Empty

Empty

This empty page

This reflection of me

This empty page

Where I don't dare say what i'm thinking

This empty page

This reflection of me

This empty page

That can be filled with fear or happiness

This empty page

This reflection of me

This empty page

That can comprehend hopelessness

This empty page

This reflection of me

This empty page

This empty life.

Raging River

Raging River

Written for Patients Like Me

(What Touched By Fire Means For Me)

I burn from within,

torrents of flame rage through me,

words in every order

carried along in its current.

They heat my hands as I race

to write them down fast enough.

Idea after idea after idea

errupting, pouring out of me.

They are in control

I am a vessel that never runs dry.

But my human body collapses

under the searing pain of

relentless inspiration.

Finally, found drained and broken

on the floor,

they start the drugs again.

The liquid ice that consumes my fire.

In a haze I see the river calm, and drain,

and freeze solid.

I am forced inside an ice cube

and kept there.

Contained.

But while I lie in torture

a flame flickers on deep inside me

and slowly it will melt the ice

and I will once again

embrace the current,

and let it take me

wherever it wants to go.

Inspiration

Inspiration

Suddenly!

I saw a glimpse of it:

that desperately easy ability to write.

To let words flit across my page

like a butterfly on a warm current of air.

It licked my mind

and fluttered past my eyes.

I slowly stretched out my palm,

and it grazed my skin and landed there.

Terrified of the devastation I will face

when it flutters away again,

I watch mesmerised

as tiny feet and silken wings

brush my blissed hand.

She is magnificent,

iridescent purple woven through

filigree black velvet wings.

Her beauty is natural, and flawless.

She won't last long,

everything that touches her wings

will make them ever more ragged.

The very flowers that sustain her

are slowly destroying her.

I hold her so very carefully in my hand

and wonder,

how long will she last?

Why I Love My Job

Why I Love My Job

For Tiny Aaron

On my shoulder

the solid weight of you.

On my cheek

the touch of a tiny wisp of hair.

In my hand

the loose round ball of your head.

On my hip

your little limp legs.

In the crook of my arm

your baby powder bottom.

On my shoulder

your soft mouth sucking on my skin.

In my ears

contented sighs and gurgles.

Across my neck

the rhythmic pulse of featherlight breath.

As you lay across me in slumber,

we rock us off to sleep.

Annahallé's Song

Annahallé’s song 
Written in tandem with Leonard Miller

Page by page, one stroke at a time turning numbers into roller coasters, dripping crimson over a sea of images forged by words that crossed the lines, head bowed heavily over a book as thick as the unrelenting Russian mud that thwarted the Germans. Long soft hair piled messy on top of your head, streaked with color from the fading sun. The warm lights of home bathe your desk in soft light that glints off focused eyes. From the kitchen I hear you humming because like Lindsey’s flying notes, physics is just a matter of math. This is a perfect union you have discovered. As the aroma of your favorite squash soup catches your attention I am rewarded with a grateful smile, and while my mother’s heart wishes to release you from the heavy weight of your constant drive for academic excellence, it also calls out, with tearful knowledge of the consequences, saying fly my child, spread your wings and fly.

Home

Home

For Zachary who longs for the same things I do, but hasn't yet learned the hidden secrets in the world around him.

I go there to erase this world.

To return to a deeper calling

that draws my mind and body

constantly in one direction.

Home.

But I don't mean my house.

My mind remembers trees and water

dirt and sun.

Forces greater than any man.

Home.

Maybe this pull is millions of years old,

or maybe just my lifetime.

Maybe it was born the first time I was

let loose in a field to run free.

Home.

I long to lay in the sand and feel water.

Hot or cold, it makes no difference.

Long to hear the gulls overhead

and the beach grass beneath.

Home.

I am called to deep green forest,

dense and untraveled,

dappled sunshine,

or drenching rain washing me clean.

Home.

I want to feel the storm,

let it take me.

Or wrap up in a blanket of warm sunshine

to a symphony of crickets and rustling.

Home.

I want to climb to the farthest places,

touch the sky and view the world

as it was always meant to be.

A garden untouched by ignorance.

Home.

I want to feel the fire,

taste the smoke

touch the serenity

of a night lit with flame.

Home.

I want to lay my head down on a pillow

of pine needles and get lost

in a sea of stars

and dream of other worlds.

Home.

But I wonder too,

is their world as good as mine?

Do they have a life to return to?

Family and friends to see?

Home.

Maybe someday I will hide in a

cabin in the woods,

far from world news

and demands.

But today I will go

Home.

To possibilities I didn't know,

adventures still to be had,

life to be lived and loved,

surprises not yet revealed.

I will be

Home.

I will wrap myself around the love of my life.

I will kiss my children and read to them.

I will teach them to dance in the rain,

to be happy not with where they are,

but who they are with.

Because that is

Home.

Home waits for me in many places:

in a forest, in an ocean, in a desert,

at a fair, in a hospital, in a school.

On a patio with a little red wagon.

In a giggle, in a laugh, in a baby's tiny cry.

In an angry fight, in words unmeant, unsaid,

in forgiveness, make up sex, patience.

Even in anxiety, fear, and sorrow.

Home.

Where with God's grace,

there is always tomorrow.

Grace

Grace

2 Peter 1:2

When we are hurt we cry out to the Lord:

Why me, Lord, why me?

When we lose things we place value on we cry out to the Lord:

Why me, Lord, why me?

When we experience racism or discrimination we cry out to the Lord:

Why me, Lord, why me?

When we experience loss and grief we cry out to the Lord:

Why me, Lord, why me?

When we fail, when we stumble, when we fall we cry out to the Lord:

Why me, Lord, why me?

When we are betrayed or left behind we cry out to the Lord:

Why me, Lord, why me?

When we sin and find ourselves ashamed yet still we cry out to the Lord:

Why me, Lord, why me?

We are covered in Grace, too all encompassing to comprehend. Why do we not cry out to the Lord:

Why me, Lord, why me?