Thursday, February 11, 2010


Listen as:

The wind roars

Through the red

Painted canyon,

Howling against

Scorched walls

In a desperate

Search for release.

Watch as:

A setting western

Sun carves hollow

Shadows beneath

Snow tipped peaks,

A stark contrast caught

In a frozen tableau.

Smell as:

The scent of blood red clay

Stings the nostrils, a

Harsh reminder of

Natures omnipotence.

Feel as:

The cool wind washes over

Your entire being, leaving

You cold but refreshed.

Taste as:

The icy cold waters of a

Stream provides an

Incomparable taste while

Rushing to some long

Awaited destiny.

Monday, February 1, 2010


A birthday arrives, with it

A trumpeting demand to

“Open that door” to a hollow

Space in the corner of my mind.

It beckons me to travel back

Through a mist of yesterdays,

The questions erupting with

A spiritless conventionality,

With the arrogance and fear

To ignore unwanted answers.

Who was my birth mother?

Is she still alive, and if so,

Does she remember the pain?

Or the miracle of a new life?

Does she wonder, or care

Who I am?

Has the time come-or gone,

To reach out to that baby? The one

She held for only a moment,

So long ago? Is that her crucible?

Will she fail it, again? Do I want

To know the answers, today? Ever?