Life has no night crew
with mops or those handy yellow signs,
nothing for the vicious viscous puddles
you have forming below your eyes.
So tread carefully on it's stairs,
and avoid suspicious railings,
because Life is slippery when wet.
It won't be before you had blown the water-main,
but the tumbling backwards after
that you will wish you could forget.

In the wake of me and you
the crater in the foam and coils of my mattress
sinks deeper and deeper when we’re together,
and when we’re apart, keeps me up at night
as I cling to the brim of the bed,
trying to stay above the covers,
so soaked in the ache of loneliness. . .
. . .maybe I’m the unbearable load
in this nest of ours.

As I type this, each tic
of the keys creates the words
like morse code taping
prayers into your frequencies.
I feel a bit closer.
I feel a bit louder.
I feel a bit stronger.

S.O.S. lovely.
I pray you make haste
because I’m in this maze
in this sinking ship.
I got lost in my lonely heart
that pumps out the salty, icy, water
I’ve filled it with.

I don’t want to be undiscovered –
a rusted relic with a riddle
yet revealed
because you were the key
that unlocks me with the notes
and frees my heart with the sound
of “I love you.”

I pray to hold you,
to kiss you,
to know you,
to love you,
to be given a name for you
my nameless.

I pray and hope by God’s grace
that he’ll deliver my prayers
so I’ll be delivered
you

Until then,
you keep safe.
Until then,
you stay strong.
Until then,
I’ll keep loving you.

I pray if I don’t find your life jacket,
I pray should we never meet,
that I’ll meet you beyond this surface.
on the other side of the morning.

CQ CQ  ME-UR1 I wait for you. Do you copy?
CQ CQ  ME-UR1 I'm waiting for you. Come Back?

To whom it may concern,

I’m staring at the Knife of Life,
a bark blade from the Tree of Life,
bound to us like our own shadows,
sapping all, from doe to meadows.
A slow torturous fact that sticks
us all the way down to our wicks,
shooting prickling pain up the spine.
Freedom lies in the speed of time.
I don’t know that all have the will
not to hasten their blood to spill,
when patience is waiting to die.

Yours (since God died a long time ago),
The one who yearns
for a flowering fern.

Dear one, who yearns for a flowering fern,

Mortality does bring us Death,
but please know, there is more than pain
before that final ounce of breath
those lovely lungs let flee in fain.
Life’s about swinging on those strings,
warm connections that tie us all,
and caring for each other’s wings,
should lightning strike and have you fall.
Let me pick you up now with love.
You are more than enough to be,
you are worth the space in my glove.
I’ll free you that quivering knee,
just lean in my embrace with hope.
I won’t leave you alone to cope.

With love to fill your days,
The one who hears your cries,
in the void of the open skies,
who will show you better than a magic fern,
a home to mend your broken heart and let return,
because I’m the one who you have to be concerned
for you.

The best armor is a mirror.
Paint it on your bare skin.
People will see things clearer
when they begin to stare in.
They will see themselves in you.
Show each your empty hand.
Walk together, pas-de-deux,
like lambs in any meadowland.
Share your armor with the world,
till all egos disappear.
A love will bloom and unfurl,
and the hatred that sows fear
can finally be thrown aside.
No single life will have to hide.

Another morning I’ve been sentenced,
feeling verb-less,
incomplete,
with my darling noun
I only let down,
when I feel like a child with a numb grip,
dragging him against the ground.

I watch him sleep, my sweet,
shimmering sun against the periwinkle morning
and all glows quiet . . .

but my muck of thoughts smell of rot,
with shadows of vicious vultures—
their black feathers buzzing with dooming vibrations—
smearing their gray against it all.

They’ve grown bored with the feed of palatable pity.
Their cravings threaten to gulp his gushing, golden heart,
bury it in the muck that wishes to swallow my temple.

I think of his holy water and bathe in it;
Thinking in his tears keeps me strong
and carries me down stream.

Each salty orb
wipes the grim and the grime
and refracts the light from his treasure,
his heart, casting
the rainbows that fire
arrows at the shadows.

I find my purpose in the thought of your wailings and weepings,
and I promise I’ll never lose your heart to grief.

Sorry the pillow is wet.
I’ve been crying in your sleep.