A reflection tells a story,
once the ripples have long since cleared-
peer down into the stillness of the black
tarn-
and remember what you see-
know that the true world will tell you
no lies-
as spiritually destitute as you may seem-
as emotionally bankrupt as you may feel,
those eyes looking back at you will tell you
where you’ve been,
and its mouth will whisper where to go*

There are times when just being alive is
simply not good enough-
there are moments when just having a job
is not completely sufficient-
there are days when just making it by
is not quite enough to make it by-
these are the times when that fire needs
to be stoked-
these are the times when we
must rediscover a way to fan the flames,
and trickle a stream of petrol to incite that blazing
intensity-
these are the times when inhuman effort
needs to be pumped into every possible
vein,
rather than feel them collapse under the weight
of the persistent load-
simply making excuses will only paint you into
into a corner-
we are wedged in time like a rock under a falling
tree-
constantly pressing against the weight of a
consistent force-
if we push back, we may escape-
the moment we give up may be our last*

Scattered leaves loosed themselves under
the subtle october wind-
a brittle cascade of vanishing life
descending like watercolor snow-
an autumn torrent ripe with a somber,
vibrant hue-
a farewell to warm currents,
flush with life-
those living breezes, floating on a bed
of lofty dreams-
now, a homecoming of bitter stillness-
sleep trapped memories, encased
in the dim chill of winter-
I watched it come,
and I watched it walk away again-
from the shadows it came,
and into the night it went-
snows have melted under the heat of our
flame,
and blossoms will sprout again,
in tune with the
comfort of our smiles,
and the longevity of our voices-
change is intricately woven into every vein of
every leaf-
and they have graciously accepted that fate*

Water traces pre-paved tracks,
like ancient lunar channels,
and the watch hand ticks its way around
the given course-
eyes open inevitably with the orange glow
of the dawn,
and close readily under the pale dominance of the
blue moon-
there are many pages to this book-
many incarnations contained within the
carefully placed sentences and phrases-
many interpretations are interwoven between
chosen paragraphs and words-
many lives laced into a adhesive web-
concealed in the depth of a dense mist-
how many times can you think of the one thought that
will destroy all thoughts-
and why-
how many years can you sit and listen to the ocean
from inside of the shell-
spending your hours listening to the echo
of a distant voice-
as distant as the rolling sea-
calling out to you with flailing arms-
and pleading,
as you watch with glassy eyes and
transparent expressions-
there are many pages to this book-
they are placed in chronological order,
but are most often pondered randomly-
do you read the last page first?
endings are what beginning are made from-
for all the pages spent frivolously-
spent like pennies into a fountain-
spent like dollars in December-
spent first and then considered later-
pages spent-
blued under that watercolor moon-
speckled wet in the bright darkness of night-
frayed at the edges-
thumbed over many times-
foxed and creased with use-
many pages-
scribed by experience-
penned using an ink pigmented
with the tears of yesterday, the dreams of today,
and the hopes of what tomorrow will be-
it’s up to the reader to keep reading-
the writer to keep writing-
and the heart to keep beating*

Mid afternoon sun pierced the shades-
amber slivers filtered into the room and
settled on the far wall-
scattered fragments of wayward dust swirled
in and out of the golden seams
like crystal fireflies-
the stillness danced in my ears,
sweeter than a favorite song-
I lay back-
the rich warmth hovering over my skin
like an old blanket-
nurturing-
and cleansing-
the moment, smooth and decadent-
the warmth in my soul hotter still-
meditations like these are more powerful
than a thousand laughs-
more relevant than a hundred smiles-
balance defined-
true harmony cannot be replaced-
when the mind is at peace, the world
listens*

The anchors have been discarded-
thick steel links severed
and lumbering heavily into the mysterious
depths of the frozen sea-
wind is in the sails above-
taut canvas full, and wide, and deep-

spread eagerly like open arms welcoming an
old friend-
embracing the gale with rigid fortitude-
full speed ahead-
ahead-
there is land to be discovered*

In the void she stood-
out of the warm cradle of his arms-
in the cold, she perched-
hands clasped,
eyes, moist with decisions-
cheeks streaked with finality-
and all just out of reach-
She expelled him from her life
like water is wrenched from a towel-
and then she hung that towel up to dry-
evaporating any memory of him*

he picked the spot of his final resting
place-
a quiet little piece of earth next to a
lazy, bubbling river-
a green, calm area surrounded by
dark trees and rich growth-
the kind of place where you can
stick a chair and sit and stare and
think for hours and hours-
this lively place, full of character
and grace-
would serve as the last place that he
would be remembered-
the very end of his journey-
take me to the place where i can
see, he said-
where there are no more clouds to blur my
vision-
no more partitions to block my path-
where there are just enough
droplets left to quench my thirst-
this linear world
will swallow you whole,
he thought-
look beyond, into the depth
of the low, smoky clouds-
look beyond, into the craggy
zig zags of the distant hillsides,
he reminded himself-
look beyond the stillness of
our single dimension-
and create an expanse wide
enough for your thoughts
to stretch free-
let the rain streak your face
like wild tears-
let the thunder tremble your core
into a state of calm-
and let the lightning illuminate the way to
different fields-
those wandering times are
a wayward sea-
he smiled to himself at the thought of
this-
with us adrift on its swift
currents-
is there an end beyond the
horizon?
we all watch it day and night,
like fascinated children,
a giant sun bursting eagerly
over the starting line-
and falling back wearily beneath
it-
it’s a secretive moon that casts its
shadowy glaze before descending
quietly below the surface-
those wandering times were
a wayward sea,
with us adrift on its swift currents-
he relaxed, content, and
smiled to himself as he closed his
eyes to rest*

in the vein of magnificent but severely under-recognized pictures that emerge from the bowels of hollywood, here’s another iconic performance that was more than worthy of the industry’s top honor. a soldier’s story was based on a pulitzer prize winning play by charles fuller, about the investigation into the death of a black sergeant in WWII era south. the film’s antagonist was seargeant waters, splendidly played by the late adolph caesar; he was in fact nominated for a best supporting actor oscar in 1985 for the role, but lost out to haing s. ngor (the killing fields). at any rate, his hauntingly conflicted role of the gruff, abrasive seargeant waters is indeed one for the record books.

in the never ending slew of chunks that are ejected from the churning gut that is hollywood, there are a mere handful of gems that get considered for awards, and an even smaller subsect that are worthy of the whole shebang but are left empty handed. such was the case with val kilmer in 1993; he delivered his performance of a lifetime, playing the role of legendary wild west pistolier doc holliday, and was questionably passed over for the genre’s biggest prize. he delivered the role of sly gambler and clever gunman with aplomb, coupled with a humor and wit that sticks to the memory like good stew sticks to the ribs. his use of flashy one liners such as “i’m your huckleberry” made for a cool tempered ride in arguably one of the most enjoyable westerns filmed.