in his comings and goings
eddie the e has found himself
raised from the dead
hes happy to be back
right where he belongs
with a pen in his hand
and words tingling in his fingertips

happy cake and candles
blow up the balloons
it’s your birthday

the sun celebrates with you
beaming with joy
at home in the east
roasting with the fervor
of a convert

has signed
a long term lease
is flapping
its orange black wings

auricles tell nothing
but good news
vibrant blue orbs
flash with fires
of the future
and life has no limits

i baptize you
in the name of the Father
and of the Son
and of the Holy Ghost




Every day,
I read
or discover
or create
I know you would love.

But I keep it to myself.

There is No Place to Hide


We exist
only at the perimeter
of our minds.

Huddled near the fence,
we steal glances
at the diamond-shaped reality
beyond our grasp.

That’s the reality that looks
so very like our own,
except that it’s inhabited by
someone we don’t know.

There he sits.
There he waits—
in perfect peace.

We see his lips move,
as he forms one word.

But we shun his greeting,
pretending we neither see nor hear.

We stand.
We stare.
We despair.

The fence is too high to climb,
but just around the corner
is a gate, and it has no lock.

Still we stand, shuffling awkwardly.

There he sits.
There he waits—
in perfect peace.

Then, one day,
one of us takes a step.
A step—not shuffling, not fidgeting.

The real deal, and we all saw it.

The stepper looks at us,
daring one of us to speak,
and is met with astonished, frightened eyes.

Finally she cries, “It was one little step, for pity’s sake!”

But she doesn’t take it back,
and everything has changed.


Lost in the Woods

Breaking Words

If words are tools
that break in the hand,
how do I build a shelter?


Allow Me to Surprise You

What Do You Hear?

Frank the Salesman
tells me that people
will hear what I have to say
when they’re good and ready.

Some consider Frank a prophet,
but his news is old.
I heard it long ago,
when the rest of the world
claimed to know better.


Will I Be Able to Stop in Time?

Fix My Wagon

The wheels of the rusted wagon
turn slowly.
This hill is steep,
and my load heavier
than I knew.

Tightening my grip
on the cool, black handle,
I try to smoothly
pull my burden
over the rough terrain.

My destination is in sight—
no, not my destination.
Yes, I see the apex of the hill,
but the end I’m striving for
is not that close to the sky.

The back of my hand
sweeps a strand of hair
from my forehead.

I have finished my climb.

Folding my legs and
fitting my full-grown body
into my little red dinghy,
I pull the handle towards my mouth.

Then I scoot and shimmy
until I’m close enough
to the edge
for gravity to take over.


Painted Peace

Painted Peace

If I could open my chest
—a zipper would work,
snaps, perhaps a button or two—
I’d access my heart each day
and add a fresh coat of peace.

I’d keep it in a can
on a shelf in my studio.
It would be nestled
between the soft gel medium
and the Mirage Blue spray paint.

Of course, I’d use a natural bristle brush:
squirrel, perhaps.
Expensive, yes, but my heart is worth it.
A gentle shake or two would be enough
to mix the creamy, shimmering liquid
and release the scent
of vanilla or violet or Autumn Damask Rose.

Removal of the heart would be the next step.
I’d do it carefully,
turning it over gently in my hands,
inspecting it,
taking note of how well yesterday’s
coat of peace held up.

Then I’d apply a new layer,
ensuring complete coverage
and exhaling a word of gratitude
for its quick-drying formula.
Replacing my heart in my chest,
I’d zip up and breeze through my day.