Poems

Conductor in the Mirror

I was not objective then,
I was emotional, and unwise.
I was a player then,
I was on the field, I didn’t realize
That love and lust are not the same,
That God and Man are just names
For Faith and doubt, that wax and wane
With the tides of Yin and Yang,
That ebb and flow like waves on sand.

I was naive and proud then,
Certain that I could explain the mystery.
I had confidence in the future
Unaware of its history.
Gone was lost and to be was a dream,
Each existential for only the day,
For the minute, the second, the moment.
Time did not stop for me.

Now, I’m waiting at a station.
With a schedule in my hand.
Looking at the tracks that come and go.
And, I think I understand.
To be, or to be here now.
I see the conductor in the mirror.
The mystery remains mysterious,
It is not for me to know.

Old Souls Know

Old souls know.
When youth swaggers,
When braggarts display,
When naivety struts,
When young jacks brey,…
Old souls know,
Though they know not to say.
For back in time
They remember the day
They heard the word,
And the word was truth.
Old souls know.
They have no need to say.
They have long since seen the beacon
That lights the narrow way.

Another Morning

A sunbeam enters
through an opening in the curtains.
It is light finding its way in.
Morning is a covenant with time.

Blue Notes in a Bar

I know you don’t like it When I sing the blues.
Mine are not the lyrics that you’d choose.
My tribulations are fine,
But when you walk the line
You have troubles far more brilliant
Than the simple twelve bars that I use.      

Walk Away

Just walk away.
That’s what the voices all say.
Don’t look back, don’t cover your tracks.
Just walk away.

Wishes and Horses in the Wind

I cast my supplications to the wind,
Wishes and horses
No longer imprisoned within
My doubtful soul.
Yet, I feel confused and hollow
without these old friends,
And I find myself calling them back again.
Once unchained,
Nothing returns unchanged.
Where the mandala stops,
Is where it also begins.
If I could but ride a stallion through the stars,
Through the wisdom of the gods,
And return safely,
Back to my humble home,
Within.
I cannot reclaim the fate, however,
That I once cast to the wind…

What Then

I am told that
every word is heard,
every thought is known,
every action observed.
What then of
every physical pain,
every emotional strain,
every stumble and every fall?

What then of
every struggle,
every stress,
every moment of duress?
What then of
every sin,
no matter how distant,
no matter how small?
What then of
every good intention constrained,
every blind eye turned,
every unheeded call?
Does omnipotence know it all?
This is a heavy cross to bear,
that my march into oblivion
hasn’t a moment of privacy,
that One shall perpetually care,
that my ubiquitous insignificance
should be of concern out there.
Such is magnificent Grace,
That within this Sacred Heart
I might have a place.

A decision made.
A decision wrong.
The pathway back
Is twice as long.
All Advice offered
Is now abundantly gone.
When We must walk back,
We walk back alone.

Blue Lights at Christmas

I see your face in every shadow,
In the glow of moonlight your ghost appears.
Blue lights twinkle through the snowfall.
Our Christmas past returns each year.

Church bells ring from every steeple.
Happy people share Yule time cheer.
Your reflection haunts the holiday windows
Our Christmas past returns each year.

I remember you each year at Christmas.
The night that Holy love was born.
The night you turned away, into the winter.
The footprints in the snow on Christmas morn.

I remember you each year at Christmas.
The kiss you you left me at my door.
White Christmas was playing in the distance.
Blue Lights adorned that cold Christmas morn.

I see your eyes in every stranger.
Through flickering candlelight your ghost appears.
While people top their trees with angels.
Our Christmas past returns each year.

Say What?

The premonition crept in, quietly at first,
and whispered to my head. “No”.
“No” is initially all that it said.
But, it spoke to my soul,
with whom I don’t always communicate well,
wherein my ambivalence dwells.
“No”, what? What are you trying to say?

This all started yesterday.
It bothered me throughout the night,
and spoke to me again today.
“Don’t go” it seemed to say.
“Don’t go” where? I pondered.
So, I didn’t go away. I decided to stay
here, in plain sight, and fight
with my anxieties and doubts.

I reconnoitered the local terrain.
Checked if there were any accidents,
by auto, plane, or by train.
Nope. Nothing reported so far today.
Is this insane, I inquired of my brain.
Nope. It’s just how these portents go.
Rarely are there answers, rarely does anyone know.
Should I stay or should I go?

There are documented cases from the past.
Folks who had a feeling, who changed their fate.
Folks who did not know, though, until after the die was cast.
Then, there were those who were too late.
May as well toss a coin, if we haven’t the oracle’s gift.
If we act subjectively alone we can be left adrift.
Or, we can seek guidance from the Light.
The Beacon is steadfast. Bright by day, brighter still at night.
Where there are no answers, the answer there is faith.

I keep an old wooden box of prayers on a shelf
juxtaposed with the Shruti, Tripiṭaka, Dhammapada,
Tanakh, Talmud, Dao de jing, Analects of Confucius,
Qur’an, Hadith, Guru Granth Sahib… and coupled with
a vintage copy of Mama’s old Bible, for myself.
There are hand written supplications in that box,
beseeching a loving God to intercede on my behalf,
on your behalf, on behalf of all.
On behalf of those who will dare to read
the Universal Word that is written in blood upon the wall.

It is not the edifications of a bearded old man in the sky.
It is not the dogmas of the church, temple, mosque,
cathedral, chapel, pagoda, gurdwara, synagogue,
hussainia, or monastery that hunts the passion within you and I.
It is not the interpretations of the priest, reverend, bishop,
deacon, pastor, abhyasi, Guru, Imam, rabbi, lama, swami,
yogi, shaman, or other proxy of the incorporeal eye.
It is transcendence of egotistical self to the fulcrum of the soul.
The word is LOVE, written in blood upon the wall.

And so I keep an old wooden box of prayers on a shelf,
coupled with a vintage copy of Mama’s old Bible, for myself.

The lady facing me is seated looking forward.
I don’t know her. She doesn’t know me.
We do not acknowledge each other.
Her lips are moist. Her eyes are distant.
She sees where we are going.
The train rattles and clacks along the tracks.
I can see where we have been.
“Don’t look back” you said,
I look back again.

I can see my reflection on the window.
I see the image of the lady facing me there as well.
Fantasies in a world passing through a rainy day.
All goes dark as we pass through a tunnel.
When it is light again no one is across from me.
There is a heart drawn in the condensation on the glass,
but it is dripping, melting fast.
Momentarily, I recall when you took off your mask.

The train makes a brief stop at Providence Station.
I see the woman from the train on the platform,
glancing back from beneath a red umbrella.
Her lips are moist. Her hair is wet.
Our eyes should have met, but they did not.
The wind blew our gaze away into the storm.
The train jerks forward into insentient consummation.
I look back again, as this withdrawal proceeds.
I look back again and see a reflection.
I see your face. But, I don’t recall the time or place.

There Are Wings

There are wings.
On birds,
And bird-like things.

Man can fly.
I’ve seen
In mid-air,
Angelical signs.

Love will respond.
I’ve seen inside.
Our eyes reveal
This spiritual bond.

I have flown.
I know there are wings.
I’ve seen them on birds,
And bird-like things.

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Meant for the Walls

Take it out of context.
Assume that you comprehend.
Twist the words around
And make it about you.
Now, if you don’t understand,
I’ll provide you with a clue.
Some statements are not questions.
They warrant not a rude reply.
Some messages are more in focus
To for whom they would apply.
Some words are written on the wall
Where others can clearly see.
Unless you have a guilty conscience,
Don’t take it personally.

Why do we fight.
Live and Let Live.
May be wrong,
May be right.
Maybe kindness
And Love
Will abide.
Live and let live.
And to all, a Goodnight.

While searching for a needle in a haystack
He found the straw that broke the camel’s back.

As plain as Day

Do not think that you are invisible,
Your jive is as plain as day.
Do not think that you are not heard.
Your word resounds with loud decay.
Move the pieces around the board.
Take a shot perchance to score.
But, do not think that you are more
Than just a player, nothing more.
Throw the dice, roll the bones.
Karma is a bitch that everybody knows.
Play your hand, make your move.
Do not think you have us fooled.
The only fool you’ve fooled is you.
You are a dandy at the table.
Quite handy with your underhanded play.
But, do not think that you are invisible.
Your jive is as plain as day.

Fiddley Fiddley
Frumpity thump
Capow capowpa
Riddlie ziddaly
Fiddle de diddle
Tee riddle,
Perhaps.

The Compass Needle Spins

He did not recall having charted this course.
This is not at all where he expected to be.
This side of the journey should have been
Fair winds and following seas.
Seems he’s run afoul of the wind,
Into a maelstrom unforeseen.
His compass needle spins.
He is tossed onto a callous shore
To start again.
Once again, to start again.

“Old mariner, old sailor”,
The board-walkers jeered at him.
“We have no helping hands.
We can not lift you up if
You have not a coin to spend.
Old mariner, old sailor
We have no sympathy.
If you have not a coin to spend
We must commend you to the sea”.

“I did not plot this course”,
He cursed beneath his beard.
“I do not seek your sympathy.
Helping hands are the hands of God.
Your hands are extended for a coin.
Your lifeline reveals no empathy.
If I must, once again, begin again,
Then, by all means, return me to the sea”.

An Audience of None

There he is again.
Talking to the crickets again;
That perceptive, old man in the moon.
The conversation waxes on
Through the silence of the night.
He is quite the orator, it seems,
When talking to an audience of none,
Or with those who have extinguished
A glimmer of insightful light.
You can not know what the crickets have to say,
If you reject their tale before it’s told.
You will never know the wisdom of the ages
If you reject it because it’s old.
If you choose not to hear the story
Of the crickets and the moon,
You will not, then, ever hear
the Spirit of the night.

A Little Time for More

Three steps out the door,
I’d be dog gone if I had one more.
One on the pedal, four on the floor,
Two in the shoes my Pappy once wore.
Time… give me more,
Give me time to do more.
One potato, two potato, three potato, four,
Pickin’ me, gettin’ me back on that rock and roll floor.
Boot scooting’, buckle rubbin’, givin’ it what for.
Side to side, to and fro, back and forth.
Slow dancing, sock hopping, twisting, and more.
Turn up the radio in my Squarebird Ford.
Turn up the heat for some back seat amore.
Seven decades on, but who’s keeping score.
Time… give me more,
Give me time to do more,
Give me time…

Hold the Line

The old warrior is defiant.
His shield is cracked,
His sword is badly chipped,
Yet, he holds the line
In the face of the attack.
The enemy is a giant,
An ogre, an anthropomorphic
villainous extract.
Not an animal,
Real or animated.
Not an alien,
Who has invaded.
Nothing mythologically
Or magically related.
The enemy is evil,
Divinely created.
The old warrior weakens,
But holds the line
In the face of the attack.
The front pushes forward
To the bridge.
The commander plays chess
With the Queen upon the ridge.
One after another the pieces fall.
But, the ogre is insatiable.
He will sacrifice the forces
For the haul.
He has tasted blood and money,
And he wants it all.
The old warrior stands defiant.
His shield is cracked.
His sword is badly chipped.
He bleeds from a wounded brow.
Time stops for naught.
Yet, he holds the line
In the face of the attack.

Here I Sit

How did I get here,
In this hole.
How do I get out,
I don’t know.
Every spiral that goes up,
Is a spiral that goes down.
Every passage out of the station
Goes to another town.
I dropped my ticket
Into the abyss.
Went down to discover
This ironic twist,
That at the bottom
Is the top.
Where the wheel starts,
Is where it stops.
So here I sit,
Beyond my depth,
Blindly staring at
Heaven’s steps.
Blinded by this infernal doubt.
Blinded by the very light
That would guide me out.

Dark Holes

Too many bad decisions made
Too many wayward souls
Too much precious light
Being sucked into dark holes
Too many wrong directions
Leading to the void
Too many wily players
Too much faith destroyed
Too many crooked lines
Too many angels crossed
Too much cancer grows
Too much trust is lost
Too many bad decisions made
Too many wayward souls
Too much precious light
Being sucked into dark holes.

The Straw & Camel

Perhaps I should go to the Straw & Camel tonight,
For a double shot and an ale.
Perhaps I’ll see an image in the back bar mirror,
Of the culprit that made me fail.
Perhaps I’ll buy the bastard a drink.
What will his poison be?
Hey bartender, another round
For my reflection and for me.
Perhaps I’ll even come to terms
With the villain in my brain.
Perhaps I’ll cut him off and
Never speak to him again.
Perhaps I should go to the Straw & Camel tonight,
And let the gods prevail.

Skiddly diddly skidely dee
Frumblely bumbeley bee
Thirteen eighteen thirty three
Fiddley fiddley wheeeeeeee

One night at the Leeward Tavern

As the old mariner helms
Alone through the fog,
It thickens, and rolls in cold.
Lubbers ashore smoke a bowl
And swill a grog,
Unaware not that their
Laughter goes no further
Than the Leeward Tavern door.
Outside, the fog is thick and cold.
The old mariner enters
With a gust of midnight wind.
The lubbers briefly see him come in,
Then continue with laughter and song.
The old mariner orders rum
And withdraws into a corner shadow
To watch Peisinoe dance.
The rum warms him,
But the sirens dance is chilling.
He cannot remain within,
And leaves to walk the docks
Along the the thick and cold shore.
The shallow songs end with shallow laughter,
No deeper than the Leeward door.
The old mariner must return
To the refuge of the sea.
He rows his dinghy through
The cold and dingy night,
To his ship, The Dunsel Marie.
He is nay a lubber
And sees no humor in the ghostly
Image of an old mariner
Alone,
In the fog,
As it thickens and rolls in cold.

Joker in the Deck

Odd man out.
Joker in the deck.
Aces and eights.
Watch your back.
Wild card up.
One eyed jacks.
Queen of hearts.
Off with his head.
Man with the ax.
Thirteen dead.
Ace of spades.
Up your sleeve.
Blackjack kings.
Pair of thieves.
House of cards.
About to fall.
Hold them, fold them.
Raise or call.
Ante up.
Bet your stack.
Odd man out.
Joker in the deck.

Another Door

The cross eyed carpenter replied,
“In the corridor of uninformed opinions
There must be a door from which to escape
The incessant march of insular minions;
The blind who follow
The blind who lead the blind into
An endless maze of heartless dominion.
A door that opens to a fresh, free flow
Of Love that draws no conclusion.
A door that opens to Love Divine.”

Straw Man in the Corn

There’s a straw man in the corn
Looking weary and forlorn.
There’s a straw man in the corn
Tired, tattered, and torn.
There’s a murder down on the farm
The black crows gather in the sun.
Ma and Pa sit silently on the porch
Listening to the restless wind moan.
The young man packs up the pick up
With his blues and his guitar.
He is their only child, their beloved son.
He is headed for the stars.
Twelve bars down the road.
Twelve thousand light years long.
Twelve bars down the road.
Twelve thousand roadhouse songs.
There’s a straw man in the corn.
The black crows gather in the sun.
Twelve bars down the road.
The restless wind still moans.
Twelve bars down the road.
Twelve bars gone.

On a Journey

There was an old man at the crossroads
With a compass in his hand.
I asked him for directions.
This is what he said.
On the journey there is a mountain
A man may never climb.
On the journey there is an ocean
A man may never sail.
On the journey there is a forest
A man may never enter.
On the Journey there is a river
A man may never cross.
On the journey there is a lover
A man may never touch.
On the journey there is a vision
A man may never see.
On the journey there is a seed
A man may never plant.
On the journey there is a melody
A man may never hear.
On the journey there is a path
A man may never take.
On the journey there is a twist
A man may not escape.
On the journey there is love and hate,
A decision every man must make.

No Cages

The invisible cage has no doors,
No windows or no walls.
The invisible cage has no locks,
No rules or no laws.
But, the invisible cage has a prisoner,
Bound by your biased fears.
You cannot set the prisoner free,
Until you claim the freedom that is yours.
Fly, fly into the ubiquitous sky,
Into the wind that has no form.
The invisible cage does not exist.
By fear alone you are immured.
Fly, fly into eternal grace.
Claim the redemption that is yours.

Them

Across the bridge
Into a strange land
The strangers stare
At the stranger who enters there,
Into their world.
Their banners unfurled,
It’s their land declared.
Their garments differ from
The attire the stranger wears.
Their hats cover different minds.
Surely not the same thoughts
As he who has crossed their line.
Their armor is on display
As if to say, you might, or might not
Be welcome here.
They are busy with their place.
There is little space
For an unfamiliar face.
They are one.
The stranger is not yet relative.
It’s all relative when crossing the bridge
Into a strange land.

Mostly, Nothing at All

I understand so little,
Mostly nothing at all.
My wings are an illusion,
I’m tired of the fall.
My guardian is an angel.
She is flying away.
She blew me a kiss and said
“I’ll be back some day.”
Prayers in the forest
Where nobody goes
Make not a sound
If nobody knows.
Old trees fall
And they decompose.
Supplications to the sky
Like clouds, float away.
Zodiac stars are light years away.
Without imagination
They have nothing to say.
“Help” is an echo
That bounces off the walls
Where the Word is written
In blood.
Blood that fell from the cross
That once was a tree.
A cross that fell
And decomposed.
It made barely a sound
In the forest of man.
Human expectations
Are a deafening sound
That rings like a bell
From the steeple in town.
The town that profits
From cutting the forest down.
I understand so little.
Mostly nothing at all.

Sail Away

If I could sail away,
I would.
I would navigate the vast horizon
Of the sea,
Free from the rapacious captains
Of society.
Free from unfounded judgments
Of the caste.
I would rather cling to the mast
In a storm,
Than grasp the hand of a lubber
Forever lost in the swarm.
If I could sail away,
I would.
I would follow the stars
Above the following sea.
Away from the shores of anxiety.
Away from city sailors
selling ships in jars,
Into an ocean of tranquility.
If I could sail away,
I would.

A giggle and a nickel.
A feather and a tickle.
One dance with Sally
And I’m in quite a pickle.
I never saw it coming,
Or I’d have started running.
One dance with sally
And my heart will not stop drumming.
Now I’m in such a pickle.
Dilly, Gherkin, Kosher, Bread and Butter.
One dance with Sally
My heart is all a flutter.
I shall never, ever dance with another.

Bonk!

Bonk!
There I go,
Stubbing my toe on reality again.
Ouch!
One would think I’d learn.
Another wrong turn and it’s there again.
Who keeps moving things around?
Realities that once were there,
I know not where,now, to expect them.
Bonk!
Here I am,
Bumping my head on the clouds again.
They keep floating by, and I don’t know why.
Guess I should pay more attention
To the path ahead.
Reality, just around the bend.
Well, that’s what the sign said.
Bonk!
Onward through the fog I go again.

Where is That?

On I go into nowhere.
I have nowhere to go.
Nowhere to sculpt the vast unknown.
Nowhere to cement a corner stone.
Nowhere to lay me down to sleep.
Nowhere in which my soul to keep.
Nowhere into a future long ago.
Nowhere, where my Lord is all I know.
Nowhere, ever onward, I do go.

“You must be mad, out of your mind.”
He said to the man in the mirror.
An empty echo ricocheted back
From the reflection that can not hear
The silence of no one there.

She sat in the seat next to me.
We both had a ticket to ride.
She was in route to the end of the line.
My destination was a bit more resigned.
We intersected at a corner in time.

“You’re in it up to your neck,” declared the lady of Quagmire Lake.
Yes… it may be my demise. If the water gets any higher, that damn dam might break.
“Try not to worry,” she spoke, “There is always hope.”
Hope won’t help much now… what I need now is a boat.