Oh, the things-
love wound into furious strands
and woven into the tips of my
fingers as they brush your
face-
oh, the things-
like a field of lilacs,
you barrage my senses-
the sun just as wanting of you as I-
as we both break rank just to beam at
you-
your generosity absorbing us both-
oh, the things-
oh, the things you do to me as minutes
turn to hours-
oh, the thoughts that dance around
as hours become eternity-
each moment sweet and as strong
as the love woven tightly into strands-
and woven into the soul of my
actions*

The November leaf is aware of its
frailties,
as it skids along-
the grain of sugar dissolves without
a care and is mindful of its
role-
how often must one question the teacher
when the answers will eventually be
scribbled on the board?

It pierced the part of the brain that
nurtures memory-
and shattered it into a thousand
shards-
through it went-
cradled in summer’s end-
moments evaporating under the
fierce velocity-
flecks of yesterday soaring like
doves-
out if it crept a cryptic entity-
secretive,
and cunning-
cloaked in familiar skin-
and when he smiled,
you would recognize him-
out of it came an entity intent
on living-
regardless of the fate of his
predecessor-
where he failed, the new creation
prospered-
until the originator was swallowed
by the shadow and thrust into a
darkened pool-
his thoughts scattered into a thousand
shards-
his memories evaporated like
flecks of yesterday, soaring like doves
through cobwebbed trees*

We are all blades of grass,
waiting to be sheared-
stones,
waiting to be cut-
clay,
prepped for the molding-
holes,
yearning to be filled-
each one seeking to make a lasting
impression-
each one drawn to belong-
drawn to what matters-
bait on a hook,
ready to be cast far into a tranquil
sea-
we are all searching
for ourselves-
they wait for us*

Would the scorched flower consider the
sun beautiful-
would the flooded town long for the
whispering lullaby of the rain-
would the decimated forest marvel at the
calm of a roaring fire-
would the leveled populace gaze peacefully
into the surging of the ocean waves-
there is a story that can be read from back
to front-
how bad to you choose to know it-
what are you willing to overlook-
is the tiger still beautiful when you know what it’s
capable of-
how bad do you choose to know it-
and how bad do you want to see?*

Imagine a heavy door
clad in thick steel,
yet as fragile as a stalk of
grass-
imposing,
but not impenetrable-
dense,
but easily thrust open-
so it is with dreams-
daunting,
but not impossible-
intimidating,
but ultimately achievable*

Create a culture of doing,
and you will create a culture of
winning-
inactivity breeds a sense of
idleness-
and idleness enables failure-
the easiest thing in the world is
to become plateaued-
to sink into a rut that your wheels
can’t spin out of-
it isolates you from yourself-
and convinces you that the best
decision is to stay put and ride
it out-
it’s just that there you’ll stay-
in that hole of your own making-
until you activate your own culture
of doing-
do, and your wheels will spin-
do, and your culture will enable you*

The greatest crime is
atrophy-
life drawn in like a frigid breath in
winter-
the greatest injustice is lack of
movement-
a monstrous desire lying in wait
like a turtle under its shell-
protecting itself from the stark
realities of the outside world-
shielding itself from the ticking of
each day’s clock-
lying in wait-
protected from the world-
protected,
yet stunted by that heavy armor-
stalled by that dense burden-
how easy it would be to lay in wait-
day after day-
promising that tomorrow will be the day-
each hour wishing that the spark
would hit the fuse-
but would you be ready if it did?
the greatest crime is atrophy-
watching self belief whittle away under
the wind like grains of sand-
watching the nectar of your efforts
stolen and evaporated-
watching the anchor fall and drag the
silt of the ocean floor-
your ship suspended in a state of
catatonia-
washing down your fatigue with a glass
of procrastination-
and asking briskly for a second serving-
the greatest crime is atrophy-
and we are all afflicted-
we all fall prey to its decaying
grasp-
and wither into a mass of dust and
doubt-
fear and loss-
promise and denial-
we create our shell-
and are all too eager to reside within
its comfort-
it’s warm inside-
and our skin is fooled by the safety of it-
the greatest crime is atrophy-
the greatest injustice is a lack of
movement-
it’s too easy to become afflicted*

revis – caught in the rain

plastic bertrand – ca plane pour moi

hans zimmer – dream is collapsing (from the film ‘inception’)

tv on the radio – second song

mccoy tyner – there is no greater love

I am the vasco da gama of my
own mind-
the francisco pizarro of my soul-
the ponce de leon of my heart-
and the Magellan of my spirit-
I am an explorer,
like all of the rough hewn names before me-
yet distant lands are not my quest-
I roam the last great undiscovered
frontier-
the wild seas of the self