Rope Burns

As life gets heavier,
my grip naturally tightens.
I am playing tug of war,
and on the other side
of the rope is the fear
that I lose all hope.
I am always trying
to stay grounded when
my mind is flying.
I am trying to live
instead of thinking
of death or dying.
When I try to pull,
I feel that the hole
in my soul becomes
filled: almost full.
In this life, I tug, tug,
and tug. I attempt to
stand on top of a rug
that is being pulled
from under me. See,
these rope burns
come easy. I won’t
slip or lose my grip
until the sweet taste
of victory drips off
of my quivering lips.

Below the Surface

He was observed: made from scratch.
He was seen scratching away
at the surface: the stubborn dirt.
He scratched long into the day.
He wanted to reach the hurt.
Not before long, the day was gone.
He found nothing here, so he
scratched there. He couldn’t see
as he scratched deep into the night.
The sun came up, and he looked
down and said: “I can make some-
thing from all the stuff I found.”
Tired and dirty, he walked home
with stuff that can never be shown.
He was happy to have dug below
the surface: a place only he knows.

Father Time

Don’t hit fast-forward.
Don’t press rewind.
Press play and watch
memories from the past
come to life. Take it
slow and pay attention
to the days that pass by
most of our closed eyes.
Look too far and miss
today. Don’t look at all
as our doubts grow tall.
Don’t rush. In our lives,
things may come and go,
yet we will come to learn
there is more to know.
Father time has his hands
full with grains of sand
flowing to his sandals.
Only he knows when
his palms are empty.
Only we can know that
this life is a blessing.





Hourglasses

The sands of time fall through
the hands of time. Hours, minutes,
and seconds rain from above
and shower clocks with love.
Each grain that slips through
is a day… maybe two. The grains
can be blue, black, grey, or green.
Every second that will pass
will do so fast. Every minute
will sink as the timeline shrinks.
Check your hourglass and see
what time is left. Stay calm –
dump some sand in your palm.
Lend me both of your hands;
let us stay still as we fill
space in this mysterious place.


A Closed Book

Each day, an old book closes. The story
is finished; the pen runs dry. Each page
is filled with a bunch of smaller stories:
memories: words that echo through
the skulls of its reader. One day,
the story we are navigating through
will expire as we retire – as the fire
dies – souls will fly into open skies.
Lies will become truths. Rough will
become smooth. Old age will become
youth. We are the characters inside
an open book that will, one day,
be closed – to be open once again
by a different pair of hands.
Until the book closes, look closer
at the plot and decide your ending:
one better than you ever thought.
Keep writing your story. Make it
a good one. We are still writing;
let’s make a book that someone
would want to pick up and read:
a plant grown from a small seed.