The world is so –

It isn’t where it comes from, what it was –
It’s all about tomorrow, and today;
For every thing is named for what it does,
Not what did way back in yesterday.
  The world is so – it simply is that way:
  As every bit of yarn is made for yarning
  For weaving new, or maybe just for darning.

The past does not determine who we are.
It’s all about tomorrow, and today:
For journeys can be hard, though near or far,
And what we’ve said not be what we will say.
  The world is so – it simply is that way:
  That sometimes, what we’ve known is worth forgetting,
  And looking forward, better than regretting.

we borrow shadows…

we borrow shadows, too late to return;
we stretch out like the fingers of a lake,
and build our coves. we have so much to learn,
but know less how to give than how to take,
and buy at best some real among much fake.

we misapply, and maladjust, and say
of those we’ve broken, “they’re just made that way”

A Secret in the Stars

The broken times had come, and they’d come hard:
Her spirit bent, her body tired and sore —
The doors seemed shut, her every pathway barred,
And what was once a joy, now felt a chore:
She didn’t want to face it anymore.
  And so she rode out past the lights, and cars –
  Her whispered wish: a secret in the stars.

And there, the wonder lit upon her eyes;
The voices of the many come before
Had filled with her with such ardor, and surprise
As picked her weary heart up, off the floor
Of what had been. Intead, now, what’s in store
  For her seemed possibility; her scars
  Were soothed by secrets whispered in the stars

The Hindsight Warehouse

Within this room, with its fluorescent buzz,
Are all the ghosts of what has come and gone;
The hindsight warehouse: "should've", and "because" --
Those words that empty failure tends to spawn,
From which few real conclusions can be drawn
Other than that we will do what we do,
And stand in empty rooms when all is through.

I hear an echo, from a different day,
And see the room alive with industry,
The work we did to find a better way,
And give with caring, and with honesty,
Before the wreckage of our vanity
Exploded like a thousand fading stars
In bitterness, and chapters of memoirs.

We mop the floors that nobody will see,
And touch the dead, who can no longer feel,
We say we'll stay, then make our plans to flee,
Reneging on each sworn and sacred deal:
From others our dead promises conceal --

Because we hoped, we ventured for the heights,
But it's okay, now
                      turn out
                              the lights

a windward flock

she goes into the wind, the way she lived.
the flock of all who struggle, day by day;
and yet, that bracing feeling was a gift —
the purposeful: windblown, who never stray,
majestic and heroic in the way
they move on, through the hardest what, or why,
and still take others with them as they fly.


She made the laws, and he could stay, or not.

It was her game, and he a pawn or rook —

It wasn’t quite a trap; he wasn’t caught — 

But more strength than he had was what it took

To change his part within her plotted book —

And so he was obsequious and fawning

And did as he was told, while she sat


Love Selflessly

Love selflessly and you will pay the price
  of what it is to give and not receive –
  the heart of flame, returned with touch of ice;
  a soul encumbered, longing to believe;
  the joy that is, at once, a call to grieve
  within the emptiness of letting go —
    but love is worth it, worth it, even so.

Love selflessly, and time will halt its course
  and lay upon your mind the universe;
  at every turn to press with so much force
  that feels a maledictive sort of curse –
  a swirling mist the heart cannot disperse
  that magnifies what we’d least like to show —
    but love is worth it, worth it, even so.

There’ll be an ebb, of course, with every flow:
  but love is worth it, worth it, even so.