in the late sleeping-hours

I can hear them

old memories

washing ashore


frolicking about

in the shadows of the room

like young children

staring into the future

wondering why I’ve lingered

existent in the moment


at poeticizing them

they wonder as wanderers do

when will they come to rest

and dream in the minds

of others who will

vicariously impersonate

a life to be relived…

Foolish Heart of the Wise

it is her smile I seek

I conjure it to break the peaks

as the sun just after dawn

the amber that spawns

a withdrawn heart to speak

funny the broken things

we come to love

broken by eons of pain

seeking comfort in the artlessness

budding beauty

as light which breaks a windowpane

and to keep her entertained

I do foolish things

to watch her spring into the love I seek

a ball of fire that dances

the more it breathes

it becomes alive

—foolish entertainment

enlightens her

she smiles

when I become a child

and in return this man

who put away childish things

became a jocund soul—complete

perhaps it is only nonsensical

by the forgetfulness of age

even the wise must sustain

some childish things

for the children

in us.




how beautiful

the word

breaking every


lightening the heart

giving birth

to joy and peace;

it is a revolution

against averment

where “no” closes

all hope;

it is the heart

of all—love

the wonders of “yes!”

Upon the Winds

the wind is filled with rumors

of war,

whistling past my window

underneath the wings

of Seahawks;

it fills the lungs

of playing children

consumed with having fun

some pay no mind

others are on the verge

with fear of being blown

away as untethered kites

drift to the sun…

the innocence of children

who play even

with rumors afoot

has much to teach

fear is real

so is ignorance

and bliss

see the wind carries

all sorts of things

how could we breathe

a breath

if we  are in

fear of

it all…