Na Regen Komt Zonneschijn

Incandescence warms and glows soft yellow

Soft yellow butter yellow canary yellow

Yellow roses and jonquils and buttercups

Yellow is the sun shine after rain

Yellow golden yellow is the light that spills

From inside of me to help me find my way

It draws those near, like moth to flame, who need

The warmth and cheer of softly yellow glowing

Light through liquid beer.

Lemon curd whipped with sugar

Warm lustre on a golden ring

A monarch on fragile wing

Honey dripped in teas

Flickering flames from candles

My heart burns always bright for thee.


Handle with Care

Thoughts like shards of broken plates jumble in my head

Mess and confusion abound

I am searching for brown paper bags and packing tape

The dust pan and broom sit idle as I search

I cannot mend these broken thoughts with glue



The best idea is the hardest and that is to clean

Clean up the mess and throw it away

But every now and then in this heap I see

Images and words , a baby’s first or a loosely scrawled I love you

And I turn the bits over seeking a salvageable treasure

Avoiding the dustpan and broom

These are my fragments I am not trash and yet these bits

These bits are useless and full of pain jagged edges

Cutting memories

It is why I am looking for brown bags

Sturdy brown papers to safely hold the shattered pieces and broken bits

The tape to wind about the bag so slivers do not poke through

So, should anyone be kind enough to offer help

They are protected from the worst

Mary Christ Mass

The smell of pine evokes the memories of Christmases past.  There is no place other than in the mind and heart that these snippets of time live laying dormant until the time is right to grab you and pull you to another place.  For me it is the smell of chocolate chip cookies baking and the sight of a dark mustard colored table cloth where mom set the cookies to cool.  The heady scent of vanilla and sugar and egg brings a smile always.

The idea that Christmas is most important and magical things should happen has always left me with a sense of disquiet.  Sure there are parties and times with family but the chasm of spiritual fulfillment on this day is astounding.  This is the day in which Christians are supposed to find joy in the acknowledgement of Christ’s birth.  So many times I hear people say that they cannot find the Christmas Spirit.  This elusive ghost caught in songs and images in art and film seemingly hard to capture and hold is not so ephemeral as you might think.

For those of us who have children Christmas has a deeper connection.  Birthday parties are why all these other out croppings of holiday symbols beyond Mary and the Christ child abound.  Parents go to extraordinary lengths to celebrate birthdays.  And that is what Christmas is, the celebration of a birth of a child.  A child whom some call a myth, others a magic mushroom, some deny his existence, some martyr themselves for Him.  Christ, be he real or a symbol, exemplifies sacrifice.  Parents know this all too well, no matter your religion, when you have a child you sacrifice for it.  Women give time and space within their body to nurture and then bring forth life.  Fathers give up freedoms and pleasures to be able to provide for the life they helped create.  Even parents who are not there, junkies, whores, selfish individuals, or even just genetic donors, still have made contribution to some end.  The pain and loss all children bring is off set by the joys they inspire.

So anymore when I think of Christmas I think of Mary.  Mary as a woman scorned for her pregnancy as an unwed mother.  She is a woman of strength and courage who fled in the night with a young man, Joseph, who was willing to love and care for her and her child.  This woman who ultimately watched her child die for his own peaceful teachings humbles me and fills me with courage and awe.

In giving so much and holding no expectation of anything other than the hope that a kindness might one day be returned I wish you all a Mary Christ Mass.

Stop Loss


Still, motionless and silent

My own movement would be a crime

A disruption in the force

There is no quiet whir from a motor

No voices muffled behind walls

I cannot even hear my own heart beating

Color on walls means nothing

Even the words in my head

These sentence fragment thoughts

Not a thing repeat nothing

The emptiness makes me a husk

A thin shell fine like the small white wings

Children find sea shell wings

She sells her wings to save a soul


Crafted from strings and glue and odd bits of paper

A light bulb of thought

Arcs energy creating synergy

The repetitious pulsing coming from the radio

Bounces from speakers off dashboard then out

Open windows give access to free flowing blowing

Kisses stealing kisses kisses feathered, planted, and air

A cloud floats by

Bilingual trilingual quad

Rain patters softly on window panes

Pain eases under the soothing hands of time.

All lies sewn to make a pretty patched tale

To hide the black to mask the pale.

Fickle man

Mustard please, no ketchup

trim the crusts

hand wash only

close the door

speak in soft voices

trim the meat from the bone

mind your pronunciation

do not interrupt

wash your hands, scrub your nails

refrain from shouting across the house

no laughing

no jokes

keep quiet the television is more important

all surfaces clear

vacuum twice daily

go outside

no running inside

go away

can’t you see I am doing something


Now he calls three times a day he misses these things he’s sorry he says.

No Pain, No Gain

I run into the same brick wall, not every day, but often enough.  I am not stupid, it is just that sometimes I do not see the wall until it is there in front of me and I am forced to deal with it and even though quantum mechanics says we are all atoms and fluff and nonsense I cannot pass thru the wall.  I hit it dead on full speed and it hurts.   You would think this brick wall would be easier to pass through when it is in the invisible plane of interpersonal relationships.  This wall often hurts more.


I suppose, if I stop being nice, stop caring about other people and pretend things do not hurt I will be better off.

Dream a little dream

I find myself standing not at a precipice but on a platform of a railway station.   I dream of this station often.  It is an open air platform.  The low building is brick with a metal roof it is sided by 4 round silos and one tall square tower.  Grass fields all around and an arterial road which runs parallel to the train tracks.   I think it is  a real place.  Though I have never been.

Dreams are an amazing escape.

My favorite dreams are waking dreams in which I become so entangled in the construction that I cannot hear what is around me.  Many call this day dreaming,


There are certain friends I dream about over and over again.  In most bizarre fashions, Sometimes they are whittling and smoking, others they are disembodied voices coming thru the computer.  Just odd.


I think I have worn a hole in my soul.


Here, right here, a gaping hole.

I feel the cold wind rush in and settle.


I wonder if Clotho will loan me some thread?

Maybe the Norns will be so good as to give me a needle?


Will there be pain when the needle sinks in?

Is the hole too big to mend?

Will God notice the damage?

Do I mend it myself or find a good tailor?


I am torn

in body

in mind.


Indecision, hesitation muddle causing frustration.

Fuck it.

There is no one else.

For better or worse.

I am my own surgeon.

I am my own nurse.