Off the beaten path

Please save me a kind word –
it’s been one of those days
where I still haven’t heard
a single word of praise.

Would it really be a trial
to stop by with coffee
or to linger a while
while sipping your tea?

Share with me a moment
of companionship
that would make me less lament
this day of utter shit.

For it’s in small gestures that I find
peace of spirit and of mind.

Life’s a…well, you know

From the golden, shifting sands
to the lofty, emerald trees,
you can feel the spirit of the land
shaking in your knees.

From sea to shining seas,
you’ve got to raise your hands
to mother nature’s beauties.

But if one should dare command
her ample bounties
you’ll feel her reprimand
shaking in your knees.

Before Shambhala’s gate

What in the world am I missing?
I’m a word waiting to fill silence,
I am lips that aren’t yet kissing:
an unattained magnificence.

It’s not for lack of benevolence
(I’ve done my share of well-wishing
and my weekly Sabbath penance).

I guess I’ll have to keep fishing
for the key to my transcendence
while others keep dismissing
an unattained magnificence.

Plea for the breath of the eve

Give me an evening drink;
give me my evening meal;
give me time to think;
give me time to feel.

Please grant my appeal
before I, shipless, sink
from my weekly ordeal.

Faster than a blink,
save me from the real,
pull me from the brink,
give me time to feel.

Questions for a corpse

If I may be so bold
to trouble you in bed…
You who is now cold,
you who is now dead.

Where would you rather be instead
of with the divine fold?
What dreams were in your head?

What did your future hold?
What life might you have lead?
Would you want your story told,
you who is now dead?

The pyromaniac’s instruction manual

Build an altar out of wood,
a foundation for the fire,
that with a little luck should
climb ever, ever higher.

Next strike the spark – a fickle sire
whose progeny could be quite good
or a calamity most dire.

Then where once your altar stood,
now breathes a fledgling pyre
that potentially could
climb ever, ever higher.


There was a little cloud
that one day caught my eye
and stood apart from the crowd
as it drifted through the sky.

It looked about to cry,
wore a pale-white shroud,
and let out a deep sigh.

And though it was not loud
I couldn’t help but spy
that it seemed a little proud
as it drifted through the sky.