Counting the Cost

Something you search for—

The Pearl of Great Price.

But how it is sore

When you’ve found that Great Pearl

—Not shining nice,

Nor yielding its ground—

It firmly stays put,

And stiffly says “No.”

Will you Die for that pearl?

Or will You simply let Go?

Peace.

Home is where the thunder rolls

—And crickets play—

To lull us back to sleep.

Home is where I toss and turn

—Till you awake—

Inviting me to rise.

Home is where I sit by you

—You hold my hand—

And my mug affirms our prayers.

It Comes from Within

            I wake with a start, my stomach tightening. What is this? Am I scared? I open blurry eyes to glance at the clock. 7:30. Half-an-hour more. I close my eyes. But my heart begins to race. I follow my rapidly-clarifying thoughts. It’s last night. It’s you. I conjure you before my mind, and I ponder. Another surge of adrenaline. So it’s happening…

            But what is happening?

            I stand before you, in my mind. Paralyzed by all my fears, all my hopes, all my haunting memories, all my unmet desires—

            Beep. Beep. Beep. 8:00 alarm. You don’t dissolve from before me. I reach out and force you back into my heart—or maybe back into my knotted stomach.

            I pull myself out of bed. I know I should eat, but I’m not even hungry—

The Door Without a Knob

Hello—Goodbye—Silence.

I close the door—and stare—

Silence—Why always Silence?

The door stares back—eyeless—

I cite: your face—your eyes—your lips

—Pursed—Say something!

Is this what you need—desire from me?

Speak—and I will listen—

Don't Look Into My Eyes

You ask me “Why”—

How honest should I be?

Should I—lie—

To protect you from Me?

I dislike certainty—

I’d rather dwell—

In Possibility—

Avoid that hell—

Condemns—awkwardness—

I’d rather maintain—

Beautiful—Broken—

This Undefined mess.

"Hope" is the thing with feathers--REVISITED

“Hope” is the thing with talons—

That latches to the soul—

And sings the tune of sirens’ cries—

And never stops—at all—

Those strangled—in the Flood—are heard—

Air bubbles popping nigh—

Yet none abide the little Bird

That lures with cunning Lie—

I’ve heard it in the chillest man—

And in the desperate Plea—

And—sadly—in Extremity,

It plays its trick—on me.

Confessions

No words—just emptiness.

Or too afraid—perhaps—

To admit—this fullness—

My Confession mishaps—