Reflections at a Waterfall

I walk up to a waterfall near my home and there I sit, watching and listening as the waters cascade down over the rocks, splashing into a little stream. Sitting there I begin to pray, I’m standing on holy ground, in a place created by God, a small, yet serene cathedral. Invited to reflect on all that has passed in my life, the people and places that have shaped and molded my life much as these waters shape and mold the earth. I think of my dad, regrets of missed talks, of times when I just wanted to know more about him, having one more time to tell him how much I love him


The Watch

Drip, drip goes the I.V.

the machine beeps

with each heart beat

as respiration’s are counted

beep, beep, beep

nurses enter pressing buttons

while he lays there unaware

as slowly his breath subsides

as the beeps dwindle

and respiration begins to fade

a nurses hand on his wrist

a tear from her eye as she watches

he slips into another place

no more will he suffer

the slings and arrows of hate

then the long sound

of the machine as it wails

matching her own grief

in the silence of her heart.

Social Media, Poetry and Plagiarism

A strange thing happened last week, a short, and I do mean short, poem was basically plagiarized. When I first found out I thought it was kind of funny, I mean here I am, not one of the greatest poets in the world, in fact I’ve only been dabbling in writing poems just the last couple of years. Heck, truth be told, I’m not all that great of a writer. All I do is try to put words down on paper and see where they lead me. I’ve tried creative nonfiction, fiction, essay, blogging as well as poetry, and although I sometimes get a nice comment or two, my writing is not going to change the world. So to have my short, little poem, that I posted on Twitter to be stolen by another Twitter user, well I have to wonder if they were either desperate or drunk. What is really funny is that my original post only garnered me a few likes and a couple of retweet’s, while this persons reposting of my work garnered them hundreds of likes and retweets. So, the good news is that someone liked my poem, it would have just been nice to get the credit but then again, what have I really lost? Just a few words sent out into the ether we call social media, a wilderness as deep and wild as any real wilderness that we might wander through. It will not stop me from writing, I will still post my little poems and musings and if someone out there is moved enough to want to use what I write as their own, then I hope at least they will thank me. By the way, here is that little poem I wrote, it’s not much, but it is mine, enjoy.


is the song

of my heart


in the silence.

January 1, 2018

I am not one for making resolutions as most seem to have the half life of a gnat, but I am going to try and write more and to keep a record for this year. It will probably be a combination of journaling, poetry and some kind of essay as I try to convey my feelings, that is if I can ever understand them. Today, on this first day of the New Year, we are in the midst of brutally cold weather and it looks to be staying around for the next few days. It has kept me away from what I love to do, road cycling and even though I can ride indoors, take the occasional spin class, they are poor substitutes for getting outside, in the fresh air and enjoying the alone time. Being an introvert, my cycling gives me the freedom to work out the noises that are in my head, the words that I want to write, the poems that I need to say, the very heart of who I am. I’m not an expert writer or blogger, I’m a hacker. I try each day to write, I try to make sense and there are more times than I care to count where I fall way short, but still I write. So here I sit on January 1, 2018 living into a resolution that I have not made and hoping that I can find the words that will make sense and even if they don’t make sense, well at least I will have written them and that will have to be enough.

Advent Calls

In the depths of the heart

a voice whispers

awaken, O Man, awaken

the first light is lit

the world awaits

the maidens have trimmed their wicks

and still you slumber

awaken to the worlds needs

awaken to the song of humanity

the cries of the innocent

that haunt our souls

the angel speaks softly

in a voice of thunder

Wake, O Man, Wake.

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.