The Perfect

She grew up in the perfect home,
And learned their perfect ways
Of flawlessness in imagery
Through golden-colored days.

And people think she has it still,
In life, and mien, and dress —
So why is it that she’s so filled
With perfect


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

My Song

The purpose of this blog, restated.

I’ll often sketch upon this page
Life-stories that are seldom heard:
The man whose love is labor mute,
The girl whose thinks her life absurd

The woman, poised upon the brink
Of making her own life, her own;
The lovers, deep in ecstasy,
The broker, smug upon his throne

The family people, everywhere,
Who want to leave a loving way,
And give their kids all that they have
And never take where they don’t pay

The givers and the seekers and
The man out waiting for the bus;
The visions that may come at night,
The emptiness in all of us

For where the ocean meets the sky
My eye will linger, soft and long,
And my heart pen, upon the clouds,
The last few notes I hear
Of life’s sweet