They say that when you love a flower,
you water it rather than pick it.
If this is so, you provide me with the
richest soil in which to flourish.
"Love Lost in Spirit"
Home is warm, bright, and comforting
Home is small, infinite, and only for me
Home guides me through my trials
Home protects me from my demons
Home is singular, and missed with him
He is my Home.
to simple promises
of the mind’s eye
untainted by the world of adults,
left the two of us
free to be wild
in the joyous possibilities
of our childhood.
"The Lighthouse and The Sea"
In one way or another, we are all lost—lost in our rage, fear, and even passion…lost at sea. This is the story of two lost souls (in need of each other) that are unaware of each other, and due to that, they perish. A man sets sail for glory and riches, and he shakes the hand of death through the sea. In that very moment that his life slips from him, a woman calling out to what he is soon to become falls to her death on the jagged rocks surrounding her tower of darkness (a lighthouse) that she is trapped in. The man gazes at the lighthouse, just as the woman watches the sea, and in that moment before death, they are together… The lighthouse and The Sea
I never know where I’m going—I just pray to God that I don’t have to knock on his door when I get there—but I have been where no man could fathom. They say—a man’s life always flashes before his eyes, and in that (breathtaking) intimate moment, you can see all he is worth, those two glazed over-brown-eyes will kill you themselves if you gaze at them for too long—when you die, you don’t even know that you lived. But I taste it (life, death, fear, and love…) I can smell it in the salt of the sea and fresh rush of the pine.
In this very moment I am weightless drifting fifty meters below (it may not be the Mariana Trench, but it sure as hell is the nastiest place on earth—crystal clear water—(but) ice that shreds men to a pulp, but the waves that flood my lungs bear the face of mountains.
I can only pray that you never feel this cold. I am no longer a being lost at sea, I have become the sea. I am her rage, her passion, the fire that men die for. In the water I am whole, this is my home. But it’s all one beautiful grey—the iris that separates you from everything you see—the part of you that I cherish the most. If I could look into your eyes just for one moment before I die, I would live. I would live, just to tell you how much I love you whether you were still home when I got back (waiting for me) or not. I don’t care what you do, I’d love you no matter what. You are the last thing I will ever see.
And you….you are—my lighthouse in the distance.
I can never guess what the sea will bring to me, its frigid mist painting the windows to my heart. I search hopelessly desperately for someone to understand my longing for the warmth of breath on the spine that pierces out the back of my neck. I need to cleanse myself of all the (humidity) salt that is plastered on my body. My toes are numb in the chill of wet sand, but I want more. I want my body to be numb I don’t want to feel. I spin my light through the vacant clouds and rains of hail in search of him, but no matter what I do, he will never hear nor see me. I only dream to welcome him in the absence of life, but in the absence of life we will never be together. I smell the smoke from fires of the adolescent love that surrounds me, but I am beyond that. I have found merely an idea of the one I have lived for, but he will never love-notice-me.
In this very moment I am weightless, passing over, ship to ship, peak by peak. My light may not shine as bright as the sun to bring you warmth my soul, but it is as far as I can go. I am on fire sending you my message.
I only pray that you never long for anyone as I have longed for you. If I could only feel your cool rush on my body just for one moment before I die, I would live. I would live, just to tell you how much I love you whether you would still run to me as the tide carries you in, or not. You are the last thing I will ever see.
And you….you are my barren sea
"Too Close to the Sun"
Dr. Charles Salter
We were once again too close to the sun
Our hearts burned colors began to run
As we stood affixed powerless to our own fate
As if we had arrived at the bus stop gasping for air but too late
Too late were the afterthoughts that kept you so close
Too late were the memories that haunt most
Our shoulders turned we walked away from that life
The life that would have been safe secure without strife
For we had once again been too close to the sun
While our hearts were torn and the story spun
Is life the love, the trembling of a hand excited by emotion
In this life adrift as wood in a storming ocean
But we would always know what may have been in the sun
What was left what was complete and things left undone
Nothing is unique
The answer is not the point
The point is the path
Paying mind to the comfort of my guest
Before embarking upon this probing quest
Folding eager hands to a crossing knee
Leaning, I, fixed to his gaze attentively
“Who are you?”
“I am a great fear among men of war”
With the shaking mass of fist he signed
“And, the moistened eyes of the long-sailed…set for shore.”
With a doleful nod, he then reclined
“Ah!” with a start, upright I beamed
His countenance was one of faith it seemed.
Cheerfully I offered, “Are you hope?”
But his throat cleared with a disproving note.
“When in use by the stubborn man, I am injurious,
I am the drive, yes, the will of the curious.”
For the unskilled... the careless, a destruction by fervor,
Death by exchange, partaker for observer”
Unsteadily I clambered for the expression
Blurting out “Honor!” with minute discretion
He rose with a turn in attempt to prepare,
Throwing back to me a determined stare
And before what next he would say, I could not have predicted
The turmoil of those, without him, afflicted.
“The breath of their inner child wanes depthless with the heaving footsteps down a dark
And empty hall, sarcastically their echo applauds the monotone mastery”
“And though the conceit resides in their deftness, the dull thud of their stride will bring them to
Stall, and without me only a shallow plea for life’s next worry”
“Savoring the void, this soured curse befalls those climaxed by the parched lips of a faceless
Notion, in spite of their feet, they dismember their toes,Hoping to retain youth in an abstinent
"I am the salve to the unsightly flaking of a shallow shell,
I am the release from an oppressive self-service hell."
"I am the abundance that over a moment mankind will ration,
You ask me who I am... I tell you, I am Passion."
"A White Union Church"
A white Union Church of 1885
What dreams and hopes took place inside?
What history surrounds that place?
What ghosts ran this sacred space?
So White it stands against the sky
Light from Heaven pierces through its walls
Memories of time gone by
Echo in its sacred halls.
I keep what I hear and see and try to arrange them into a perfect melody,
So no one will know what will come out of my mouth or mind next.
They will have no clue because it will be written in a different text,
Whether it’s my present, future, or past.
If it's a day I want to end or night I want to last,
Those critics will be too far to understand,
That when I reach out my hand to try and make them listen to my perfectly arranged melody,
They pull away,
Stubborn toward the way the trumpets play.
And of course, I stay standing here wondering why they don’t see the world as I do.
Mistaking what is false for true.
But at times it's not completely silent to their ear.
Sometimes I say things that they fear,
Like there is more to this melody than what they choose to hear.
I say, “You can see statues and towers that were made far before you and come back and tell Stories that are told to be untrue.”
But, when I say things they wonder, those critics do nothing but ponder my authenticity.
If I’m really speaking reality or just bluffing the truth.
Too bad for them I have no couth.
I say what I think and sometimes speak without thinking,
And that is what drowns me…
Or keeps me from sinking.
And when those critics come back,
(I doubt they will) They’ll regret their past decisions because I have some pretty big shoes to fill.
I am a leader and I don’t want my time to be killed.
I have climbed mountains, and come out of self-made ruts.
I have internal bruises, bloody noses, and cuts,
To prove that I have never been never backed down from the bully known as life.
And yes, I do things with a little too much strife,
But that’s okay!
Anyway, I can’t make those critics see what they don’t.
Or make them listen to the poetic words I have wrote.
But when I succeed without a halt,
And live my life with no faults,
Those critics will come back with a plea,
To listen to my perfectly arranged melody.