Hard Writing

The writing becomes hard,

a moment of clarity,

followed by a tempest of doubt.

I try, to understand,

the thoughts that lie deep.

Realizing, my own deficiencies,

the voices of the past,

declaring my faults.

Yet, I write,

poems that prod,

digging deep into my heart,

exposing my dreams,

as well as nightmares.

I’ll never be a classic poet,

God never gave me that gift.

Instead, I struggle,

to understand the feelings,

that lay below the surface.


A light rain falling,

on the grassy hill,

amongst the gray stones,

marking those who lay there.

We walk silently between,

reading the words,

names and dates,

some long forgotten.

Searching we find the one,

sitting there alone,

the stone green from moss,

the words hard to read,

worn down by time.

In simple terms,


Wife of Edwin Lomas,

who fell asleep,

March 23, 1889,

Aged 44 years.”

I touch the stone,

cold, damp, wondering.

Does she know we’re there?

I gently brush grass away,

something in that, 

simple gesture,

brings me closer.

We are connected,

through time,

the mystery that links

the living with the dead.

Looking at the stone, 

I look into my future,

immovable and gray.

Will someone, someday,

brush the grass away,

remembering what I wrote?

Will my poems touch another,

or just whither away?

Dry, empty phrases,

fluttering on the wind.

Summer Light

Late summer sun,

shining golden,

through stained glass.

A prism of color,

moving along pews.

As I sit here in silence,

my prayer dry,

the heart heavy.

On the altar,

the Cross shines,

reflecting back

the light it receives.

Reminding me,

that I’m not the light,

but one called to reflect,

that greater light.

In these dry times,

I seek your grace,

in the golden

late summer light.

Peace and Music

It wasn’t so long ago,

on a remote farm,

that it was all about,

peace and music.

In the rain and mud,

they danced and sang,

a joyous frenzy of bodies,

mingling together in joy.

Trying to forget for a moment,

what lay ahead for some. 

Peace and music,

the Age of Aquarius,

played out by thousands,

while across the sea,

bombs fell as villages burned,

people holding on while

the noise drowned out,

any music they might hear.

Peace and music,

playing today,

if we dare to listen,

opening hearts,

seeing the rainbow,

of God’s grace, 

seeking to overcome,

the noise of today.


He lay there, 

in his bed,

eyes closed, 

breath shallow.

I look down, 

my heart heavy,

he taught me so much,

about perseverance,

about how to stand, 

even when legs failed.

To use words,

to elicit change,

to evoke emotion,

words to convey,

the human experience

I do this watching,

no words can I say,

even now as I write,

they fail to help.

This world I occupy,

between the living and dead,

this grayness without borders.

The ambiguity of life,

the reasons we live,

the reasons we die,

questions of life.

The collar seems tight,

my sorrow rises,

as my own throat tightens.

Prayers seem trite,

in these moments.

I’m no shaman, no healer,

I can only reach out,

hold his hand, 

stroke his head.

I leave holding the grief,

as I hold everything else.

If only we could see this,

if only we would remember

that we all stand in the dust,

of our own choosing,

seeking that blessing of life.