The Hill

You’re back –

back in the game without a rooftop on the hill,

so all you can do is keeping climbing,


Your voice

has carried over centuries to long lost poets

and scribes of the West who craved fresh water

and sweet air just as my lungs call out now.

Your hope

will always be here, especially at the moments

you make it.  You stride. The path leads up

to a perfect glow of light and you can perch

your pride on the line and call out, “I’m free.”

August 28, 2013


A friend, a true friend, I have

Seen today.  No, she may not have the perfect

Plan for the future, nor the ideal collection

Of movies and DVD’s.  Instead, she reads

Books – I mean lot’s of them, enough to fill

Her with a wisdom that speaks when she’s

Not thinking, a dream blossoming

When she closes those dark browns.

Yet, to me, today, she is pure perfection

Because she saw the truth in me; because

She looked me straight in the eye and said,

“You have changed.”

February 17, 2013

My Song

The words are etched out in song,

now – a tune I know so well I may pick up

the piano or guitar, strum a few notes.

But I’ll just hum along instead,

painting in my mind with gentle strokes

to make the river flow: shades of gray glide

swiftly over rough waves, a rippling current

of long, sad notes I once wished to perfect

on my own.  But if I open my eyes and just

listen at moments of silence such as this,

I swear I can still hear those watered-down

words, gliding into the warmth.

September 21, 2012


Do you hear it, too?

That deep, dark hole that lit a fire in you?

Yes, dear, the one that started way back then,

when I was eleven and you were just ten.

All that walking and talking over washed babies’ cries,

without no goodbyes, or a mere tear in the eyes?

Looking back at the days that we spent in the sand,

and you would hold up your hand, and then make a big stand,

without a glance at the faces that grew from behind,

just like my goodbye –

the only room left for some stars and the sky.

July 7, 2013