Breaking a Stern Hold

The stern hold of an anchor’s rope
secures our tiny vessel
to the land like pessimism tempering hope.
The feisty vessel seeks
life’s colorful richness through
the freedom to explore, experience and express.
Her weathered frame appears more soft than sturdy
yet her persona reassures us of her strength.
Her color and her character
penetrate her frayed complexion
with a purity of soul
defined by a gentle ruggedness
that earns affection and commands respect.
She humors the stern hold of convention’s anchor
through graceful choice,
yet her fervor for independence and freedom
will soon prevail when she exerts her will
to sail.

Our Companion

One must be willing to steer
toward the graceful straits  
of God’s will
to join forces
with talent and concerted effort to
find one’s purpose.

At times, He steers and we row;
at times, He propels us forward
as we navigate
through the turbulence of challenges,
the wretched anarchy of fear,
the inequity of our illusive willingness
to struggle through the inevitable
struggles of struggle.

But bound along our trusty companion
in whatever form our companion assumes,
we stand alert and committed
at the bow, fixed on our destiny
as our companion – faith –
empowers us from the stern of our dreams
and we sail into our awakening
with passion, conviction and grace.

The Dunes at Provincetown

This trail, this beachy pathway to Paradise
follows an upward climb
through the majesty of
the Dunes at Provincetown.

Its plush mounds of nature’s wonder
rolled and molded into mountains
of the finest sand
and sturdy, proud plant life
defy the odds
as do the sturdy souls
that trek these challenging climbs
toward the ultimate glory,
the Ocean at Provincetown.

This wondrous wet bounty and shaper
of the sands naturally in sync
with the winds
sweeps these soft, tawny hills
into this gorgeous phenomenon,
the Dunes at Provincetown,

 
Perspective and Point of You

The view from the peer
draws the eye toward a moored boat
and the soul toward a dream of sailing
deep into the broad ocean’s open arms
like a thought merging with an idea.
This exclusive viewpoint reminds us
how our point of view shapes perception
and how perception feeds our point of you.
The pilings placed perfectly in the sand
rise tall from the ocean
with grace and pride in their solemn service
like brave soldiers entering battle
with the uncertainty inherent in fear
and the courage that shapes and forms
a foundation defined by deep honor.

Multiple realities abound
in, around, behind, beyond and before
the glass
in a borderless clarity
defined by the obscurity of human interaction.
 
The conscious intent collides
with the unconscious in an aloof fusion,
like a medley of unlike flavors
brewed into a complex tea.

The articles for sale
speak so loudly in their silence
within meticulously fixed arrangements
while the living lookers
on the cleaner side of the glass
roam in random aimlessness.

And somewhere in-between,
their separate images meet
to form Reflections
of one another,
in, on and about
one another,
now contained in this moment
as one collective reality.

Beyond the Shadows

In the shadow of the sand
like the shame in the soul,
the underbelly of honor’s demise
slopes into a hushed darkness
defining the peaks and valleys
of our nature as humans,
cresting and falling
like winds blowing the sand
then resting
where the shadows form.

Our will succumbs to a sluggish,
clumsy tumble forward –
one foot plops before the other
until we tire of our tiredness
and we focus not
on our shadows or our shame,
but our strength and our pride
in our ability and raw need
to achieve,
despite traction eluding
our struggle’s trudge forward –
beyond the silent and still
force of the dunes –
toward the glory that is
the ocean far beyond. 

A snow fence pokes upward
rising from the crest of these
beachy dunes
marking property and man’s presence
as defined by his incessant craving for territory,
for land and its bounty.

The soft, rolling charm of
this Snow Fence,
however, intends not a border
but serves as a prop that dots the “i”
in charm’s inner beauty.

So ironic is its name –
Snow Fence –
when it lives so organically embraced by these
beachy dunes,
so majestic in its simplicity,
its casual formality, its sturdy ease.

This happy Snow Fence
smiles over the hilly dunes of the ocean
and at the endless rising tides of sand behind.
His shadow marks time
in the sandy dunes’ cheeks,
not as a record or need,
but as an endless measure of
gratitude
for these glorious
beachy dunes.

There’s a song behind the silence
in the strings beneath the case,
a spirit beyond the eyes
behind the glasses on the face.

There’s a world beneath the surface
in the stillness of the deep
where the questions of our riddles
and our mem’ries run from sleep.

Dreaming journeys of discovery
of their missions in the sand,
whilst the surface hides their secrets
at the bottom of the land.

And the song man seeks his music
and the lyrics for his song
in the quiet of the morning
when the twilight flirts with dawn.

Still beneath the cloak of cover
and the mire of self doubt,
the song man seeks a purpose
for his song to be about.

Split like a fragile twig,
a mighty pole
gets ripped into two shards –
destruction
at the hands of God’s storm.

Our misguided sense of security
crumbles
like meaning stripped
from a word under the swipe
of an eraser.

Our sense of solace splinters
as the light of day magnifies
our fractured calm,
underscoring our vulnerability
in an awakened fear.

Yet the strength
of the spirit
sees not the fracture in the post
but the strength and stability
enabling the spirit itself
to stand tall in triumph,

These open steps bathed in bright
lead the eye, the climbing soul,
to darkened stairs
where the mysterious workings of
the mind
carry out intricate doings
without the conscious workings of
the mind
ever knowing how or
why anything happens.

The mysterious, though not
synonymous with sinister,
casts suspicion
inherent shadow
over the workings of the unknown
in a shroud of uncertainty

Three Stories

Different stores with different people
engaged in self preservation,
quiet desperation and simple commerce
each separated by a window and three worlds.

How peculiar and unjust to need others
to validate ourselves as individuals
when we’re often so lost in our
injudicious journeys alone while traveling
with those we depend upon for self-worth.
Our need to belong with someone,
to interact, to exchange, to share
ideally, enriches our lives, our existence,
but often, our exchanges with
strangers in a store become more intimate,
more rewarding than the jaded exchanges
we perpetuate with those closest to us.

We live together worlds apart, though separated only
by the space of a small table, a bouquet of flowers
or pain of glass, the skimpy wall of a restaurant
or the silent indifference
as we build our walls
of neglect and emotional apathy
like this very window, uncommitted and unconcerned
with all on either side of its being,
and all that pass through its pain.

(Three) Men in a Window (Waiting)

(Three) men in a window (wait)
for some moment that eludes time
by avoiding the moment itself:
        One connects with the world
            thumbing out a text;
            one digests the bland fruits of indifference
            while burying his head in a template menu;
            and the third stares through empty eyes
            into a vacant world of disappointment.
Collectively, the three men sit just inches away
yet worlds apart.
their respective inner dialogues of discontent
stream in three separate directions
from a common point of origin,
a hollow emptiness that illustrates
how ineffective
our relationships manifest.
We validate our self-worth
through fleeting acts of alleged approval
that dissipate indiscriminately
as fast as a cloud’s vapors evaporate
into a blank, blue endless sky.

How do we  expect to be heard

Two Men; One Bench

Two men from vastly different pasts
philosophize on the now and tomorrow
as the outcome of erroneous yesterdays.
On the surface, they appear as different as
“yes” and “no”
but they’ve achieved “maybe” together,
growing through listening and
respecting each other’s views.

In the end, both men, both Americans,
both Veterans, both believers
contribute to our greater cause.

At the core,
where it most matters,
both men
are as similar
as New is Now.

Veterans, believers and contributors
    to our greater cause,
    listening and respecting each other’s views,
these two men from vastly different pasts
share one bench, on country, one belief,
    like a melody and a beat becoming a song.

Visionary’s Path

Our paths are often inventions of necessity
compromised or predetermined by convention,
expectation, apathy or indifference,
but the visionary
creates a new path, a virgin trail
unmarked by certainty,
unproven by proof, unassured by assurance.

The visionary follows not another’s trail,
but creates a new path
driven by courage, faith and vision
and a devotion to the High Road..
The visionary consciously rejects convention
of the trail before him
in favor of meaningful invention
through purposeful thought and
insightful, inventive innovation.

The path of the innovator
improves on the paths of the past
and raises the standard
for the paths of tomorrow;
it avails itself to all,
but only if we’re willing to search,
to see
what isn’t before our eyes,
but can be – if we create it.

The Wonder of Wonder

I don’t know what to make of all this
noise of every kind.
Something feels exciting
about all this
but I’m a little scared:
I want to venture from my dad’s hold
but the safety and security in holding
my dad’s hand
tells me, “It’s ok to be here
                but it’s better to be here
                with my dad.”
I wonder if that will always be?

The world beyond my reach
kind of frightens me;
the world beyond my dad’s reach
kind of frightens me even more,
but somehow, I sense – I know –
that this is the world we all live in
without being able to hold our
our dads’ fingers.

I guess I’m not sure
the world beyond my dad’s reach is
all it’s cracked up to be.
And I don’t know what to make of
all this noise.
Do you?

The Blur of Doubt

The path just before us appears clear
but obscures as our eyes
venture out to the vast unknown.
We stand assured in our moment
but the whisk of time blurs the future
despite the definition in the path itself.

Foresight and vision
emerge to dominate the illusive horizon,
challenging us to see what isn’t clear
and believe what isn’t known tangibly.

Foresight and vision
fueled by faith fused to the magic of intuition
begin to penetrate, even defy the distant blur,
and the obscurity submits to
a wash of inner certainty;
an inner knowing rises above
a child-like need for reassurance,
and the grit of conviction
enables us to see and venture
far beyond the Blur of Doubt.

A Bookstore Window

Words of wonder, wisdom and hope
hiding behind the clever, catchy covers embracing
the bigger than life reality
in the eccentric and mundane
fantasies of fiction
and facts on what is real.

Expressions of passion, fear, hope,
deceit, want, loss, spirituality,
optimism, defeat and triumph
have their urgent roar muffled behind
theses clever, catchy covers
where knowing writers speak intimately
with open and courageous conviction to
countless strangers
whose natural distance and anonymity
paradoxically breed an intimate bond
with those unknown, knowing writers.

So patiently, the rigorous vigor
of these pages’ many characters
from many worlds –
        restrained by the walls
        of these books’ slick jackets –
sleep in silence, awaiting awakening
at the hands and eyes of a writer,
a reader and their glorious connection –
the magnificence that is
the Written Word.

Inn Keeper

A welcome mat of sunshine
smiles at passersby,
inviting strangers to
become friends.

The open door serves as
welcome’s welcome,
offering the best of its world
to the worst of the worlds of others,
but this path worn familiar
by the local and the addicted
remains unnoticed
by the passersby:
only the frequently needy
resolve their need
for a lift in spirit this early hour;

they know what to expect,
they know what they need
as they succumb to the weight
of what they want
under the guise
of what they need –
to withdraw into the solace
and comfort of indifferent strangers
keeping one another company
in silence from measured distance,
sharing their being alone
together. 

Ladies at Lunch

Two ladies in a window
dine in the ease of public places
to discuss their private struggles and strains;
news of dire consequence
revealed in this quiet corner
of the momentary comfort –
of this airy hideaway, this retreat from
life’s weighty anxieties.

One lady’s eyes cushions the blow
to protect her heart.
Her face repels
the force of the emotional blow
like a padded vest
shielding a soldier from harm;
the other lady flails her napkin in a gesture of
synthetic strength
as the news infests their cozy corner
with its intrusive, gloomy dominance.

But the two ladies in the window
are hearty and strong; they know
that the shock of the moment
will dissipate and diffuse,
forming and shaping their new reality
like a Polaroid picture
evolving from a dull blur
into a sharply defined picture
that didn’t exist
the moment before
speaking and hearing
this news.

Lone Man

Lonely lives the corner,
bathed in the haze of haze’s haze
where a lone man alone
beers and whiskeys his way
through the haunt of a few
moments of regret,
persisting, lasting years and years.

The remnants of his presence –
an unfinished beer, a finished shot,
a telephone and shades –
stake his hazy space
in a state of unfinished business of
sharing nothing with the emptiness
filling the missing man’s soul.

He sat in thick suspicion
on a weathered bench
facing the door, addressing
two chairs left empty
years ago.

And now, the haze has
warmed his beer,
the lone man has
drained his shot,
his shades shade nothing
and his phone has not
been phoned for years
and years.

He sits invisible now,
stewing in the clarity
of his self-induced haze.
Alone.

Grassy Dunes

Like a haircut on a hill,
the breeze-blown, sweeping grass
bends in the wisp of an ocean draft.
her roots hold like pillars in the sand
as her soft hair submits to the air’s comb.
The uniform conformity in her
color, form, shape, texture and movement
sings like a symphony
stringing out Vivaldi:
   her conductor, the wind;
   her audience, all of nature;
   her performance, a mix of
   graceful strength and nimble elegance
   moving in sync with brilliant execution.
Each botanical symphonic member
presents God’s score
with artistic exuberance and technical precision
and a complex, understated passion.