• Poetry

    The Blockchain

    I know myself; and I alone, can penetrate my anonymity. Though miners mine my hidden mind and document, for all to see; if only they possess the key. As pennies fill their miner’s cup; their beggar fingers make the marks. In etch-ed glass, preserving past; a perfect ledger tallied up; of infinite freedom to do my will; a final, faceless, reckoning; for a faceless man, whom I’ve forgot; now mortified in history.  

  • Poetry

    A visit to Taliesin West

    Orange and blues, the boldest hues adorning beam and stone Oasis ponds nurse desert fronds reflecting sky and sun Flower beds in crimson reds hiding thorn and thistle Chinese art found torn apart dance in light and shadow Concrete mass of stones from past rise from earth to mountain Imagine them with ink and pen perfecting line and angle Guided by the careful eye of Wright and the ghost of Sullivan Beauty speaks beneath the peak transcending space and time    

  • Poetry

    On the road to Mandalay

    The City of Lights is dimmer now. Sin City kneeling down in prayer. As pleasure pretends the greatest good… so death pretends the greatest pain. But isn’t the moment a soul goes blind, the beginning of the shooter’s rage? The greatest fear a man can have is off beyond our worldly stage. Cling to belief however faint. Read liturgy so rote and true. Though evil may extinguish faith, God’s word will not abandon you. Dedicated to the memory of the 58 people killed by the shooter from the Mandalay Bay Casino/Hotel on October 1, 2017. The Mandalay Bay project was introduced on December 31, 1996, as Hawaiian-themed, "Project Paradise". In…

  • Poetry

    A Parody of Tolerance

    That hunk of metal sitting on a stone memorializes who? A man? A woman? You object to my very question. Not who but what you say. An idea. A belief. Buried, but just below the surface. Its rotting toe protruding. Stinking up your manicured garden. Tear it down! Erase its words. Words are killing me. But I love you. Don’t you want to hear that? What good is love when hope is gone? Destruction is launched not with a button push, but with a word.

  • Poetry

    The Basement

    Let’s go down in the basement and we’ll wait out this storm. Let’s let the world explode, while we stay nice and warm. We’ll bring our friends and family to make sure they are safe. We’ll bring some wine and chocolate and snuggle in our chaise. The world may down around us fall but we will have no fear. We know the ending of this show. Soon Jesus will appear. There’s no place that I’d rather be to watch the world go boom, then snuggled up next to you inside this basement room. Written for my wife Amy

  • Poetry

    Responding

    How should we respond to tragedy? A tear, a word seem not enough. How do we relieve the feeling of dread, deep in the pit of our stomach? We shake our head and proclaim our disgust but the despair lingers, like a heavy stench. With every breath, we are a little short of air. We breathe deeper, more deliberate, and with more difficulty. When it’s harder to breathe, it’s harder to live. We pause to focus. Staring off at a point just beyond our monitor, or beyond the condensation on our kitchen window, or beyond the taillights in front of us. We see the images of those we love flicker…

  • Poetry

    A Great Run

    Some runs are bad. A bad run is exhausting. It takes more from the body than it gives back. Only the mind is strong enough to finish a bad run. Most runs are good. They serve their purpose. Good runs build the body up. The mind is free to wander on a good run. Few runs are great. A great run is spiritual. The body and mind separate. Awareness becomes acute. Aware of the effortlessness. Aware of the raw speed. Aware of the ability to do anything. Everything becomes easier. Easier to love.Easier to believe. Easier to forgive. A great run is a gift from God.

  • Poetry

    A Good Day Passed

    I began naked in silence but the bright sun shined down on me. I entered the cold river and was bathed in sound and color. I came to the shore and was clothed in your laughter. I drew pictures of what I saw and was very happy. I soon felt the coolness of the shade of evening. I stumbled in the darkness toward my home, afraid. I called to them and they heard me and I heard them. I was happy and realized that I had never been alone. I felt the warmth of the sun upon my face. I remembered the good day, just passed. I was thankful for…

  • Poetry

    The Lessons

    He sits to practice Protesting. Under duress. The notes come out clumsy. Out of key. Frustrated I take his hands. Guiding them. Much better now. The notes are in tune and sweet. It’s not the instrument. I’m relieved. I take my hands away and he continues. Still on key. Tempo slightly slower. I leave the room to work. Listening, straining to hear his work. He maintains for a while. Loses concentration. Slips back into mediocrity. Is he fine with this? Is this all he wants to be? Maybe it is the instrument? I return and guide his hands once more. The pattern repeats. Over and over. Each time he holds…