The Proposal

Staying steady for so long…

So steady…

So long…

Monotonous, something will go wrong…

So wrong…

So wrong…

Complacent, finding reasons to hold on…

So time’s up…

So what’s wrong…

Sheer luck, she could have moved on…

So hold on…

So stay strong…

Unnerved, not the best she could have done…

So pretend…

So show off…

Unimpressed, she wonders where I’ve gone…

So back up…

So she moves on…

Reeling at the thought of alone

So step up…

So it’s on…

Courage, oh how I’ve grown…

So grow up…

So win her…

So sure, oh yes, now I know…

So abrupt…

So get nerve…

The tipping point, never slow…

So be stout…

So stand strong…

Now down on one knee I go…


She said yes.



Beauty in Pain

I used to think

That pain was crippling

That death was debilitating

That to lose a friend was hopelessmess

woops… hopelessness


I’ve come to find

If I start numbing

The picture starts pixilating

And I think lonely is fornever

woops… forever


But now I see

I just need something

a field of daisies, breathtaking

Because just one is death-defining

many… death-defying


Contrast may be

Autumn breeze, or spring

Painting leaves with vivid feeling

Far be it from me to damp heart stings

my heart… sings



Ruminations of a Working Man, Pt. IV (On Boredom and Inspiration)

It’s so funny how I

I can feel so lost in no time

No time at all, and no rhyme

as to why


feel just a tiny bit dead inside

But that’s not right at all

making a zephyr out of a squall

And now I am just appalled

I recall


Now, totally dead, I fall and fall

Tumbling down to the earth

with a crash and a burn and a rebirth

lengthening shadow from dearth

a small firth


reminding me I’m Something of worth

Death, something oh so silly


Never one syllable, really

It’s my lily


Making my thoughts go willy-nilly


I’ve shown my hand

And you took it in yours,

folded in your warmth


On this cliff I stand

Ready for weather or sword

Bare and bearing the third cord


This happens every time

it’s more than I can afford

sleeves repeatedly ripped and worn


Love is mine

just know you are adored

just know, now the secret’s yours



Place of Petrichor, Pt. II

“The raindrops address the page where my heart was meant to lay…”

This is a line I’ve been holding onto for literally a few years. It can be seen in one of my posts, Place of Petrichor, and usually comes up whenever there is rain and I feel inspired, but I can’t quite verbalize the quaking of my fingertips and eagerness to lay my innermost thoughts and desires on a page.

I think this is common knowledge, correct me if I’m wrong, but there’s something about the rain that inspires some movement at the soul-level within artists, writers, musicians… basically most creatives. I live in Arizona, so maybe the effect of rain is amplified since it only falls a couple times per year (luckily it is now monsoon season), but I’ve never met a creative who hasn’t written more or better on a rainy day. The following poem is with regards to this harmony between my heart and the rain:


Ah, my heart to weep o’er the loss of love

…and what exactly is love? I’ve heard of it.

I’ve felt its tug and subdued its destabilization of my inner being.

I have seen her sitting in the car next to me on a foreign road,

reached for her hand beneath sunsets and in the presence of fireworks,

but ah… How I still breathed…


The palpitating,

it allures me in reminiscence,

threatening to maintain a high which it cannot possibly deliver for an ever.

Or may it, and may I know nothing of Love?


They say there are no happily ever afters,

but what do they know, after all?

Have they lived long enough to experience the after to which the ever refers?

I might say there is no such “once upon a time…”

…and I may be right.


Love may come once or twice, but certainly not more,

not in excess,

not the bewilderment,

not the rapacious, ravenous yearning of one heart for another.

Not in harmony.


I am certain of two loves in my life…

…that of a melody which moves the heart as a patriotic Scotsman with bagpipes…

…mayhaps that of a violin or cello crooning its lament…

…or mayhaps a simple voice, quivering in the passing of a friend…

…yes, I have known that Love a few too many times.

But not all movement by melody has been melancholy.


The second love is inexplicable, except by many words.

The air thickens, and breath caught in my lungs, I plunge

into the thousand-lipped kiss that steals my warmth

with a million titillating pinpoints

all aiming straight and true.



…yet this is what the heart is made for…


…or mayhaps it is the mere anticipation of the sincerity required of Love for the sake of Love…


…or mayhaps it is, simply, the anticipation of the rain.


A Horizon Away

Sunflower Sunset

Somewhere between the sunset and the storm, I wait

Some say the day is done

Some say the night is young

Something tells me anticipation won’t abate


Pretending that I’m basking in the golden rays

Prefer to be someone

Prepare for a numb tongue

Predisposed to silent awe in deluge and flames


Now coming on the wing to the valley of gray

Now destined for freedom

Nowhere but straight above

Nowness moved clouds, the horizon now at arm’s length


My heart flutters in flight and cannot find its stay

My heart under the gun

My heart longs for the sun

My heart roots hold fast, blind to Wild they can’t contain


Living is just a horizon away



The Tapestry

Some days, I dream

of a day when I will see

the world’s elegant finery

and perhaps this will cause me to believe


That home, austere,

made for eyes, crystal clear

enveloped in Love, primed for fear,

is for the enervated children here


Not because I

see a darkening sky

or think it will end in a sigh

or to be duplicitously obliged


But mother’s care

and father’s strength to bear

give lost boys of a legionnaire

eyes, one of a kind, perspective to share


The Love we need

to see all the Lovely

to give us the strength to outreach

begins with a hero and a skinned knee


The world is a tangle of knots, from where we’re from to where we be, a beautiful, elegant, messy tapestry



Adam and Eden

My dear, little friend

Your countenance is filled with courage

Your spine, straight, as the wind surges

You fear not an end

My dear, little friend

You stand up though not the greatest

You are stout against the tempest

But you don’t condescend

What gives you such pride

As I hold you in my rough hands

Your pristine, I can’t understand

How you can abide

Wherein do you confide

Deep and buried, yet take in the light

Sedentary, nomadic sight

Such a placid bride

For me, it’s Adam

Fearless amidst provenience

Flawed by an evil contrivance

Struck down by Balaam

For you, it’s Eden

With thorns and thickets and bracken

Without: dirt and dust and ashen

Not all green is glen

As guilt is my dun

So you have the sun

I owe not a debt

This smile I will stet


The Box

A man hands you a box

And says, “Inside is exactly what you want.”

So… What’s inside the box?


I’m tempted by the imagination of a gryphon

A young cub named Alastair

I’d raise him as my dear son

All of him, feathers and lion’s hair


I want to say I’d hold a stone

Something rare and precious and small

It needn’t be diamond or pure gold

Just something acquired by answering adventure’s beck and call


Perhaps a key to a mansion, grand

With every room I’ve veer dreamt of

One overlooking ocean sand

In back, roses and an oak grove


Mayhaps a simple timepiece

Fitting in the palm of my hand

Telling me it’s time for tea

Or to devise a whimsical plan


A violin of finest model and make

A guitar of purest tone

One I cannot break

In which my fame will be made known


A weapon I used in a war

Telling my stories with tears

Weeping, I reenact the horror

And bring to life a mother’s greatest fears


A steaming mug of coffee

Taste in purest form

As through my favorite book, I leaf

Out a nearby window, a raging storm


But moreso something you cannot find

Something of my own invention

That I created in my mind

A body’s natural extension


A dozen tickets to the horizon

All the places I’ve never been

Paris, Peru, Glasgow, Dublin

I scarce know where to begin


A license with permission to fly

And keys to wings of my own

A vessel with sail and standard high

Captained by dear friends with which I’ve grown


Or the hand of my dear friend

As we dance and sing under the stars

The way we ought to, before the end

Cancer truly can a child’s heart mar


So what have I in my hand

When I open that sacred box?

Weak at the knees, unable to stand

To decide is to mutiny, to deny is to be kept locked


It’s hard for me to fight

When I’ve got more than I deserve to want

Harder for me to decide

Afraid if I don’t, I give in to daunt


Now in my hand, I hold the thought

I’ll have all this and more, I can live again

Because, in fact, I’ve been bought

By Christ, my dear friend