Distillate

God is
hope,
nothing more,
pile all the
scriptures
on the floor,
absorb them
’till your brain
is sore,
the gift
remains
the same
regardless
the name
you claim
is true.
What lifts
me and you
is hope.
Hope
that the
pain will
pass,
hope
that the
bad
won’t last,
hope
that a
“bigger”
has our
back when
lack
looms
large
and loss
attacks.
Hope,
Hope . . .

Hope

Course Correction

The
immensity
of the the thing,
a profound
responsibility,
so much so
there comes a
propensity
to let it go,
a reflexive response to the
intensity
of the fear.
What would happen
if you grabbed hold
to steer?
Once grasped
you would become
ineffably
responsible for it all;
where you are,
where you’re going,
to what you set your hand
and what you’d rather be doing.
The
immensity
of the
responsibility
of choice.
Easier to blame,
to leave things the same,
to not bear the weight
for the result of the game.
There’s always next year,
right?
Maybe . . .
or it could end tonight.
Isn’t it time
to grab that wondrous mind,
to be the one choosing
your life’s design?
I think,
perhaps,
just maybe,
it IS.

Encounter

I saw
all
the galaxies
swirling as dust
in an
elephant’s eye,
or perhaps he
spied
them in me,
my own
reflection
dazzling his
perception
for a
breathtakingly
brief
moment –
an aberration
no doubt
that passed
without
comment.
The elephants
know, of course,
but have agreed
not to speak
of such
things,
for there are
none that
believe
save the moon
and her owls,
the hawks,
and the most
ancient of trees

Thief

The vanity
of the moon
is unbecoming,
luster stolen
from the sun,
her porcelain glow
not her own,
libidinous trickery
made to look
chaste
that she may
bask in the
unabashed smolder
of young lovers
casting smitten
glances skyward
from sea kissed
beaches

Truth

Today I could not
breathe
though the air
was plentiful
and free, all
because of this
thing,
PTSD,
few understand
the agony –
defying logic
I remain alive,
striving,
believing,
praying
that tomorrow
is a better
day

Divine Mystery

Oh the
great
weight
of our sin,
poor thin souls
bent
under the rules
we broke,
rules from
long dead
white men
who swore they knew God
better than me
and you
and what we
should and shouldn’t
do
while they watched
the money
and walked
oh
so
piously
and thousands
of years
along
we crawl
and cry
for redemption
from the
dreadful end
sworn by those
old
white
men
in our
spare
hours
between
loud
protestations
toward
subjection
and
oppression

Twinkle, Twinkle

Being born
is a
death sentence,
the Reaper
sniffs out
our first
fog
of
breath,
tracking us,
carrying
our death
close to his
chest,
always
mystified
by our
apparent
surprise
when he
arrives
while the
stars
simply
smile,
they’ve been
around
awhile,
watching
suns
expire

Life

I fabricated
a true story,
one act of
uncertain
duration
and made
the decision
to play it out,
me, both
protagonist
and
antagonist
of a
tragicomedy,
thus far, anyway
but me,
being a
crude thespian
who missed
acting class
am a bit
half assed,
not at all
credible
in the role
of myself,
there’ll be
no Oscar
on my shelf
for this
unscripted
wandering
in and out
through
empty
rooms

Sometimes

Sometimes the

Fall

evenings

drape over

my shoulder

like a long lost

love

that knows

my every

hope

and

fear,

holding the

promise

that all

will be well,

only to

disappear

when day dawns,

leaving me

longing

for the

return

of the

stars