Tag Archives: Writing

Old Journal Entries

Pages of past musings

flutter by, dusted with age

old posts long since

devoid of inhabitants

speaking out the emptiness

a tale retold.

Days drift without visiting

I, passing quietly,

reflect distracted on the weather

momentary minutes of

an every day.

But still it sits there


for ink to color the rest of its

blatantly empty pages.

That when finally I scale its walls

enter into its domain

all I can write is

Here I am again.

I woke up this morning

I woke up this morning listening to the sun
rise in the voices of birds and the sway of buds on limbs
clouds cast shadowed light on multi-green tresses
while two on four read the news on the edges of fences
and the fallen patch of clover
somewhere above me a plane lifted towards stars towards
a destination longed for
cars in the distance strumbled and strayed towards parking garages
neighbors called to unseen dogs
and I wrapped this up with a yawn
yes, I woke up this morning listening to the sun
and met life impatiently waiting.

A thought – no title

I long to scream
but linger in silence
desire kiss
but savor no embrace
wait to speak
but no words issue
reach out in dreams
but wake still as held breath
and who am I to wonder
the threads of possibilities linger
only in my head
unless, and until, and perhaps if
merrily wait at the window sill
though their songs cannot
I alone sit in this
with out a soul to confess to.

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.

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}}

Time flies it does not creep

Time flies
it does not creep
or crawl
or divide
and make linger the longer
between wants of
watchmakers and
the anguish of lords.
Its long legs traverse
long roads towards ends
it will never see
pass monuments too soon
to fall in its shadow already gone
and still it will move on.
Oh, this time
fleetingly flies
fiercely against
the odds and
ends of my world
and will not stop
even as my breath
seeks solace in stillness.