The Chosen One

You are the chosen one.
You are the burning sun
that lights up the sky.
You are the birds singing:
the sunflowers springing.
You are the love the world
desperately needs. You are,
by far, the most important
one to me and everyone
else. You know how to help
others that don’t know how
to help themselves. You are
beautiful like a naked smile.
You are sweet like honey
and crisp like new money.
You are the chosen one.
It was pretty easy to choose
you because you turn grey
skies blue. I knew to choose
you, and luckily for me,
you knew to choose me, too.


In My Eyes

In my eyes, I have seen
shapes, colors, hues
of light. To my surprise,
I have realized life
is a movie played from
a projector in the sky.
In my eyes, I have seen
highs – lows. Anything
goes when no one knows
the difference between
the weed and the rose
or the heat and the cold.
Like a bank, my brain
stores large amounts
of memories that can
bounce or go blank
from time to time.
In my eyes, life unfolds
and ignites a light
that burns through
the night. In my eyes,
I see you as you should
be seen: a special fire
that will always rise.


The Dumb Idiom Bum

I think he caught his second wind.
He keeps his cards close to his chest.
His back to the wall, he does his best
to weather the storm. Most thought
of him as a dumb idiom bum. Yet,
he was richer than the rest. He lives
in a house of business cards. Bet
he is a cat among the pigeons.
He buries every hatchet and burns
every bridge. He goes out on a limb
in cold blood. When life seems dim,
he looks on the bright side. Life is no
picnic, but it doesn’t get out of hand.
He writes his poems in a black book
in front of black cats with black caps.
He may give you the cold shoulder
or a skeleton from his closet. He is
the only human in a room full
of elephants wearing tight pants.
He raises the bar outside the lines.
He stays in the loop: has the scoop.
He will not drain his swamp.
No pain. No gain. And, he is here
to stay. The dumb idiom bum
chooses to live against the grain
because he is a free-spirit up to
no good for God knows how long.






Blind Spots

90 on the freeway.
Fast lane cruising.
Chasing a sun some
run away from.
Burning gas and day
light. No time to waste.
Just money to make.
Tunnel vision – no time
to look back. Staying
in the fast lane. Not
in vain – just avoiding
pain. Reach top speed
and succeed. Pushing
the pace, it’s a race.
90 on the freeway.
It is my escape. Away
from slowing down,
I push toward new life:
another opening door.
In your blind spot,
I show myself before
I am somewhere else.
Don’t mind me. I am
gone: a fading song.

Swamped

Engulfed in life,
work;
there is hardly time
to play. Most of us
don’t see the signs.
Flooded with emotions –
swamped
with stress. The day
leaves us
drenched, and we must
dry off
before the next morning.
Soaked and sad,
we can’t help to feel
bad. We do our best
to avoid
drowning in life’s sea.
I don’t choose to carry
this weight. It must
be fate.
Swamped.
Drenched. Flooded.
I choose to not run
from the water that
always comes.