In every one of us are moments of inspiration. and at times our impression of the ideal can burst upward before stunning examples of the human experience. To discover reflections of such beauty, talent, or courage in a mortal is wind to lift us into joy despite our imperfections. These are excerts from correspondence with some dear friends who have raised me most.


she walks this earth
a ghost for all to see
and none see through

this zephyr that blows through our hearts
then gone again
but my sails have billowed
and the masters hand steers before the wind

a breeze, a gale,
this moment just a lull before the storm?
where others dread I long the tempest
drench this fire that lights my soul!

brush your kiss on these parted lips
erase the memory of lovers past
loosen these ties that bind my passion down
loyal horses patient straining knowing no desire
but one

this ghost that haunts my chest
a love born but yet brought full into this world
open the curtain of your doubt
give me everything, everything


Reaching ahead I step out from myself
My shell will not stretch where I go
Trained hands that but fumble
Man of knowledge
Who cannot know what to do

My confidence, old friend
Cowers in the shadow of doubt
Just my heart moves up with me, it is me
Does not fear of itself this unknown
But delights in these baby steps

Before your door, I cannot reach the catch
Open Light, and let me in!


Oh, sweet siren! Crash me on the rocks, if you will!
More than once I've stepped from safety toward that unknown of yours.
Oh foot that fears, yet yields the heart's command, set upon that stepping stone... lo a fitting dunk that is.

Gasp not! The throat is not a fitting place
for the ocean's flow.
And where's the helping hand? No need, a sailor strong as he.

Hauled again aboard my steady ship
eyes dripping

What song is that I hear?


I am slowly, slowly, growing to be an empty man. Have I traded all of
my fire for experiences? Where an ocean of love poured out, over years
became a river, a stream, a trickle, where rarely the rain of love came
back to fill me again. But I never cease to pour out, that leak is my
life. But not enough on fertile ground, just water on stones, where
nothing ever grows. Now just little drops, tears really, who would


As her eyes open, just the slightest smile graces her lips
The first sliver of daylight lands upon her face, morning kiss.

Perhaps that moment is the only peace she knows,
even as she sleeps, the world moves swiftly beneath her.
A greedy world that clutches, grabs and tears.

She has no house, no money no station,
her only power is in her beauty, her soul, her wisdom.
Like a bird that must stay aloft or be devoured,
she cannot stand before the glare of urban frenzy,
her power can't protect her there.
Glazed and darting eyes won't behold that glow,
just flesh on tender bones, some whore to break and own.

Little nooks she used to step into, on the lee of the storm,
shared sanctuary of gypsy souls. They all seem swept
away now, some cosmic tidal shift
since the towers fell.

So the wind is her bed, and dusk the reminder
not to slip into the abyss.
Hope has retreated, and taken a further reach
Love still sparks the light in her heart, let that be her peace.
For never again will she feel solid ground 'neath her feet.


Cast in a quiet, thinking moment I ponder what reasoning might draw
these letters forth from me. A cyber-stack of mailings, each drawing
from a need or torment, each bestowing it's own quaint and maybe twisted
satisfaction on its writer.

Origins in some deeper and perhaps unmentioned stirrings churned and
simmering like a witch's kettle of some mysterious potion; vaguely
disturbing but somehow curious and alluring.

Stirrings too often left unsaid but bubbling forth as overtures to you.

The irony isn't lost on me, casting for affection in this pond where the
fish don't bite, soured milk in the kettle brewing love. Gladly, and
yet writing more, flexing the atrophied muscle of poetry too long left
unused. Literary masochism with you my reluctant muse.

Ride on with me this bittersweet journey of missive and reply, reap your
own joys and dissatisfactions as you watch the sights go by.


Who is this gypsy spirit, who moves alone through this world,
and why has he stopped to look at me?
Is he blown before the winds of time, or sails upon them?

Does he really hear my heart beat from afar,
as whales hear kin-song
So many leagues away?

Skydust turns the sunset red, Sun's passion flare
Are these words he sends to me
Passion's dare?


I will give you a poem for each day of the week
fifteen poems, for the week seems that long
Waiting to see your eyes

This love still is but a thread
in the rich tapestry of my days
Some strange supernatural fiber
that will not yield to sanity

What door is this that I must break through
to hold you sway
I, master of locks, will work each rusted gear and lever
What chains hold your heart, unjust!
Some link I seek to breech, and see them fall away
Each hammer, chisel, word I wield
Pressing to the point of impropriety
Dignity just spared on some imagining
you hold it dear

Alas, no power I could ever own could shape you
or compel a moment's grace
Even though I know you love me
Its from a solitary space

What role you've written for yourself, set it aside
What yesterdays that have betrayed you, let them slip behind
What fears you have of love
too weak, too strong. too much
temper them with courage, step inside me
you know I'd rather take the fall than see you hurt


Words are to feelings,
what bottle rockets are to the moon.
They never can reach that light, but are a beautiful effort.

Tending flowers with a hammer
describes words rescuing the last misunderstood sentence.
Possible, with a delicacy that escapes me.

So for you, here is the moon,
and a flower.