Sunday, February 26, 2012


You are delicious,
a delectable darling.
I could eat you up. 

Written for The Haiku Challenge 2012 - Day 26 – February 26th – Theme: Paint the Image
Inspirational Image from: Google Images, Author: Unknown

Monday, February 20, 2012

Alive to hope

Living means release
of your past, your history,
so your dreams can breathe.

Be alive to hope
and grieve not for days of yore.
Invent a new life.

Written for The Haiku Challenge 2012 - Day 20 – February 20th – Quote: Live out of your imagination, not your history

Friday, February 17, 2012

Someone to see

We wait, him and I
but for what I do not know -
someone to see us.

Written for The Haiku Challenge 2012 - Day 17 – February 17th – Theme or Word: Wait + Paint the Image
Inspirational Image Clicked by Anand of: Apple Blossom's Photography

Sunday, February 12, 2012


So, I’ve been thinking about death,
                    the ripping of it
and how, natural as it is,
                               it doesn’t feel right.

But what is right?
         And who am I
to know, to say, to judge?

The part of every story that we hate.
The words mixed up, the prose awkward
                                              and we always want a different ending.

                                                 And I’ve been thinking that departure can feel
                                                                                                                like attack
or like a rapid current in the agony of life’s ebbing river.
            About how the oscitance of passage
                                                      pulls in, too, the protesting pieces
                                                                      of those left we’re
                                                                              each time a little less

Yes, the gateway
yawns, lazy-like and shards of our
glass hearts fly in with the summoned. 

                                           Maybe they’re collected, those bits, constructed anew
and returned.
But I don’t know. 

Immanent, Innate, born to die.  To live.
                           But still.

declares her will, her time and we gape (each time) in shock. 
              How dare she?
                            She advances with a vow.
                                                             We retreat, denying.

The sum and substance in the end so brief and we realize we’ve only skimmed.
             And who or what is there to loathe when life at last is finished?
                No.  Bitterness is for those here and we alienate ourselves from the inevitable
                                                               and from love, which is all we really have.
                                                                       Our reflections,
because mocking death travels with a mixed bag and we want
                                                                                       nice and tidy.
Who can handle the profundity of the commonplace fact of finality, the rhymeless,
                                   unpoetical and unrehearsed tragedy when all
                                               along we’ve begged for clowns.
                                                                                          So, now,
fumbling, we place  flowers (which, too, will die) by words engraved, words,
                                    too few.

                                                   Our hearts, raw, ache, incompetent to
beat alone within the poverty of our existence.
                 We become
                       beggars who know not anymore what we
                                      want- more or less?
                                                     Though distinct in details, death is not diverse.
But still, I feel my words to be like death, an interrupted sequence.
             I have no lines to close with.

submitting at dverse

Thursday, February 9, 2012

Wednesday, February 8, 2012

Death becomes divine

Hands frozen in time, only here.
                       they move, made new.
                                                    What all you lacked in earthly moments, there you      
                                                                                                   The glimmering
                                                                                                         gift of wisdom, love, lustrous.

We see only this: hands
                           held high,
answer, pleading, help.
But death becomes divine and you have received.
Transference to abundance.
   A heritage of worth,
         endowed with glory we can not
                                 yet envision,
                                       Enlightened, finally.  Given sight.
Hands, Heaven directed have reached their goal, wooed by illumination,
captivated with splendor.

                We weep not for you.

What is a poet? An unhappy person who conceals profound anguish in his heart but whose lips are so formed that as sighs and cries pass over them they sound like beautiful music.

submission for Magpie Tales

Saturday, February 4, 2012


Now is all we have.
Only guaranteed today,
Will we fully live?

Thursday, February 2, 2012

The Moon

Hung like a hammock,
the moon, in the black, night sky,
smiles but barely.


I had longed for change
but transformation came not
so I accepted.


Revelatory red:
         The blood you shed;
so red, it shocks, the very nature by which it was poured out, to cleanse,
                                                 blood red to purify, to make as white as snow.
So beyond any human comprehension and so your words
                                                                            we wrote
and read in red, in Your Word, Your gift of Good News, the gift of sacrifice and red the wine
we pour and drink to bring us back, to remind us of that gift.
stained red on Mary Magdalene as she traded in false beauty, the painfully inadequate
                         mere promise of beauty she falsely
                                                                  felt with man, traded it in
                                                                  for the One and Only Man who could and
would see her true beauty, the beauty that He alone could truly give her.
Red, the rocks, the sun, the rose, the embellishments of Your creation, all pointing,
                                                                                                        all praising,
                                                                                                        all reflecting
Your glorious name.
Red, every tongue which will
confess, every knee raw that will surely bow, that stays kneeled in prayer, rubbed
raw, rubbed red for the healing, the safety found there.
Red, our hearts, when made of flesh, that yearn for Yours, our heart’s desire.
Red, the apple that was eaten that caused the red of rage that caused a world gone bad to
        try and eradicate all truth, all love.
        Those shades and shades of true love, the only importance, the true romance.
                    And red on fire, we for You when we truly see the way it’s meant to be.
But red the mocking of a hell that taunts us, that calls us in, robs us with its heat, its false
comfort promised here on earth.
Red, your eyes, wet from tears when we look away, when we see not your tears, but only
Red, a color of our celebration of Your birth, Your fame. A fame we, too often,
                                                          hide behind false reds of holly and suited bearded men.
The loss of red from Virgin Mary when she was one
of maybe too few who heard your call, who accepted that great honor, an honor veiled in
             the doubt and suspicion of this cynical world.
Red, a color of my flag, that once waved in honor of a freedom only You could bestow,
now trampled on, because we’ve forgotten the One who gave it all, the price of true
freedom; not a country’s freedom but a world’s freedom if they will come, red eyed,
                 to the cross where that red blood poured out and only lay it all down; see red.
                 Through the rage and through the pain came the beauty of a Savior,
                    of a resurrection and maybe there’s no red in Heaven.
                                                  Maybe it was left here for us, an entirely human color;
                                                    a revelatory