These Days


courtesy of:

The clock ticked
No one listened
The alarm sounded
No one listened

Perhaps they are not listening still




Pretty Things



We see the pretty places
With sun and sand
Upon a beach hand in hand

Gloss over ugly things
Averted gaze we look
Away from what we took

Security just an illusion
Seeing what we choose
Never seeing what we lose


Sing The Sorrow (Original watercolor painting)


Forest Opus


Roots deeply set,

firmly embracing this place,

home, where I belong,

knowing no other.


Light falls dappled,

bronze and gold, now often gray,

leaves instinctively, upturned receive,

the gift imbued without question.


Forest opus, palette strokes of genius,

changing wild, fragrant, free,

from seed to mighty oak,

count of endless seasons lost.


Antiquity remaining as today,

past, present, future, as one,

blink in the moment,

few brothers remain.


This place, once fragrant,

those who look upward,

small from the forests feet,

bring us to our knees.


For what purpose? Vanity?

control, master of none,

every blink the dream fades,

with laden breath.


Soft rain, breathe to me,

my friend, harm me now?

questions without answers,

rest comes to all in time.