Blessings come
and Blessings flow
Blessings abound
don’t you know?

[There is but to ask
there is but to ask].

Stronger than any bond
any have ever made
Heavier than the sky
and lighter than shade.
Yes, blessings come
and Blessings flow
Blessings abound
and we know
there is only to believe
and for me
I believe

[There is but to ask
there is but to ask]…



Listeners, readers, finders of lost thoughts

There is always a place set for you at the table of humanity. Here we feast with all – the music makers, sword wielders, word smiths, lovers and politicians – the dreamers, dealers, doubters, passionate doers and delayers – the seekers of truth, liars, queens, princes, and paupers – the young, youthful, the old, frail and frightened – the mourners, merry makers, joy keepers and neglectors. Here we feast with all and it is up to us to find the conversations which delight us, eat and drink of the wisdom which most fills us, and toss the bones of our fears or freedom to the beasts of our past.

So, listeners, readers, finders of lost thoughts – spell weavers, singers, and painters of possibilities – be well to hear the things which give you joy and dampen out the clamoring mess with your songs.


I wish you a merry whatever you believe
I hope it shines and glimmers
stars in your sky and dreams
in your heart….

For some it’s Yule the Solstice turns
when the Sun is born and the Oak King rules
for some it is Dreidel days and Menorah lights
For others Savior and Silent nights
Still others simply wish for peace
on earth
for safety in towns of birth
living a breath more than perhaps it should
and life to go on afterwards.

so I offer up this thought
a simple blessing to be heard
may all you bless, blessings be
and all you love, love back to thee
no matter what
you believe.

((A poem in progress – it is one of those cases of not quite there yet, but wanted to write it out anyway))

Who can measure a life – Sonnet III

Who can measure the length or brevity of a life?
The age of souls does not speak to the tenor of time:
Seasons spring and fall never upon the same light
nor winter fell’d by the eloquence of ever and the pine;

Some a beat upon the wind casts love the first its cry
others linger upon great sands the truth never to hear
From every moment moments linger with a sigh
but oft moments linger not when truth be told we fear;

But measurement doth proceed upon the envy of our hearts
the linger of a first and the regret of should have been
lengthen or shorten the life we lead in part
and words spoken or unspoken suffer might of been

The length of men’s souls thus are kept secret in our breast;
the longer treasures of our memory and the courted sorrow of what’s left.


{{Sonnets are so lovely, and speak to me so profoundly. Despite this I do not write them justly – though my pen and heart wish for it so.  Forgive my meager attempt.  I will gain skill with each effort}}

Celebrate your living

Celebrate living
the movement of breath
memory keeper
and drum beat of souls
the sound piece
of speechless dreams
and the counterbalance
to worry and hesitation,
do not fear the dreaded
nor the four footed doubt
instead breathe deep the
fire of can to the bottom
of tenacious will
dance with the shadow
of almost could be
laugh with impossibility
yes, celebrate living
though living is work
of brow and callous hand
be merry in resolute
resolve and redemption
and welcome home
peace, pride, and
all’s possible:

Courting of Grief [Ward against Cancer]

They say he has cancer
words in sheep’s clothing
hungry, tooth heavy words
low and crawl
before the bite and thrashing
and you know the moment
when it all slows down?
when it .
all . .
every detail emblazoned
as his start to fade
despite rescuing hands to sink
more softly – all I can hear is
her at my door:
… a fickle mistress
lingers outside the room
in the hallway just before winter
laughs at a thought
brings tears a tear later
as she hurries you through
the swinging doors
bustles the waitress
and refuses dinner
then calls her friend Guilt
to gossip as you sleep
washes you in keenings
somber melodies of grieving
then picks you up to dance
at a bright light of hope
for which you know not its
origin, only she whispers it
and it must be true.
And be it or not, she waits
dressed as casual as a nightingale
and as regal as a raven
she waits
as do I
her mutterings to divinities
saturate my lips.
….a fickle mistress
lingers outside the room
in the hallway
just before winter
and long long long after
into the heavy nights of

Pause and triumph

Life; in its long race and hurried dash of rises and falls
of suns embrace and winters call
Moons light on roads traveled well
and dust covering shoes from resting spells
in silent reprieve; you grieved
in chaotic winds you set your sails
and who am I to ever dare
to write a word on your behalf
or suffer the ears of Gods
whom have no time for my
waxing profession
but alas, I shall try
comparing you not to days of light
sturdy groves or memoried delights
but instead I shall say you are
comma and exclamation
the pause of my breath
and the triumphant beat
of my souls heart.

St. Willards Street

Ancient sounds swirl through paper thin walls on St. Willards where hope left me a crumb and life struggles to have meaning.
A chill drizzles down my spine covered with cotton and flannel while distant drums call to my thoughts leading the lead marked pages dressed only in simple horizons.