Elderly Walker

A weary traveler, he had turned into an elderly walker.

Quiet, unassuming, yet refined with his thrift store shoes.

And, mindful with midnight strolls.

Never tongue tied.

Infinity bold.

When we had become one…along with many a collection of souls…

I needed

I wanted

to know what I did not know.

The manner in which the elderly walker skipped and limped with impunity.

The gale force gait that entwined his grumpy smile.

His gesturing hands that informed those passing by…we can be free…we are not all that we have been told.

Abiding Grace

Grace, a dark horse.

A walk, purposeful, in the spilling rain.

A collection of wild ocean roses from a strangeland.

Eye candy for the laden soul.

Dignity singing nature’s song from the bottom of a deep well.

I cannot recall when I knew you…well.

The visions of ‘could be’ tarry with the stories I cannot tell.

Grace, a dark horse in which my song stands still.


the village people 2

there is a silver living to the white noise of a forest

a unique manner that pulls static from air

tender, invisible touches…slowing a harried way

I could stand in the ever green of nothingness…

not knowing if sound or sight has gone or stayed

how rare it is to take notice of the peace?

and, if I were to take my weathered hand to scoop ease away…

pocket the quiet grace for another kind of sway?

brooding crickets, settling leather tree trunks…

could seek refuge in the silence

all respite would fall from compliance…

leaving no room for another day

Simple Eloquence


Love see no faults.

It walks into doors.

And, offers up refined movement as, shade through a window.

While love dwells in the sailing ship that lay above the arid desert.

It is the hand that shuts the drawer in which we keep all that hurts.

Love, much ado about nothing.

Much to do with everything we are.




foot 6


Vanity, living crippled

tossed about in prose

with little inspiration.

Truth is never that simple.

It is a vengeful game,

the circle called life.

Worn down to fragmented sentences…

it unfolds precariously,

as if it were a storybook pocket knife.

So, with its own pace…

off comes the pageantry of leather and lace.

Anchored down like a ship adrift in the desert.

An ego of passion, ages, less lace, more hapless effort.

These are not handicapped visions.

Nor, clairvoyant disabled, decisions,.

Simply, matters of the heart, at recess.

A recant of which…

foot 3self came first.

Let grace ring

Let grace ring on…

on broken wing and iron wheel.

Let grace meet the path where feet cannot feel.