Selling Our Souls

Are we really that far gone?

In this time and place

the darkness of a human

overshadows the light

and covers us in shame.

Many despair this darkness

as they try to make sense

of the trite words being tossed

at the expense of another soul.

You shall love God and neighbor

unless that neighbor is different

and then you look to denigrate

while the crowds cheer raising their thumbs

feeling vindicated without knowing

they have sold their own souls

for the price of thirty pieces.

Where Does Poetry Come From?

Where does poetry come from?

Is it birthed in tragedy,

when a heart is broken

and fear darkens a life?

Is it created, when love is found

in that first kiss under the oak tree?

Does poetry only belong to the young

who see colors dance along the mind.

Or, does poetry come from a life full of mystery

where even the smallest grain of sand

is seen as an invitation into stillness.

I am old now seeking to find my poets heart

in the quiet moments of the day.

I listen for that young voice

crying out in my dreams and imagination

seeking words and images

long lost in the whirlwinds of the past.


Walking alone

the sun yet to rise

memories my companion

the air is warm

although it’s November

trees once colorful

are now being denuded

as leaves are torn away

the winds of the storm

tearing though branches

and I think about those times

when the winds tore through my life

tearing the certainties I had

what I thought were rocks

turned out to be sand

and faith is challenged

the Psalmist cries;

How long, O’ Lord, How Long?

as I watch the children play

jumping in piles of dead leaves

the irony of life not lost on me

life jumping in the midst of death

continuing on thumbing its nose

at the hooded figure

that points to the grave.