At Last The Doorway

A threadbare carpet, dim and musty walls,
A few stray lightbulbs left to flicker on,
An emptiness as tangible as touch,
And something like an orange-blossom scent,
As measuredly, unsteadily I step
To reach at last the doorway. There I pause,
For knowing who is on the other side,
I breathe in my surroundings, deep and slow,
And wish my character was not my fate —
I wish my character
Was not

My fate

Constrast and Counterpoint

Across the lake, the crying of the birds
Within my head, the emptiness of words

The winter with it’s promise soon to come
The lonely cold inside that leaves me numb

The sunrise spilling truth for those who see
The darkness of my own hypocrisy

The world is glory, magic and surprise
And I’m no one I even recognize

This Is Where I Live

This is where I live,
This is where I go,
This is what I see,
This is what I know.

Maybe it’s not much,
Leaf and tree and fall;
Yet, though I’ve lived long,
I don’t know it all.

This is why I drive.
This is why I roam:
I must understand
And take in my home,

So that I may love,
So that I may give —
This is all I am,
This is where
I live


In real life, I am really dull.
So I made a persona:
A poet who goes everywhere –
To Spain, to Arizona —

Who plumbs the depths of human heart,
And gauges those in power;
Who sings upon a concert stage
And climbs the highest tower —

Instead of just some bald guy, who
By accident of birth
Was made to say things rhythmically
His days upon the earth

To make a world of sound and word
That’s rich, alive, and full —
Instead of being what he is:
That’s really,