Little Fire.

Grow in wisdom, grow in grace
but most of all, sweet child
grow with a smile upon your face.

Let laughter fill your belly,

like a healthy, hearty meal

and know there are no wounds 

which laughter cannot heal.

Listen to your parents

(even when they’ve lost their minds!
they’ve loved you ever deeply

since before you fell in time.

Appreciate you body,

be gentle with your soul

follow the way of your beating heart

for the heart makes all men whole. 

Find peace in who you are

and when life throws you mire

recall your own name’s sake

and stoke your “little fire.”

For Aidan James McKerrow

Ransom letter to an unknown address.

Dear God,

It simply isn’t fair
that you took my Dad away
because, with all due respect,
he’d rather time with me anyway…

It’s not that you aren’t special
it’s just that you’re no me,
and I’m no you (hallelujah!)
so give him back, you see!

God, if you cannot find a way
i’ll learn to not be mad
and forever give you thanks
for the world’s most ‘effing brilliant Dad.

Blossoms on the riverbank.

I have been dreaming in the scent of Sakura blossoms

but I wake, and forget the fragrance,

swept over in a tidal wave of wind it washes past me,

abiding in a land I’ve yet to cross.

God, teach me that I may forget to rise,

for just one morning, to simply linger

in that place where bare branches hang,
clad heavy in candy-floss clouds of soft petals

stretching back to face the cool spring breeze across the river

as they wave delicate, pink silken flags

more gallantly than any of winter’s icy artillery

and gently begin to sing.

A song of hope as soft as dawn, 

rising slowly from the deep

on a tune who soars on outstretched wings, 

full of joy to keep

the notes as tender as the night,

or the touch of love’s embrace

whose stave like arms entwine your own,

encircling your waist.

And I have seen these trees with dreaming eyes!

But I wake to forget their song,

their words lay lost to a shambles of noise,

yet that fragrance beckons on…

Trust In Me – Etta James etc.

I do recall the way we lay
in bed, and broken, through heavy days
exhaling tired cries as You earnestly crooned
begging “Trust In Me / in all you do,”
though it troubled me deeply to dare trust in You.

I remember the damp, the cracks in the frame,
the uneven cadence of beginning again,
for my plans had been flooded,
and the ark had set sail,
with no twin companion to share in the tale.

My sinking heart anchored on the floor of a sea
which had fallen from heaven, raining hell upon me,
but I heard Your soft whisper, and I know it was You
pleading just “have the faith / I have in you,”
so on we pressed over that wild, tousled, blue.

How we argued, dear friend, and what names I did shout
for Your apparent abandonment caused me such doubt
And how many fresh nails did I hurl at Your hands?
while You gently held mine, as we drew nearer land.

But now, docked safely and in sheer disbelief,
my eyes flood with big, joy filled tears just to see
that You meant each line of old Etta’s decree
when You sang “love will see us through /
if only you Trust In Me.”

Clifton Hill.

The glowing specks
of conversations
mapped out in the sky
new constellations
as we lay and the silence,
twixt stories just told,
hung thick in the air
as the cosmos of old.

Fireworks sparked
as the dust between stars
caressed a vast sky
between Venus, and Mars
while celestial beings
veiled by human frames
trod lightly in whispers
again, and again.

The fates and the Gods,
could not know at best
what gravitational pull
had drawn East toward West
but the planets looked on

with their gossipy moons,

as two nervous cherubs,

in their hearts, made room.


I have planted your mint.
Three prongs of green 

with lavender like spikes

nestle in my old bathtub of basil,

and fallen leaves.

Passionfruit plummet

like indigo bombs

hurtling in “thuds,” from the vine

punctuating soft, 

and dream like time
wondering if the cuttings

might take root, and grow. 

And I have to say,

in spite of what my heart’s known,

quietly rather hope so.

But a dream.

Life’s a dream
so it would seem,
but when I awake
what will mine have been?

What will be said
of the heart that I had?
Was it soft, did it beat
did it leave others glad?

What will be known
of the smile which was mine?
Was it hidden away
or given time, after time?

What of my hands,
did they take always, or give?
Did my actions and deeds
allow others to live?

And what of this world?
With her vast, precious sights,
Did I behold her soft beauty?
or ignore her great plights…

Yes life is a dream,
so it would seem,
and I wonder at times,
what will mine have been?