I’m Just a Seed

I’m just a seed; I want to be a tree
I want the sun to kiss my first green leaf
The earth is where I want my feet to be
If life is growth, I hope it isn’t brief!
But if you need my warmth, come cut me down
I grow to give the world my sacred gifts
The earth may touch my roots, the sky, my crown
I know with warmth, the lowest spirit lifts
I want to be a tree to give you shade
I want to give the world a breath of peace
I know you know it’s how your air is made
I know my warmth is mine to give, release
But first, I know my planting is a need
To be a tree of love; I’m just a seed!


The sunrise is how Day forgives the Night
Although she knows he’ll be forever dark
She freely gives her gifts of warmth and light
“Forgiveness is divine!” warmed hearts remark
She dissipates his darkness to reveal
That Love which her forgiveness cannot hide
Her Love, which helps the darkest night to heal
With light and warmth, forever to abide
The apex of each brilliant day begins
When we forgive ourselves and others too!
The same way which our god forgives our sins
They’re washed away, forgotten; we are new!
Like sunrise means a new day has begun
Forgiveness means the darkest times are done!

The Warmth of Silence

The warmth of silence wrapped around my soul
Is reverie I bundle deep within
Without the need of freezing, false control
When noise subsides, I feel the warmth begin
I like the sound of water in a stream
I like the sound of wind in leafy trees
But silence is a peaceful, gentle dream
Whose warmth exceeds the wetness of the seas!
It’s easy to be cold, just raise your voice
Or chatter like a chipmunk in the snow
But cold or warm, you have a simple choice
And silent warmth will help your thoughts to grow
Then harvest all your thoughts in quiet grace
And let me feel the warmth of your embrace.

The Grand Teton

They say the Owen-Spalding route’s exposed
An understatement as, of course, I learned
My prudence and my balls were juxtaposed
I climbed the Grand, and luckily returned
I’ve never been atop a bigger teat
I never knew a teat could be so hard
“Exposed” is quite the metaphor for it!
Her snowy, milky teat is avant-garde!
I understand why mountains are the place
God speaks to man when man’s inclined to hear
Such heights are so conducive to His grace
Exposed or not, there’s nothing there to fear.
To name God’s handiwork a “teat” will do
It isn’t crass, he makes the soft ones too!

Love is not Quid Pro Quo

Relationships of love are quid pro quo
Unless you don’t want anything from me
This concept isn’t fresh, it’s not nouveau
They thought of it in Rome, where nothing’s free!
A whore is simple, gives her “love” for cash
I’m not a whore, my love is not for sale
Such “love” is just a heap of molding trash
True Love will sprout and grow; it will prevail
My Love is yours, forever and a day
Let’s make that day, today, to start our Love
To Hell with what they thought of anyway
To Hell with what they may be thinking of!
I Love it that we’re more than “what for what”
Our Love is like a door that’s never shut.

Susanna Knows Best

For Susanna Hope Ennis

SHE touched my hand; her eyes were smiling bright
I don’t know how SHE knew, but SHE was there
When I was tied to anger, like a kite
I felt a gentle breeze of fragrant air
“She’s not the right one, dad” Susanna breezed
I felt my anger simply float away
And knew her love’s intention had been pleased
SHE said the things Susanna had to say
I love the way my daughter cares for me
I care for my Susanna, and she knows
Beside her is the place I want to be
However hard the wind of changes blows
Susanna comes and with her I’ve been blessed
Susanna knows her mom; SHE knows what’s best.

A Plea

Deep fantasy is not my native land
But now I’m here; it’s more than just surreal
This isn’t what I ever would have planned
In search of meanings, faith cannot conceal
I doubt the ocean cares if I am here
Within her depth, without a fucking clue
I swim, I float, I never used to fear
But now it seems that’s all that I can do
I never knew I’d be so lost, alone
I never knew I’d never know for sure
The truth of all I thought I’d ever known
I never knew that doubts could be so pure
I’ve been abandoned on this stormy sea
Don’t let me drown in lonely fantasy.

A Prayer

This is the tune I am working into this sonnet:
Dear God, my thanks are many, here’s a few
I’m thankful that I didn’t die last year
I’m thankful for a life that’s more than new
I’m thankful for the fact that I’m still here
I’m thankful for the Angels You have sent
To make my soul a flower, from a seed
I’m thankful to have learned what symbols meant
In all the dreams You gave me in my need
Please bless the Angels here and up above
With gentle warmth, for guiding me each day
I’d love to give them all my gentle love
Please put it in the words I want to say
Dear God, I’m just a child, but I am Yours
Please guide my soul through all Your Holy Doors

Pretty Shoes

This is a Pushkin Stanza, or a Russian Sonnet based on something that really happened to me in Moscow.

I looked down on a Moscow street
My treasure hunt to perpetrate
“Walk to a treasure now, thou feet!”
The Metro mocked me: “Don’t be late!”
I thought I saw a silver shine
With diamonds that I thought were mine
High-heeled shoes like a shiny pearl
Treasures worn by a pretty girl
I told her: “Those are pretty shoes.”
She thanked me with her eyes and smiled
Pretty diamonds will be exiled
By one who searches dusty views
I look up now, above the ground
Where pretty treasures can be found

A Poet of Poetry

On visiting the home of Anna Akhmatova and taking offense at the recorded tour guide refering to non-poets as the “average man Philistine.”

I’m just a poet; these are just my words
I like the way they sound like little songs
They’re not the little songs of little birds
But I decide where every word belongs
Yes, Anna Akhmatova was one too
They’ve filled her rooms with words she never said
The “average man” a “Philistine.” Who knew?
Her home could be offensive, now she’s dead
Was Anna like Delilah? I think not.
My hair’s too short for anyone to cut
My blood smells like the bloody words I’ve got
You think I’m full of shit? I’ll tell you what
My silence is the sound of poet’s grace
But only Anna’s words should fill this place.