Sunday, July 14, 2013


i almost wish we were butterflies
and liv'd but three summer days
for three such days with you
fill more delight then fifty common years
could ever contain.

you exude joy to others without restrain
reminding all who know you
that our God is great
that there is much to be thankful for
and life is a rich gift to celebrate.

you're steadfast in moments desperate
a haven in the harshest storm
an encourager, a place to feel at home
a well of warmth when the world is cold
your flood of Love seems in endless bloom.

and now you've found yourself a groom
who loves you in the depth you deserve
and to watch that grow has been
a treasure beyond any value named
a great praise to God aptly applies.

i almost wish we were butterflies
but to watch you find your second half
to find the joy that defines your spirit
in truth provides more delight
than fifty years of summer days.

*inspiration taken from a letter by John Keats

Friday, July 12, 2013


the lines in his palms
worn and weathered
the thing most familiar
formed the path of his life line
the ever-longed for life gps
what he held his breath upon
for as long as long can be.

and age was a well-loved friend
certain in accumulation
steadfast in keeping up with him.
youth was never envied.
that lightness of ignorance
had only faded appeal.

he, an expert of mismanaged priorities
(a pitiful profession)
(a sorrowful specialty)
but he wore the cloak well
or perhaps it wore him
but he liked it’s lukewarm water
and he never cared to try to swim.

he often lost himself in thoughts
of getting lost
but he always ended up finding himself
back somewhere that was neither home
nor away
he was just never bold enough to stray
from the common route.

the string on his finger
never tied tight enough to stay
so he so forgot
the things not to be forgot
and recalled
unreservedly all
that he longed to forget.

that addictive bane
of remaining the same
was his golden calf.
and he wasn’t sure that bothered him
or if he should care that it did not.
or that he barely noticed
that comfort was a mortal wound festering

now standing at the end of old
looking back on the path that
arrived him there
he wonders
if he really made good use of the seconds
questioned if he had really ever
stood by anything.

his blood just never ran hot
he had no ambitions to chase
could not foster up dreams to harbor
and had no stories to remember
the years just bled together
one blot on one page
that he was too tired to turn.

at the ends of steps
what is the worth
of asking how you came
why you came
why you didn’t come another way
finding suddenly that there is no space between
what was and what might have been.

as if acknowledging yourself a fool
suddenly makes everything alright
suddenly makes you wise.
gives you a second chance to fight.
in time you’ll find the reasons why
in time he always told himself
in time.