Walk in the Woods
Abstract: Jazz Drops
A poem, about the beauty of rain and drops on ponds.
Cold rain drops fall from an outstretched black oak limb,
And dive into a dark pool below.
Upon impact, they birth a splash and rippling waves,
Growing, then fading waves on the surface of the puddle.
And then several drops fall, one after another, like notes played on a jazz piano,
their ripples over-lapping and overlapped by the notes about them.
An improv of water and waves,
Winter’s rain and morning color at play in the wind.
Abstract: Made To Suffer
A poem, about suffering and purpose and acceptance.
For many years, I tried to hide.
At first, from shame and then pain, and finally from suffering.
I stuffed myself into football, pornography, church, and the bottle.
Later, I found more morally acceptable, yet shadowy places labeled purpose and destiny.
I was convinced I could work my way away from shame and heart break, from sin even, by finding the proper path.
That my life would be tranquil and easy if only I obeyed God.
What immaturity and foolishness.
Grief and agony are like bloodhounds, and they will find me wherever I hide.
Down crooked alley ways and in pitch black closets, they will sniff me out with bailing woofs and hollers.
And now I know, in life, there is no era or destination devoid of death, offense, or pain.
Believe what you will, but loved ones will suffer and die, joy will be stolen, and your treasured mind will not be able to mend the cracks in your reality.
All who live, will suffer. And no amount of money or Holy Ghost will change it.
The clear message I now hear, from the Lord, has not been about my suffering, but of that which will come.
And I can run or stand- suffer the joyless days of a coward, or the noble plight of a man.
For with holy men, those He calls brothers, nothing we do is in vain.
Abstract: Vice
A poem, about what a vice is.
What is a vice?
Anything that squeezes an object into an unnatural position or state.
It’s something that holds us down, or rather, we allow to hold us in place.
Slowly pushing our insides out until we die from the crush of its weight.
And a vice can take many forms, easily available at your local store.
There’s plastic or heavy metal, drugs and porn, voyeurism and gossip.
Anything to keep us distracted from the task of moving forward,
from fighting our fears and shame,
whatever says look at me and not today.
A vice is the thing we do instead of choosing Him.
Abstract: Winter in Northern California
A little appreciation, for winter in Northern California.
In the winter, all over the South where I grew up, the grass is dead and the trees are bare and gray.
And the remnants of autumn is all brown and fully dead.
But out here, though cold and rainy, a strange beauty blooms through the frost and occasional snow.
The yellow of summer is now replaced with brilliant green grass,
and mosses have erupted from their slumber and cling to the dormant branches and limbs of the oaks and firs.
And under the oaks are rings of yellow and orange chanterelles pushing through the damp earth.
And then out on the horizons to the east and west and north, glorious mountains.
All bundled in snow and gleaming under the low sun.
It’s not the winter wonderland of song, but it is a wonderful land all the same.
I enjoy the rhythm of winter up here, away from a big city and all that distracts us from creation.
This is California too, may it never change.
Abstract: Better To Cry Now
A poem, about life and death and loving people well.
In my mind, not a month passes,
without considering the death of a loved one.
It’s a sad habit, but worthy nonetheless.
Better to be reminded of the finality of life before it’s too late,
before no more laughs and hugs can be exchanged,
when all that’s left between us is memories and earth.
Abstract: Rainy Season
A poem, about the rainy season in Northern California.
Gray, shadowy and rolling like an old gown,
Raining and drizzling,
Hiding the sun within her folds.
And then again tomorrow.
And tomorrow.
And the next day too.
But then, the train is swept away,
And the gray parts,
And what was hidden shines on all below.
Maybe for a minute or hour or a whole happy day.
A moment long enough to warm a face and heart,
And remind them of the goodness beyond the heavy clouds.
Abstract: Do or Not
A poem, about doing and pursing life.
Of all the advice passed to me from my dad,
none is more useful than this little jam:
You can always find a reason to do something…or not do something.
It’s simple and clean,
and doesn’t leave room for much in between.
Because those who build and create,
don’t face less hurdles,
than those who give up and deflate.
They simply kept finding excuses to keep on running,
through the distractions and hate,
to grab hold of their greatness,
to finish the race.
Abstract: Compelled
A poem, about the definition of word, and how it changes.
Compelled.
Such an alluring concept.
But, is it ever true?
Maybe not for a man without family,
But certainly so for the one with hungry bellies and growing hearts at home.
Abstract: Only Champions
A poem, about the imperfect beauty of trees.
A child draws a tree.
The brown trunk is powerful and straight.
The green canopy full and symmetrical.
More of a symbol of the real thing than reality.
In the forest, the tree endures hot summer days and icy cold nights, squirrels and woodpeckers, drought and floods.
Their limbs snap in the wind and all sort of vermin want their bark and timber.
And let us not forget the never-ending onslaught of bugs, worms, and disease.
And yet, for all they endure, just to live,
They remain relentless and persistent, handing out fruit, nuts, and shade to all who have need of them.
You’ll not find a perfect tree in the wood.
With their scars and imperfection, twists, knots, and faded color,
Only champions.
Abstract: The Hawk And The Pigeon
A poem, about what I saw this morning.
A slight squawk overhead jerked my face upward just in time,
To be showered with grey and white down feathers.
And through the descending fuzz I caught sight of a hawk, talons full, flying toward the wood.
Pigeon for breakfast.
Abstract: All Pain Ain’t the Same
A poem, about the different types of pain.
Pain greets me when I open my laptop and start tapping on the keys,
And his cousin strain runs behind me on the trails, naggin’ me to slow down.
Pricks.
But I love the stress of paying rent.
Because, she keeps me moving when I’d rather wander.
Abstract: Down, Looking Up
A poem, about being what it feels like to be down.
Life can be lived in a ditch,
you bet, yes sir.
A man can stare up at the towering and slick sides of his hell and wonder,
Where’s the staircase- despite knowing one doesn’t exist.
And so, he thinks his way is shut.
And life has nothing for him but fantasies and plans.
Sure, he’s made a run at it, and probably will again.
And can see the light straight ahead, down the far end of the gutter.
(Cause, the sun shines on every damn body,
high or low, clean or schmutzig.)
But when a man is down looking up, the light merely reveals, in grand detail, the sad state of his affairs,
and the impossible task he has to remedy them.
And when hopelessness rests on him like dew on the weeds,
He starts to make new plans,
to remain unyoked and unspoiled by the green grass on the cliff above.