s expense.  Incapable of sitting still more than moments,
they follow daddy’s every step, looking forward to the day
they’re big enough to handle- power tools:

Burra, Burt, Buzziinng! 
“Be careful with that!”

Maybe one day I’ll get to be the goof,
all I need is a good excuse.

A Thoughtless Crime

What if we all lived a life of criminal mystery, not ignoring crime?

Examining greasy stains, marking shadows with a chalk outline,
Finding meaning in our everyday, mundane, and common things.
The color of her hair, the smell of cut grass, and buzzing bees,
Could speak volumes like a doctoral recital, an opus on philosophy.

Would flower garlands, falling leaves on slicing winds, glittering ice,
Become scenic lattice playgrounds for our memory’s ivy to climb?
Would footprints in the snow, blood stains, and broken glass,
Become delicacies inspiring fear, sparking childish imagination?

How different would life be in those moments, the slices of time?

If every second spelled mankind with mystery and awe?
Could we link them on a wall, entwining them all with yarn?
Could we leave a trail of bread crumbs pointing others to our find?
Could we create a map, a nest for those sharp-eyed little detail birds?

Shiny scraps of foil, brown bottle shards, pillaged buttons,
Are treasures in this imagined world, clues connected on our wall.
A bank of found forgotten things fill our evidence lockers,
Proof of fearful crimes, criminals in lack of caring minds.

We never stop to wonder as we hurry by convicted, criminally blind.

A Doves Eclipse

A hair
A haunted doe,
A shy spooked horse,
All know wisdom in running.
“Run, flee, before you are caught!”
Dark shapes linger in the wings,
Racing shadows tied to their tails.

Some heed the ostrich,
and hide their sorrows from sight.

Some like a hyena laugh at the past,
calling all to feast on carrion.
“Come feast on me!”

Some are like the hamster
who lives for the seedy side of life,
gorging themselves on earthly pleasures,
but one day he’ll be too slow.

The dove coos delightedly
knowing his love’s nearby.
Then when darkness grows, they take flight!

Cut the strings of guilt, leave it all behind,
higher until their darkness eclipses,
faded by the light of the sun.
Cooing all the way:
“Fly with me my love”
A voice responds:
“My love is

in flight dove

A Horizon of Thanksgiving

A horizon, the canvas of possibilities,
360 degrees of future waiting for us all.
Our desire’s compass points towards dreams
Out there beyond our circle wall.

Everyone is headed over a horizon,
But in which direction?

The wise look for signs left by travelers,
our ancestors long past.
They beg a lesson from experienced guides.
Wisdom stops to meditate,
And ponder
A course correction.

The easy button takes the freeway,
With an autopilot set to follow
And sleeps at the wheel.

I want to study my horizon carefully
With one eye on the passing time,
And another on the road ahead.

Let us ignore nearsighted distractions this fall
And give thanks looking back to recall.

The dying sun in glory spread
Like a halo behind our heads,
It warns of the coming night
With the promise of returning


A Pauper’s Song-bird Bride

brown bird on brown wooden fence during daytime

Lost in anguish, returning
Home to a meal of ash,
My stomach a bag of burning,
All is forced from my mind like a fast.

A sparrow scolded me from heights
And mocked my lonely misery.
“Where are you headed this dreary night
You miserable clod, where do you follow those feet?”

Then further on, I heard “You pauper of people,
Why do you travel alone, where is your mate?”
The scolding echoed familiar with a sting like needle;
“You’re filthy, with pockets empty so curse your fate!”

I let the little brown bird thrash me with its sorrow,
This I did deserve, for I had spent my last copper
In ending its joy, its nuptial bliss, an innocent sparrow,
So in my shame, I listened to a wounded mocker.

It was my effort, a vein attempt at washing clean,
But my inner guilt brought me to my knees,
And I cried, “Where is my God, oh maker of mine,
Who gives me this song tonight,
Who chides me with the mouth of a beast,
Am I not wiser than the birds of the sky?”
Then on me fell a burning light,
It scared my eyes and blinded me,
I screamed, “Oh God, Have mercy… Please!”

Then thundered from on high:

“Listen to my voice and fear me;
Brace yourself and listen, for I am about to speak.”
Who provides the birds YOU sacrifice?
Where do they get their food, their winter supply?
I did not need your blood-money;
It’s repulsive to me given in thankless fright.
If only you had brought me a dowry like a joyful bride!”
Then the sun like light chided me gently
As if to say: “It’s your inner heart I seek.”

It was then I knew the law had made me the mocker,
I had walked a broad road scoffing at the narrows.
Oh foolish me, oblivious to what His grace offers.
Joy had finally struck my heart with its elation arrow.

“But I have nothing left, my last cent is spent” I say.
He whispered, “I will pay for all your needs, even if it’s little.”
“My clothes are ragged and smelly; don’t ask me on a date!”
I gasped ashamed of my state, but my resistance was feeble.

Again, he reminded me that if we follow where he leads,
He knows us like no other, and cloths us like the lilies white.
He waters the fields and grows the crops we eat,
Even the birds live on what He provides.

“It’s too much!  Aba, please make a slave of me?” I ask,
“But do with me what you will, my Lord and King.”
Then He picked me up and held me in his grasp.
Tears of joy fell on my face, waking in me a stirring.

It was a song buried deep inside under layered scars,
A song of right made wrong, a long apart made one,
A bride under a canopy of shive-light stars,
A song of the battle won with more still to come.

I found myself standing still blinded by a fog,
My insides tugged so I could feel the direction of the voice.
It’s a sound like no other, and towards it I burst into a jog!
The race had begun, running towards Him the reason to rejoice.

Then almost as an afterthought, I called out to that brown little bird,
“Will you come with me to be my bride?  I can’t mend your heart or heal the hurt,
But I follow one who can.  I can’t meet your needs with ought but dirt,
But He promised, and you know He always keeps His word.”

She giggled and landed on my finger where she began my harmony song;
She shrilled a reminder of the voice so strong, that gentle voice for which I long;
She chirped an invitation to return straight and true when I became often wrong;
She kept me company, forgetting her mockery, remembering to whom we belong.

Little Dove, Know a Heart Grounded in True-Love

aerial photo sand

Is it possible to love another if you lack the self-love part?
If true-love wants the best for loved,
Would not love demand “release the dove to a truer heart?”
Fly be free my love to firmer ground hereof:
  A shore in dignity, a home in olive tree,
  And may his heart have room for you and he…

If you find none, comeback to me on this crowded ark;
  Maybe then the gloomy weather inside of me
  Will depart, and when the sun shines, bows an arch,
  Promising that His light is all I need to cure this disease.
My home is grounded in the hope and promise of
  The one who died selflessly, beloved from above.

I’m sorry I made an altar to you in my heart,
  That room’s given to Him we love most, never to depart.
You are welcome to return and listen at his feet;
  I would not begrudge you that honored seat.
He will hold you gently, and give you peace in love;
  We remember Him with broken bread and a cup like blood.

Black Masked song to Marbled White

If a better heart calls on yours let it be,
  I can but comply;
It is well that you should be free of memory,
  The cherished bride.

For if love bears the chest but receives no yes,
  His heart is freed,
To voyage on a darkened sea an anguish guest,
  A mask of black for identity.

We must suffer the loss of each other,
  I the keener part.
Claim her from me worthy sir…
  “I do” will still my heart.

Till then hope flutters on an arrow lunar high,
  The thought of this;
Of her heart returned to me in true loves reply:
  As You Wish!

(Inspired by: Phantates XVII)

Never Mind My Mind This Time

Never Mind the time, when you’re visiting long into the night
and can’t snip the strings of staying, the bonds of friends
they hold on stronger, cementing with the passing years.

Never Mind the gaping gaps in our shared memory banks,
the deposits slip’s just a formality here.  Thank you for your
piggybank pocket change, investing in this friendship venture.

Never Mind me in lieu of family, lost in nostalgic treasures,
dish towel fights, sleepy stary nights then the colic cries.
It’s your turn to raincheck dreams, and self-priorities.

Never Mind my insensitivity and emphatic rhyme,
my loss of time and failures blind.  Look past my
spots and logs, my social spice is late this time.

My mind is made up, perhaps you can tell,
the anchor’s stuck fast in muddy facts,
but I think I’ll haul her in for you,
I’ll change my mind,

maybe some other time.

Day Dreamer’s Sinking Sand

Let this day burn in memory film, etched in silver,
Let it sink in peatmoss memory bogs layered with fog,
Let it dry in Egyptian spice and sleep under a gilded mask,
Let the sun set on blazing waves, rolling over time’s arbitrary line,
where celestial sailors bottle the days last slivers of golden liquid. Stash
|   the vintage in a cellar dark, a mind sealed with cork and wax,   |
|     then with age and passing years, when bitter tannins fade,     |
|         when the ghosts have gone with the swampy fumes,           |
|             and the contrast edges soften to an amber sepia,             |
|               pour a glass of days past, and taste nostalgia.                 |
|                 Let this day christen a ship of lines majestic                  |
|                     Let us sip every moment like it’s matter                     |
|                         Let it toast a union of days to come,                       |
|                             a mortal’s passage on Titanic.                             |
|                                  Our days are numbered                                  |
|                                    the hour and minutes                                    |
|                                       and the seconds                                         |
|                                          to, will drain                                             |
|                                             away like                                               |
|                                                sand                                                  |
|                                                  | . |                                                   |
|                                               When                                                  |
|                                              the night                                              |
|                                          scales weigh                                            |
|                                      the heart within us,                                      |
|                                  comparing the slumber                                   |
|                                mass of sand, don’t panic.                                 |
|                             Days past are drunk and gone,                            |
|                        distilled to find days last here after.                        |
|                      All the waters evaporate, the pathetic                       |
|                  sediments are sifted.  Proof is found at the                  |
|             last day, judged with fire, filtered to fit in utopia.             |
|         Some days shrivel like raisins melt away under flame,        |
|    Some days sink with silt and get scraped away like scraps,    |
Some days condense in fear before crosswinds blow away the ash.
Let the sun burn away, break the seal, and end arbitrary time,
Let the dry bones drink living waters blessed, this we ask,
Let ghosts of evil days pass away in the sight of God,
Let my dreams reflect His rays and praise day-giver

Never Jungle

My stars are the crossed shive-lights hanging over an upside-down ageless land,
where the trees are thick closed canopies, and the birds are bright
like paradise.  Where monkeys howl, and macaws call.

My jungle lives near the Marañón and low lakes of the Ucayali. 
The local “pirates” pilot peke-pekes up and down brown vanes
 of swollen silt, passing stealthy Indians in their dugouts.

My tale does not imagine tables covered in empty plate entrees,
and steaming bowls of make-believe Bangerang pastel cake;
the foods too good to waste on delusive hunger fights.

My story is filled with tree banquets, fruits so perfect,
ripe and juicy jungle food.  Tangy papayas, plump piñas,
and mangos form memories of tasty flavor parties.

My Neverland is filled with tales of adventures,
of playa camps, bullet ants, and battles in snotty ooze.
There’s swimming with pirañas, midnight hunting alligators,
and I could write a song about hooking a giant tiger-tuk.

My band of barefoot-boys built bamboo forts,
armed with little bows, and fought some marble wars.
We explored the caño paths and walked up to Machu-Pichu.
Those are just a few stories from Peru, and some of them are true.

Broken Rhyme’s Epitaph

Here lies                  a                   lost poet's
heart which died                            for want of rhyme.
Though he fought its pull,                  the lines don’t show it.
Rhyme's addictions he swore off,               Except for this last time.
If your heart is filled with an older spirit     and bleeds lyrical laments,
with words of ancient archaic origin        set to a romantic bent.
If your humor laughs with Donne    in his flea-bitten puns,
and your heart wrecks       with the Deutschland,
if you retch           at Rossetti's fruit,
and hear        Herbert’s lute,
Run!       Fly for your life!
Or       say goodbye
  to silly rhyme,
just as I,
and in

Note: View in Desktop Mode for the full affect.

The Fallen Fruit

An apple fell on the footpath.
It tumbled, bounced, and bruised
As it rolled on down the pass.

The fallen fruit came to rest in slimy mud,
Colored with hues of black and oxblood.

Oozing sludge clung to the abused skin,
worms and rot feasted, devouring it from within.
The dying fruit released a painful odor,
Like a breath mint in the mouth of an ogre.

Then came a bright-eyed boy
who knelt in the filth with reverence.

He picked up the worthless fruit and spat on it.
He rubbed it on his stainless shirt to clean and shine it.
He worked gradually till his face could be seen in its mirrored finish.

Looking up from the pit with bleeding hands clutching his find,
The boy shouted at the sky: “I found it!  The job is finished!”
“I found the fruit that was lost!”

He arose then and ran on up the path searching for the farmer,
all the way he wept a joyous relief, crying:

“Father!  Father look, I found it!”
“I found the lost apple dad!”
“I did it like you asked.”

Running up to a kindly old man he said:
“Can I keep it father, please can I have it?”

The farmer beamed at his son with pride,
and eyed the blood-red apple, a glint in his eyes.
He scooped them up with a laugh and replied:

“Because you obeyed me and did as I asked,
You may have all the apples you choose,
Even the one that fell on the path.”