March, wandering in from the shortness of

Will it allow comfort and peace in
wanderings and musings,
or punish with the indiscriminacy
of a blustery January?

Lions and lambs,
old truisms repeated by
mothers and grandmothers alike.

Peace and all good
in the upcoming roar of March


“It’s not an endlessly expanding list of rights – the ‘right’ to education, the ‘right’ to health care, the ‘right’ to food and housing. That’s not freedom, that’s dependency. Those aren’t right, those are the rations of slavery – hay and a barn for human cattle.” –P. J O’Rourke


early morning
January sun melting
icy flows from the roof,
teasing of warmer March.

sun glinting off tin rooves,
waiting to be felt by
children and elderly alike.
Sun, cold and melted snow a gift.


Ashen hearts and Blackened hands,
Pickled beliefs and Sour love,
Crooked toes and Bent backs,
Tarnished lies and Bloody truths.

Raucous laughs and Calloused knuckles,
Simple honesty and Naieve trust,
Proud shoulders and Unblinking gazes,
Shrewd generosity and Accurate distaste.


Awake and Empty,
looking at a Purple Sky,
filled with Orange Cream Clouds
and Ebony Faces.

touching the Brittle Grass,
Flowers shattering with a Breath.

standing, sitting, collapsing,
the Purple Sky whizzing overhead.

the White Sun blazes,
Blistering Ice upon Crowned Heads,
we must escape the Clear Cold,
so grab the Reins of the Faceted Steeds.

Galloping until the White Sun
crumbles into a Pulsating Moon.
the Mounts, exhausted, crumble -
their Remains floating to join the Stars.

our Transportation, crumbled and gone,
now left with only the Moon and Stars.
Where do we go now?

the Moon now sets,
yet the Sun does not show.
the Sky melts into the Land,
no Light left 'cept the Lumination of the Eyes.

a Ripple, a Shimmer and a Blast,
the Darkness vibrating with Bass
Sound without origin,
overflowing with Purpose.

A Stone Tree

It spilled out,
from one horizon to another,
and torched the blanketed mountains,
with nothing left but a single tree.

The tree stood alone,
standing against the nothingness,
eons passing slowly,
until the tree turned to stone.

One stone tree,
in a courtyard of thought,
with the witness of me,
and an ability to do naught.

What then, is the purpose?
A stone tree,
alone with one witness,
with the end approaching brusquely.


Sitting, staring, waiting,
bored and useless.
Hoping for a call,
an email, anything to prove my worth.

A tiny paycheck,
a menial job
terrible hours –
anything better than boredom.

Knowing I can achieve more,
a desire to make a real difference,
yet somehow ecstatic
to get a job packing boxes.

How to find meaning
in a world dominated by
A desire to be self sufficient
becomes an unbearable burden.

I just want to be useful.


Rolling in the drink,
making a stinking mess of
life, family everything important.
How to get dry?

Sober, tipsy, drunk, blackout,
the first step away from sobriety
always turns into a full sprint
right back to the bottle.

How does one find sobriety
in the face of commercials,
liquor stores on every street,
and friends drinking at all turns?

The challenge of sobriety
is summed up in one word;
It is far easier to find a reason
to drink
than to not drink,
sobriety so much more difficult
than drunken revelry.

Help me find my path
to a life worth living.

The Talking House

Lights off, starlight the only glow,
empty plate sitting on the table.
Outside, the only sound comes
from snow falling and
raccoons stealing from cats.

Inside is much different,
the house trying to tell a story.
From the bathroom,
a swishing sound, the toilet
letting me know of its woes.

A sound barges out of the kitchen,
the fridge emitting a bass whoosh,
alerting me of it's hard work,
keeping beer and chicken cold.

Seeping from the floorboards,
creaking and moaning,
the hot air tells me
of its dedication
in keeping the cold outside.

A slithering falls from the ceiling,
the language of the roof
drips in a whisper down to the bed,
speaking quietly of the arduous task,
keeping snow suspended off the ground.

All parts of the house,
speaking in different languages,
forming a symphony,
only as loud as we allow it to be.