she danced across the sands of time
and without pausing in her routine
reached across the bay
and handed me a book
unopened but from it
a cinnamon melody wafted
in my dreams i opened it
and eagerly devoured
all that i found within
was it story, poem or treatise
some philosophical tangent?
i will never say for now
i cannot remember
isn’t that the thing?
silly isn’t it, to consider
that a life might be changed
by words so small
in a book so cheaply bound
but then you know how the old saying goes
the best things come in the most unlikely
of packages
if i could find truth in a back alley
and know for certain
i’d not be shy about admitting the fact
Tag: poetry
Monument
i am grateful for heaven
and for this ancient tree
that means more
than i could ever tell
even if i wrote all the books
in all the worlds
and at 8-point font to boot
for this tree signifies
a moment that caused this earth
to tremble
and for me means life
eternal
First Date
Bro stop it
you’re doing it again
slow down, ask, listen
there you go
undisguised and mercenary
but it’s a start
give her space give her time
allow her the space to rhyme
and allow the moment to blossom
if it will
for it won’t always and
you know what
that’s ok
Small Symmetries
she allows herself a moment
to gather
her thoughts
twirl about the room
a madcap extravaganza
upon which she smiles
in mild horror
before breathing deep
whispering lines of eternity
laying her hand upon the book
dreams of ancient stories
her heart sang in harmony
in strong swift music
upon which she stands
a sunlit autumn meadow
and a picnic feast laid out
she muses
open hands
broad lines down the highway
time stretches
Snowfall
what do you want for Christmas?
I could do with something simple she says thoughtfully
Perhaps a scarf or a new mug or even a candle
I know it seems trite but sometimes the little gifts
shine brighter in my mind
than all the elaborate gifts that require me to smile louder
than my heart truly means
you know right?
I’d take one night with you cuddled up on the sofa
watching a silly holiday movie
perhaps with a hot drink
and we can giggle together and feel there is no tomorrow
sometimes those nights are best
I think perhaps that can be arranged
you pick out the movie and i’ll start heating up the milk
yes sir we have a deal
Vine
we sit around this table and share our burdens
and our sorrows and our fears
and it’s alright that we do so
for is it not better that we bare our faces
instead of holding in all that ails and brings us pain
the fruit of the fall that still haunts us to this day
so yes let’s come before one another
these brothers and sisters with whom
we break this bread and drink this wine
as our faces glow and hearts akindle
we speak of our older brother who went before us
our Jesus who bore all that we might draw nigh
and we consider that day we shall
see him face to face
oh soon we pray come our Jesus come
Faithfulness
he sits under the maple tree
and scribbles in his little turquoise notebook
as he breathes deep of scents of fall
woodsmoke on the breeze
gently crunching leaves
and he sets down his pen and cocks his head
waiting for the dinner call
for through the kitchen window he sees her
finalizing the dinner spread
rice and good spiced beef and maybe okra too
it seems he’s hungry after all
his writing done he leans back his head against the bark
while he ponders of the richness that has been granted him
and looks up at the first of the evening stars
this night while he sits
under the maple tree
Tobias and Penelope
tell me i said
what have you written of late?
oh you know, bits and bobs
she asked how’s the family
and i said oh they’re well
and the silence began to stretch
for there was nothing more to be said
than all the words that were not said
so many years ago
but you know what?
that’s ok
and we smiled as we parted
and our memories remained
Spirals and Buttercups
she leans across the table and
stretches forth her hand
of course i respond
a dash of cinnamon into the cup
why can’t i taste
the subtle intermingling you describe
am i that much of a barbarian?
perhaps
what does it matter she whispers
why shouldn’t we
why not
you’ll understand when you wake
this dream is not for us
my heart races as trembling
i place my hand atop hers
it is well with my soul
A Mailbox at the End of the Lane
A well-loved book is similar to a
favourite coffee cup
for both have been lovingly cradled
and from both have they been
drunk deep
mined for the sigh of joy that comes
with a sip of perfection
a well turned phrase
then she says to me
babe listen
do you hear the rustling of the leaves?
No no I say sitting here on this wrought iron bench
I’ve been considering books and coffee
and how they fit each other well
that may be so she replies and rolls her eyes
but your coffee is cold and your book is closed
and I could use a little love
but of course my darling
and I hold her close to me and
drink deep
Something Weird 