The Show Goes On

The show goes on; the dead have played their part.
But still we wait for one more cue, or line:
Those ne’er said words that we have known by heart,
And memorized, as though a valentine

That we will never feel in hand, or see.
The looked for, listened for, and waited on
That will not heed our cry, or hear our plea;
For love’s most fully owned when it is gone.

The show goes on; the dead have played their role,
But there’s no point in dialogue, or mark;
You live, although you’re missing half your soul,
A sunflower within the gray and dark —

    For none of it makes any kind of sense,
    The scene, the plot, the play, the


Raining It In

It’s raining where I work today
But I’ll show up and earn my pay
Or try to: try to prove my worth
As though each day was a new birth

But through this pane of glass I see
The wild world in front of me
And hear the booming thunder roll
All things beyond my weak control

The vanity that is my life
The constant struggle, strain and strife
That daily I myself surround
Like rain, as it comes tumbling down

a dancer by the sea

he walked a lonely concrete stair
surrounded by barbed wire;
the things he thought he knew were gone,
and joy had gotten shyer

he felt despair, and anger, and
a soreness in one knee,
when, breathless, at the top, he found
a dancer by the sea

the music, and her moves, bespoke
the truth behind the veil,
of joy and sadness, love and hope,
that beauty can avail —

her movements were the ocean, in
totality – and parts –
salvation there in abstract form,
a rescue by the arts —

and when at last he did descend,
a new life had found birth:
and consolation’s many forms
had given his life worth

for there is ugliness, it’s true,
but reasons, yet, to be:
in music, and in stories, and
in dancers by
the sea

A Gate That Leads to Nowhere

I walk the early morning, half-awake,
To look for what I lost back in the night;
I linger over little things, and take
A second over some absorbing site —

A gate that leads to nowhere in the mist
That has me won’dring: might this be the way?
In tracing back through my long laundry list,
That makes up all the fears of a new day —

I glance down at the band upon my arm,
That’s there for ‘fitness’ – as that’s understood –
And wish I knew I wasn’t doing harm,
Since I cannot be sure I’m doing good —

But there, among the things that I can’t know,
Is really how far I have yet to go


Our lives are rushed and harried
And we carry all this stress

Surrounded by our worries, and
Incessant tiredness

We’re here, we’re there, we’re on the phone;
We’re everywhere at once

Together in our harried lives,
Till one of us just punts

And walks away from all of this,
While saying, “I want more.”

Why live such harried lives, when we
Have no idea
What for?

My People

Home Game

Here’s to the team that still lines up
When their record’s 0 and 10
Here’s to the hours of practice drills
When a beating looms again

Here’s to the men and women who
Everyday, go out to fight
In a battle they won’t win
And who still press on, despite

Though their fans might be but few
Still they strive to be their best
Every day, they work for more
Every night, they’ve earned their rest

Life’s a game that we all lose
So, let’s not our time misspend:
Going on to fight the fight
Makes us winners in the end

The Daily Battles


The daily battles that we fight
Are what our lives are, in the end
The horrors of the past we hide
The present dooms that might impend

And as the days and years go by
We list events out, name and date
And hear the dove of mourning cry
For all the lucklessness of fate

For death and grieving we endure
For violence that’s been done to us
We go on forward, always sure
That it will be so, ever thus

The daily battles that we fight
Take all our courage and require
That we do not desert by flight
And with our dying breath, reach higher



The Minnesota Ulgingeach
Could be called the Lochlannach
And no one could object
Unless old Gaelic was their crosstalk

The power of words resides not in
The sounds, which are just noises;
But in their meanings, and in how
They influence our choices

Much feared the Ascomanni
And a great bane were the Dene;
No one fears them now, for few
Will know what these words mean