How could one ever speak of the sun dipping? How could something so grand slip into

something so small, so much less than it,

sharing its warmth with a world it can’t touch?



A starstruck deer wonders:

As the sun wills the pull of the stars, casting light on the secrets that the galaxy holds,

secrets for mankind to claim as their own.

What does the deer have?

It has only the hours given in a day.

to stare, to be caught in the headlights of something much larger.



The sun does not care for the deer.

It doesn’t know of its stillness.

For hours, days,

for centuries, every deer who came before it.

Time is all the deer has.

watching, waiting for the sun to pull the sky down with it.

not questioning where it will go once it slips from view.

Creation is beyond a deer.

It obeys what the sun wills with its eyes.

This wisdom should be on the streets
My wisdom should be on the streets
My wisdom should be on the walls
These words deserve to be seen
This knowledge should not be ignored.
These skies aren't just falling
They're spreading wide apart
To let us all inside
Into the universe's heart
The ocean is the place
To be and sea is paradise
Whenever hearts are aching
The water calms the mind

Where the sun sets brighten the landscape
New ideas take a different shape
And as the moon smiles down on us
We're simply here on our soul vacation
The wind is howling-helping us
To sail across the ocean-atmosphere
Where far is close
And the horizon's near
We eat and drink
We dream, we film
We sing in silence to ourselves
We're one with beautiful sun rays

As I am letting go,
Floating, finding words,
Coming from the heart
Of this country's evening ride
We're simply carrying on
In waves of love
It has so many faces
As well as phases
Always enough
For all of us
If we look closer
And we trust.

She was loud but quiet .
She rebelled but yet repent.
She was snow yet fire.
She burned yet burnt.

She was one, yet two
Duality lived beneath her skin,
She was possessive, cruel
yet detached, aloof.

She prayed with eyes
She yearned in silence.
She screamed with tears
She dreamed of violence.

Her energy wasn’t radiant
It burned low, too quiet.
She loved the glow,
The beauty of  ice.

Made bonds, not deep.
She preached,
Not presence ,But soul.
Not me, but Bond
Not me but bond...


---

The ticklish the rain
The tiny the drops
The dozen of scars
The mind remains calm.

The blow of wind
An abandoned site
Surrounded by trees
Being judged for it is.

The braids that blows
The tear don’t flow
The ink has smeared
The skin peeled off.

Wind so strong
Sound so strange
Love so shallow
Time so estranged.

Heaven and sins
Mountain vanished
Drenching us all
The tiny the drops…

An aching song
replaces the windful soul
of branches clanking on
to rhythms growing old-
-
the residue
of explosive tunes
drowns out the view
of old- now new.
-
there’s so much red in the sunset
so much red in the onset
so much red in the eyelids
so many tears still falling,
there’s not much green in the audience,
much more green in faucet
hidden green in the closet
too many tears still falling.
-
white hills with wheels
made of steel and fear
look to **** and steal
while the white hills men cheer.
-
gold dripping water
from self righteous fathers
get stored far from the thirsty
so they can gain and barter.
-
there’s no way to heal everyone
unless we become many ones,
reaching out to hold the youth
from plummeting into a deadly sun.
there aren’t many ones,
yet far too many anyones-
ghosts too selfish to lift a finger
or gain souls to breathe a helpful song.
-
when will good will
and will power will
something more than death
over every hill?
when will good will
and will power will
something innocent
instead of thrilling kills?
when will good will
and will power will
something truly good
to be a hearty fill?
when will good will
and will power’s will
be enough to keep us pure
enough to love still?

the way of St. James
preserves mounds of ancient steps
under bending oaks

To My Anam Cara:

I’ve walked the greens this morning,  
butterflies whipping through the air,  
a slight breeze gently kissing my hair.  

Thanking the tree, hoping you’d see  
what I see—  
sensing, feeding love, fleeting  
yet amplified across space and time.  

Tree-lined garden view through the picture window,  
golden retriever at my side,  
Bach’s Brandenburg Concertos encouraging the plants to prosper.  

Holding you sacred in the siempre and the now,  
sending notes of love and longing—  
may they catch your ear,  
touch your heart,  
and confirm that I am here,  
there,  
and everywhere with you.