My day glides by
in effortless attention
to my infant grandson
His language:
caveman ravings
of tiny cravings;
pre-mama, pre-dada
Together we make
a pair of bookends
For him I hold up
a page of colorful snakes
For me, his teething drool
is eloquent proof
of string theory
The title comes into my mind when I see this (Dylan’s song, Like a Rolling Stone):
Dusk, noise out front
Man with a mission
Dumpster diving
Recycling plastic
for his next meal
I have a dream
One peach, two peaches, three peaches
Counting peaches is better than counting sheep
I have a dream
The day the peach truck arrives
Peaches and Cream
Peach ice cream
Peaches and homemade whipped cream on top of homemade waffles
I have a dream
Homemade peach jam
Homemade peach cobbler
All I wanta do is holla
I know the weight you’re carrying—
the hush of secrets in your chest,
the way guilt coils like wire
around your ribs
and squeezes every breath.
I know how your smile
can mask the tremor in your soul,
how you pour yourself into good deeds,
hoping somehow
to rinse the stains
you wish no one would ever see.
You call yourself a liar, a fake,
because your lips preach hope
but your heart feels locked
in rooms of shame,
echoing with things
you wish you’d never done.
You work, you give,
you serve, you provide—
and sometimes it’s love,
yet other times it’s guilt.
You’d give your own skin
for forgiveness
if you could.
You drink, you run,
you spin the wheel,
you tell yourself
you’re beyond repair.
Listen closely—
you are not!
Your secrets don’t shock God.
Your failures haven’t written
your final chapter.
Grace still stands
at your door,
unafraid of your mess.
You fear truth will burn
all you’ve built to the ground—
and maybe it will.
However, ashes are soil
where new life grows.
Better ruins than prisons.
Better wounds than chains.
There is someone out there
who needs you present—
not perfect.
The people who love you
need your truth,
even if it shakes
their world for a while.
Hope isn’t just for saints.
It’s for prodigals,
for double lives,
for trembling souls
who can’t believe
they’re worth a second chance.
So let me remind you—
though your shame
screams otherwise:
Your worth is not defined
by your worst choices.
It’s defined by a God who still thinks
you’re worth dying for.
Election Day.
The soul of a nation
falls into the hands of millions
yet the soul of one conflicted man
perfectly fills out the space
of an individualized voting booth.
No love for one side or the other,
no prying eyes watching over his shoulder
should his decision slide in certain directions,
just him, a pen, a paper ballot
and all the excess baggage
burdening his heart.
This is a man who is no longer at peace
and in this private space he doesn’t need
armors of kindness and civility.
Still enwrapped in Foxtail
and seething at Irresponsible Literature,
he can’t ignore how easy it still is
to be labeled the villain
despite his lived experience
of always seeming to be the one
to take the damage.
He can’t block out years of voices–
en dash ists and phobics,
even if they’re only in the strokes
of broad generalizations.
He can no longer look passed the reality
that all these echoes come
from the same damn side.
This is man who is no longer balanced.
So why not take a shot back at the world
like a sniper who never gets detected?
Why not blacken a box no one else will ever see?
Why not stand for himself
within the arena that affects him most,
his very own spirit?
It’s not like such an act of defiance would swing the results.
He’s looked at the fraction of one out of seventy million–
a pitifully small percentage, a miniscule price to pay.
He knows he can comfortably be a red dot
amidst a blue stronghold surrounded by red country
without sacrificing the world
and none would be the wiser.
So why not seize secret revenge
to level out his angers?
Is it not, in it’s own mathematical way,
the least destructive thing he could do?
For the power of a vote
lies not in affectation to elections
but in the silent declaration of
this is what I myself need for me right now.
Does that make it a sinfully selfish act?
Would that be something he could live with
in his soul?
Is it worth the potential damage to his reputation
if someone were to find out?
Well,
there’s a reason why the voting booth is private.
Thus, this now-resolute man
chooses which box to fill,
the ink solidifying permanence
so that the only thing left
is to surrender the ballot
to be recorded and tallied
along with all the weight
he’s shifted over.
A delicate cycle is imperative for word-laden laundry:
Clean the dirty with soap scented the devil’s tongue,
Wash away the regretful stains of sulfurous egg yolks,
And launder until white as the egg shells avoided.
The sun sets,
and it feels like its
just for us.
Thunder rolls in
like an applause
for our bravery,
for making it through
another day.
Blankets cover up
our bodies,
legs intertwined,
arms splayed this way
and that.
“I would miss this
if I was dead”, I whisper
to only myself.
You sigh in your sleep,
like you know we’re
made for forever.
At least three times a day
I spy
My own reflection
Passing by
I catch her there
in mirror view
Or in a window
Peering through
The girl in there
is not my friend
She makes me cry
to twist and bend
She’s never made me
feel ok
She’s always lacking
in some way
Please tell me why
I hate her so?
Perhaps that’s something
I should know
I never knew a forest so lush
With vines and bark entwined
The thicket floor a tangle
Looking to make purchase
Then spread and disperse.
When clouds swell above
Trees sway in their own converse
Until the thunder booms and
Hillsides quiver before settling
Into the rain.
A forest like this is a marvel
With its summons of firefly calls
Gathering us to protect this
Store of profuse creation
That kindles us all
