Fine Line

We see and don't always say what we see,

for charity is a delicate veil

that prudence must sometimes mend,

although the veil can sometimes wear

so very thin,

prudence feels almost like a 

lie.

The Poet's Heart

The poet's heart dangles

from a fragile limb,

enduring ice and snow

through Spring's balmy kiss,

beyond Summer mist,

for reasons even he may not know.

Art's Irony

Sorrow trumps comfort

and riddles remain 

whether I favor dash or dot.

Words people the page

(be they wise or strange) --
while the poet matters not.

Lost Treasure

"I'm your friend," the substance croons.

"Come join me and you'll see."

But thoughts get twisted in the lair of

potent reverie.

Tempting, fleeting sense intense,

illusion's useful tool:

happiness mimicked, power distorted --

pleasures rare and cruel.

When elusive bliss has ended,

forced devotion miserably spent,

heart begs of man a reckoning

of where its treasure went.

Threadbare

Bent low,

I feel my failures
mightily,

and their weight pulls me

down,

taunting me,

daring me

to get up --

get up!

Surprise --

I intend to 

rise

with strength spent long ago

and skills in which I am poor.

Threadbare,

I must go forth.

He cloaks the birds

in splendor -- 

surely He will fill these

empty hands

with something,

something I have not yet imagined,
animating mind and heart
to learn, to do --
and the strength will be all His.

I will go forth.

Courage

The two hardest words

can sometimes be

not "May I?"

not "Thank you,"

not "I'm sorry,"

but  . . . 

"Help me."

Claiming the Dawn

"The canvas isn't broad enough!" thought I,

and with the sunrise I jumped up,

taking my hives and my shredded past

out for a ride 

to catch the dawn,

soul expanding with the horizon

to the tunes of pre-Thanksgiving Christmas songs

("Do You Hear What I Hear?"  I do!  I do!),

drumming my pen on the wheel,

wanting to write, drum, and drive all at once;

and the morning bustle was still there

(I had to check) --

trails of cars, headlights streaming in the morning light,

school buses pausing as mine used to do.

Thrilled to be part of the world's pulse was I,

and the clock started ticking again --

this time for me! -- my morning, my sun, my ride --

and back up the driveway I drove,

glowing from the harpsichord rhapsody

of "The Gordian Knot Untied" on 105.9 . . .
needing to celebrate. 

Furtive chase of the dawn completed,

I made the morning coffee

at 8:30 a.m. today 

for the first time in eight years --

two scoops, French Roast organic.

(Better make that four.)