He Doesn’t:

think I am something special
wonder at my painting on the wall
ask how my day went after work
say you look beautiful in that red dress
touch me in places that mean anything
hold my hand on walks downtown
massage soarness out my shoulders
brag about my degree at dinner parties
compliment the haircut a got a week ago
invite me to go with him to the store
buy me a card just because
remember my drink order at starbucks
celebrate my birthday with cake, candles and presents
clean out the car after an exhausting day
do the dishes after a three-course meal
vaccum when I am sick in bed
try to find out my favorite book or movie of all time
tune into stories of my childhood or family
share his circle of friends
let me into his deepest thoughts
want me to know when he cries
tell me what he needs
bare his secret self, the marrow in his bones
trust I will protect his innermost being
wait to know my hidden pieces
keep company at my side
know me
and he won’t


The Autumn Canvas

“This is Autumn”
God, Jesus and Holy Spirit sit together at an easel.
“Ah, I know what my child will love!”
God turns to the canvas and paints
Oranges, reds, yellows, greens, quivering in the wind.
Small pieces falling off, dancing through the air to land peacefully upon the ground.
They lift up in a bit of wind and flittering across the ground, as though waltzing to some unheard song.
“This is Autumn”
He turns to the other two inquisitively
Jesus takes up the brush and adds
Puffy white and grey clouds.
Bursting with water.
Shaped into memories and characters.
Each holding a story.
Pulled across the sky, by wind.
He slowly adds sun beams cascading downward.
As though little stairs leading to heaven.
“This is Autumn”
Holy Spirit stares intently at the Canvas.
He adds nothing, but states.
“I am the reason the leaves fall, and quiver and dance. I am the reason clouds pull across the sky. I am the force unseen”
“This is Autumn, and my child will love it!”

I Remember When It Wasn’t

I remember when it wasn’t
Yelling to communicate one word
The suffering, and discomfort of years falling from our eyes
And dishes sang of love to cups
It was be our guest not once upon a time
And each story consumed amidst the flying hand, elbows and dinner swords.
We were so close to a hallelujah, each moment drew us deeper.
It was a flick of a switch and here I stand on the other side of the river.
Truth has settled in and I must carry it to the cross for it burdens my soul.
Forgiveness and Grace will be my wings
It’s not heaven, it cannot be.
That is a long way off a speck on the horizon
No, it’s opportunity, a door to fly through and shatter the illusions.
I will take each one as given to me and wrap them in hopes, for you.

Burned Bridges.

You are not the 30-day notice,
or the signed contract,
nor are you the tried-and-true.
In fact you are the brash, audacious, and reckless.
You threw us overboard!
You are not the unwavering flag,
nor the steadfast soldier.
You do not hold your ground against the enemy.
You are the pliable, bending to your feelings.
You are not the logical,
or the calculating,
nor are you the precise and diligent.
You have washed your hands,
and shook them dry.
You claim you are not the accountable,
or the responsible,
nor do you take on the consequences.
Rather letting them float around you as dust to the air.
You are not the happy ending,
or the closed book,
nor are you the celebratory finale.
You are the washed up log.
The stepped over yard sign.
You are the betrayer.

The Natural Aroma Of A Lover

Do you smell like black coffee? Percolating over a campfire at the break of dawn? Or gasoline, motor oil, grease and garage?
From sloshing red canister and wiping up with red rags?

Or freshly churned dirt?
After toiling away in your land, digging holes for new plant after new plant.

Do you smell like baseball gloves?
The worn out leather, tossed dirt, ripped up grass, and sweat stains

Or the interior of an old car?
All the years restoring seats and leather and woodwork and engines and pumps.

Or horses, dried manure, saddle leather, the wool blankets ‘neath saddles, and hay and feed bags?

Or maybe you smell like the locker room?
The wet towel wars, and shower steam thickening the air.

Or an old tackle box?
Metal of worn out pocket knives, and earthworm guts stuck to bent fish hooks, strung by grandpa at daybreak

Or a construction site?
Cutting steel with a torch, the excavated deep earth, drying concrete, wood frames measured, cut and placed.

Or do you smell like bacon?
Pan frying on the stove, sided with pancakes and fresh warm milk.

Or a navy ship?
Wartime, ghosts and red lead paint, hydraulic fluid, boiler exhaust, and saltiness sealed from sunlight and fresh air.

Or do you smell like newspaper?
The mixture of ink set to thinly cut paper, rolled up and tossed at the door.

Or maybe you smell like splitting firewood?
The sharpening stone on your over-used axe, to the release of oak cleaved in two, bark chips stuck to your sweaty flannel shirt.

Or canvas tents?
Fabric and mildewy musk, the sod cloth floors and frame poles held by stakes and guy ropes and tensioners.

What do you smell like?

The Grieving Goodbye

“Goodbye, see you later.”
When . . . hangs in our minds.
I turn my back, making you to sink into the background.
Threaded hearts, dig red marks deeper with each step.
Footfalls weigh the bottom of the ocean,
laborious gasps for breath,
amongst drops cascading down my cheeks,
banging my hand against my parked steering wheel.
I am empty of how you make me smile
I had forgotten that you were there
Yet I doubt you know your definition in my dictionary.
So I let you go.
Maybe someday you’ll read the book and understand the plot.
I know it’s not castles and kingdoms.
But I would don my battle gear and stand with you against the approaching storm
Is it that invisible?
I am here, please don’t leave.

Circled the Soul

My rose glasses and your face smiling at mine
But I broke them
And I climbed a mountain in order to see
You still circling in the grass below
I yelled down to you!
And You paused
For weeks, months, and
you paused
Only to than continue circling
So I knelt with raised voice
Crying for your trapped soul
When a hand placed on my shoulder,
I about-faced to embrace my brother
With compassion we watched the sunrise
And walked into the new valley
To explore the waterfalls
And swim in everlasting grace