The Word is God, and I am just The Son
You see, The Son of God is not a word
A flame that cools the heat of everyone
Who breathes the fire of every sound I heard.

And who would be the mother of my life?
Beget the simple Son of some great Word?
What Word would take less than a word to wife
A concubine? Then please don’t be absurd.

They nailed me to a cross; it hurt like hell
And now the cross is worshiped, like the blood
Sanguinis Christi casts a Christian’s spell
And thus begins the ebbing of the flood

The Word is God, and I am just The Son
Pronounce me now, before the day is done.

For My Wife

Horizon marks my ocean’s distant shore
Soft clouds that drift above are water too
At times they bring me rain; at times they pour
But not today; horizon’s sky is blue

I’ve watched the sun bring color to my day
I’ve felt the sunlight’s warmth in peaceful rest
I know at night, the sun seems far away
But night begins with beauty in the West

The beauty in the West is sunset’s art
The art of light that colors all we see
Reflections on the shore remind my heart
That every day belongs to you and me

Our ocean’s shore reflects our sunset’s light
Horizon’s clouds bring beauty to our sight.

Beach Sunset

Our Constitutional Root 

Our forest world is full of mighty trees
I like my tree the best; it’s tall and strong
It’s filled with leaves that rustle in the breeze
The winds of time produce a mighty song

Our leaves all sing; our root provides their tune
Though like their songs, the leaves all come and go
But not the root, the root remains, a boon
Established and ordained to help us grow

Our root provides an anchor in the storm
Fierce storms have blown down leaves from time to time
All leaves will fall; it’s just a forest norm
New leaves will grow, our tree remains, sublime

Regardless of the leaves, our tree bears fruit
I hope all leaves keep faith within our root

Poetry: Prosthetic Emotions 

​Nobody sees what’s amputated, lost
And yet it’s gone, as surely as some limb
Invisible, yet not without a cost
This TBI’s annoying, if not grim

What’s gone is my ability to show
Emotions that display humanity
My feelings still exist; a fact I know
As surely as the sane know sanity

And so I write my feelings time to time
Like carving some prosthetic lines of verse
At times they limp; at other times they rhyme
At times they seem to say: “It could be worse.”

At least with my prosthetic poetry
I’ve found a way to share humanity.

Mare Sortem

I walk beside the waves, upon the sand
The beach reveals my destiny, divine
Where flotsam comes to rest, I often stand
The divination of the beach is mine

I’m not some Hamlet, asking what to be
I just survey the driftwood, buoys, and rope
The tides have cast these pieces here for me
Like random lots to read in faith and hope

It does me good to contemplate my finds
Like contemplating life beyond the now
Beyond the simple fate of simple minds
The treasures of the sea have taught me how

Divine, like divinations on the beach
Such mare sortem maps my fortune’s reach.

Dreams and Time

And now that I am well, the dreams have ceased
When time was out of sync, I sang my song
And now that I am well, my time’s increased
The right to sing is counted mostly wrong

Come sing of time with one who knows it well
He thinks he knows it better now than most
And yes, the “he” is me; I’ve come to tell
How time reveals the depth of God’s great boast

That man was in His image made, divine
And yet, His chronoception must be skewed
He’ll never see a day like I see mine
With clocks that have mortality imbued

I see the darkness in the light of dawn
And know before I wake, the dreams are gone.

Inspired by the Peter Iredale

With years of rust, reflected on the sand
While ocean waves still crash the boat’s old bones
Imagination’s memories are grand
At least the ones the time of tides condones

Though tides recede with time, they’ll flood once more
Like memories imagined in the dark
When memories or tides approach the shore
On life’s reflected bones, they leave their mark

The cargo of our dreams may be washed out
When waves of rusted time precludes desire
And yet we still remember they’re about
Dichotomies of ocean waves of fire

Some dreams we have may rust on time’s wide beach
And yet time’s vision stays within our reach.


I found an old notebook with writing in it that I believe is the last things I wrote before my accident on 4/29/2010. This might be the last sonnet I wrote before the accident:

My feet, repulsed by darkness and the fruit
which rots between the rows of orchard arms
alone, organic sentinels, the root
of evil growing silently. Alarms
of touch, repulsion marks the solemn path
between the rows of withered lives. I walk
in silence, like the culminating wrath
of stagnant, rotting life, protruding stalk
which stigmatizes flesh, my feet are bare
I feel the piercing call of dreadful night
where dreams of darkness permeate the air
and danger bleeds my skin a ghostly white
I flail and moan in spasmic steps. The coup
of life is death, which life can not renew.

Sweet Apathy

Sweet apathy is more than just a shrug
“Who gives a fuck,” is personal and pure
An apathetic cord runs to a plug
It pulls itself, of that you can be sure

Sweet apathy compels the null to void
The void compels sweet apathy to null
Compulsion isn’t sweet; it’s just annoyed
That apathy’s a glass that’s just half full

It should have been half empty, like the time
“Who gives a fuck” was power, plugged for naught
By empty seconds, pointless and sublime
That felt the freedom apathy had brought

In time we see that apathy is sweet
Without it, null and void are not complete.

Capturing Light

The pen’s more mighty than the sword, they say
More mighty still is that which captures light
The lens records the luminence of day
Like dreams reveal the luminence of night

As Helios illuminates our shore
Oceanids reflect the tales he tells
Of beaches and the treasures which they wore
Brought in by tides of light and ocean swells

The burning, golden blade on waves we see
Is captured in our stories and retold
Our truth may some day be mythology
As stories seen and heard in times of old

We capture light like notes of little songs
And search to find where every word belongs.

(Picture by Wendy Ennis.)