Introduction
These poems are offered here not as polished literary artifacts, but as honest records of a life lived in the tension of the pursuit of growth. They are published here as they were written—imperfect, searching, honest. They speak to the questions that have shaped a life lived between many different worlds.
1999–2006
I AM
I am
I am a superman
But I don't know what to do
What did you see
Looking down from your horse
As you left me behind
The excuse. Nature's course.
I will take you
I will shape you
I'll consume you
I will remake you
Into that which honors joy
Then your hate will disappear
Wrapped in peace you'll be a boy
No more a man made in fear
I can stop
I can see
I can forgive
I am me
And I now know what to do
GREED
Sometimes I long for the riches you have,
Jealous of what it provides.
Expecting contentment; hope to be glad.
For in your house, it resides.
Yet in life I would lose with lessons unlearned
Confusing satisfaction and greed.
For the Midas touch I thought was deserved
Turns out like the sprout of a weed.
Yours can bring glory
Yours can bring fame
Mine has brought peace
Of mind without name
WEEDS
The innocence of a child
Is like the delicacy of a flower.
Juxtaposed by weeds
It becomes a symbol of beauty.
Grown from dirt,
Nurtured by decay,
It blossoms in sunlight,
Painting a landscape with color
Escaping the ordinary.
What a world of happiness we would walk
if we could appreciate the role of the weeds.
COLOR OF MY EYES
In a world filled with so many faces
Are they to know the color of my eyes.
To be one of so many holding our places
Significance built upon fame amongst flies.
But without recognition my soul feels no basis
And detachment of this yields what prize.
Living inside of my ball; it rotating round my actions
That dependence on me, as the world seems to be,
Seems better than dissatisfaction.
But a world of my making, risks ego be breaking,
If slips truth that my self is a fraction.
Minute amongst billions, I'm reduced to a flake
A snowflake, unique and special
I am now we, and landscapes we make
Built to endure weight like a trestle.
Except we melt with the heat of summer dawn's wake
Reminding me of the purpose I be, with that I must wrestle
But eyes will always be known to myself.
THE LIST
Brian's new home had no extra room;
No space for old thoughts he had saved.
Kept in a chest with many things.
The story, a life now defamed.
An unopened note,
a diamond ring.
A rose from a dream,
broken strings.
A time when music was life
each note a song to the sun.
Dry bottles of gin with labels removed
torn pictures taped back into one.
Brian moved through the box of unspoiled time
A leech sucking blood from old wounds
Spitting out bile of once held desire
Making space for new rooms.
A FLOWER ALWAYS
You grew from the ground both radiant and proud,
showing a petal at a time.
Now all of you I see, makes it evident to me
the sweet flower that says she is mine.
Without a thorn,
or a flaw to scorn,
becoming a rose of many shades,
I realize anew this feeling for you
so touching my love it bades.
As I picked you up and stayed within,
unconscious that you could see too,
You saw me cry and try to hide
mistakes of shame from you.
But still you stand with me in hand
my flower of joy and hope.
You make me smile while all the while
providing the means to cope.
As our new lives begin uncertainties portend,
with fear we carry on.
Yet take pride in this, offered with a kiss,
To remain while we are gone:
To my flower that grew with me,
in you my feelings will never change.
You've been given a part, the gift of my heart, to take with you always.
2007–2014
TING TING
Another victim to life's ambition,
Sweet perfume clouds the air.
A light dream warming the face
Hides the space
Of the anxious twinge of time.
Another victim
A daylight dream no sleep
to life's ambition.
Lullabies on walls, concrete.
THE LAST GENERATION
A decade, a change, a decade, a change; the earth, the sea, the air, me, we. It's all the same.
But is it?
I met a boy on a bus passing by a volcano of mud drowning houses. We talked for a bit about politics and nations, he asked will I vote and we shared a knowing smile.
It was easy to see, from a highway perspective, a desert of mud baked land fanning outward. People had long fled, poor and forgotten by the carpetbag of foreigners inlaid with broken promises, in keeping with tradition. A little test, as was billed, of a drill that could bring money to share. But the smart man didn't understand the work of his hand stirring nature, and there were consequences.
When it started to flow, the man said he would help, but his heart was not as driven as his stomach, and soon he grew tired and soon he fled. Now years have passed, the little towns are abandoned, left to the despair still flowing from the ground.
Another land of voiceless people lost to mud.
WHO CAN SEE
She thinks she know
She thought it out
Her life was hard
She has no doubt.
The future ain't patient
It's a gift of the present
So actions come first
And decisions be second.
Girl where did you run to?
Why leave us behind?
Your actions bring sorrow.
Never peace. Never mind.
2015–2025
TREE SPIRIT
Born of death, he awoke to a world of gnashing teeth and warm hands and soft cries of a mother's agonizing prayers. He opened his eyes, seeing the world for the first time as both a man and a child.
Something had happened to wake the tree spirit from his long and peaceful slumber. A scar seared deep in his heart was all that would remain of his awakening, buried deep like the hidden rings far behind the outer bark. Into the forest he roamed.
The years passed and the spirit took shape. His limbs, his hair, his nose, his eyes would reflect the legacy of his predecessors. His mind would form from all he touched, so he touched all he could. He touched mountains and seas and living things. He smelled their purpose and longed for one of his own. He called to the sun in search of direction and followed its light to a grove.
There he asked the grass and the reeds, which gave voice to the wind to speak their truth. They said to the spirit that knowledge is but a part of the story. His path is only his own.
TWO MUSICIANS
One was striking. A clasp of wood on brass. Alert. She announced the rules of the rhythm; she did not ask, she did not bend. Her beauty was her force. Her pace always marching. She crashed upon herself and echoed till she crashed again. Her bones shattering the air. The sound of steel.
The other was earth. Bass and baritone and warmth. Improv the flair, but fixed of foundation as the beat sang boom boom boom, in sync with the thud thud thud of the heart who stood near. He moved with his people, lost amongst their sea, blended and connected in spirit.
Her sound was her own. His was theirs. As the songs came together in structure and course, Harmony arose, bounded in and stole two destinies.
ANXIETY
In the dark places, he cowers.
The fog of dust unsettled from the noise of daily waking hours
hides his electric quivering,
ever present though hardly noticed,
except in those moments
of celebration when he should be here,
yet he is there.
Waiting for the other shoe to drop.
STORIES
I am many, but judged to be one. A threat.
They hear my words through the shattered prism of their own experiences. Familiar sounds from a familiar face assumed to have familiar meanings. Another miss. Another failed connection.
For mine is a face that misleads. The face of oppression, built of the bones of the oppressed, colored by blood of the oppressor, driven by a heart that knows love, led by a mind that remembers none of it yet must learn to.
Sanguine, they see in me their own story, but for my words. A disconnect that's easier to ignore than reconcile. My words fall away to dust and smoke.
I am lost to the stories told by others.
BURIED GIRL
In dark places the fragile child hides. Cheeks cut red with tears. Whispers she to herself in echoes of unrequited love. From innocence she hopes. She seeks. She returns to the pain, a baby's tears yearning to be held. The father annoyed. The mother exhausted.
Here is the grave where we buried her. She was too much, they said. Too much. So we buried her. We buried her deep. We sit on the grave. We cover the grave in rocks. At night when it's dark when the wind is howling and the rain is cutting and the sky is flashing, we can hear her. She is scared of the storm. But she is too much. We sit harder. We cover the grave in rocks and sit harder.
Most days the weather doesn't bother us. We have good clothes and each other and we are strong. We don't talk to her. We don't listen for her. We play games. Lots of games. Games of questions. Games of building. Games of wrestling. We eat candy. We hold hands. We kiss. We make love. We build a stage on the rocks where we can dance and have more room for bigger games. We grow. Some of us grow.
I am older and can no longer remember the girl. Why did we bury her. I explore our stage, looking for doors that may help me find her. I feel I am getting close. Then a shake. A crack. A tremble. A cold sneaks through the air. The others are frightened. Everyone sits. They sit hard. They sit on the cracks. They block my doors. How did I get to be sitting. I grasp the floor. I can't let go. The shakes are back and I am not steady, so I grasp and I sit. What else is there?
I miss the girl. I bet she was beautiful.
TO PARENT
We do not expect him to tell us why he calls out, yet so often know exactly why he does.
We know by the sound of his cries or the look in his eyes or the context that sets him in motion. When his words are unclear but our patience sincere, we find meaning by way of devotion.
Though in our heart we make his home, we make no claim as if to own, for he is no possession. He is a breath unto himself, a spirit free.
As his stewards, we honor his path, hold his space, and pray that we may model goodness.