Patchwork fears

I wear a shirt of patchwork fears

Stitched piecemeal,

Slow gathered,

Lovingly layered with trembling fingers 

Patch by patch,

To hold me safe and warm. 

Safe is a place beyond the reach of pain. 

Beyond the reach of cold winter mornings 

Where each breath burns the lungs with life. 

Beyond the reach of summer sunshine 

Baking my bones to the marrow with its fiery passions. 

Beyond the reach of every stumble and ache, 

Every fall and cut, 

That might teach me to be better, 

Might teach me to feel… 
I want breathe chill and crisp breaths in the heart of winter. 
I want to burn with passion in the swelter of summer sunshine. 
If life brings pain, 

So be it. 
No more wrappings of raggedy fears. 

Sharp Winter World

The sky tonight is made of glass,

The stars glitter in an onyx vault

And the edges of the moon are crystal, smooth and razored.

The air is cold and sharp,

Resting on the skin like soft ice.

This is a night to look up.

A night to look beyond the bounds and bonds

Of the common life,

Beyond my skin.

This is a night to breathe in

The sharp-edged world

And let it wake me

To the wonders of

A crystal moon,

Stars set in onyx,

And a sky made of glass.






The heart of me lies not in the words


But in the spaces between the words,



Before the words,


After the words.




I believe,


That our,


(Yours and mine),


Most heartfelt cries,


Deepest sorrows,


Swelling joys,


World-shaking rages,



Are expressed,




In the moments of quiet.




The deepest communications


Never mark upon the paper,


Never vibrate the air.



The deepest bonds

Are with those who,


With a look,

Or a touch,

Or a smile,


Manage to listen well enough

To hear the words

Written in the






The Painted Moment

The sky is a looming grey,

The color of old asphalt to the far horizon,

Edged and interwoven with bands of white and gold.


Just overhead

The black silhouette of a bird

Hangs stationary,

Wings beating in slow, measured strokes,

Hovering unwillingly

In the face of chill autumn winds.


The world seems paused.


A live still-life.


A portrait of a moment between the in and exhale.




Broken things






Flawed, Fractured, and Fragmented.



Is that tragic?



Know this,




Glass is melted sand.


Clear, crystalline glass,

Translucent and infinitely malleable,

is sand…

Heated beyond all measure.


Paint is nothing more than pigments ground fine,

Dust mixed with oil,

Redistributed under the hand of the artist

Into windows to a world unseen.


Sculpture is a stone carefully destroyed,

Chipped and carved and shaped,

Until the truth hiding inside is released.


Great writing flows best from hands that have trembled in the dark.



Beauty is created from broken things.



I am broken.


The artist is making me beautiful.




Sunset From My Porch

The sky is rose-tinted gold

Sliding into blue

Fading into gray.

Night creeps up,

Following the painted sky.


The air is autumn apples,

Crisp and sweet.

Overhead, birds trace a moving V

As they chase their eternal summer.

Winter creeps up,

Following the painted trees.


I know bird people,

Forever flying,

Chasing summer.


I know bear people.

Stocked up and hunkered down.

Ready to retreat and wait out the long night of winter.


I’ve been both.


This time,

This night,

This Winter,

I’m here.


I’m moving through it,

Part of it.

Ready to dance in the dark

And walk through the winter.


I know.


The sun’s coming back.

Waiting to Shine 

See me sit,

Sighing sighs deep enough to fill the skies.
A long, slow breath of melancholy .
Still, I sit .

I stand .

I walk .
Sometimes the world presses,

Crushing down to squeeze me out .


I remain .

I am coal becoming diamond
On the days when your sighs fill up the skies,

And your tears fill the oceans,

Take my hand .

I’ll sit with you,

Stand with you,

Walk with you,



Until we both shine