Sing to the People

In these winter moments,

sing to the people

who love to hear your voice,

dance when they want to

hold your hands;

embrace them in the cold,

and look into their eyes

so that they might

see you as you are.

When the nights come,

rest among them;

when the snow falls,

fall for them too.

In these winter moments

sing to the people

who want to hold you,

like a note on the wind

that rings on and

rings on,

and rings on forever.

There Waits a Gift – A Short Story

After a while it seemed foolish to resist the call of music from up the hill; if you can hear it, then it has already come to bring you along, as it dances back home on a cold winter’s night.

Compared to that place, this one is dark and quiet; it is, perhaps, sad. The lights do not flicker, except for those which are running out the last of their sparks. Up there, each flash is a celebration, setting out a house of stars that are at last within reach, if only sight would set upon the brightest one who lives there. It seems a cosmic trick, but not one which mocks the other house: rather, it invites.

Up there waits a gift that was never thought to be collected, but would rejoice at being grasped, and not let go.

We Are Four Points

We are

four points on a map,

close by

and miles apart.

We will be together

in the end,

as we have been

from the start.

This Takes More

There was absolutely

no intention

to offer anything but time,

and yet

this takes more than was

wanted,

and that, indeed,

is fine.

Rejoiced – A Haiku

Here we are granted

much to be rejoiced out loud,

little to forget.

Some People Are Stars

In the later seasons,

it is easy to notice

only the cold and the snow,

but some people

are songs

and indulgence

and stars on top of trees.

Some people

are reasons to feel warm.

Space On Your Tree

Would that there were space

on your tree

for an ornament

less festive

than thee,

but that would hang on tight

and cast its light

to celebrate you being with me.

Wait by the Lake

Though the cold north mountains

may steal you away,

I will wait

in the town by the lake,

until you trickle back down

to its waters.

Not Say – A Haiku

You did not say it;

not nearly and, no, not quite;

perhaps you should have.

Knit Into Your Chest

I could knit myself

into

the cables on your chest

and stay there,

holding the loops together

so that we might not –

if we’re lucky –

fall apart.

Say It – A Haiku

I did not say it;

not really and, no, not quite;

perhaps I should have.

Without Thursdays

It is not beginnings,

nor ends,

which are the best part

of the story.

Imagine a week

without Thursdays.

The Sun Will Have Hoped

Wake in the morning;

it is all there is to do,

and the sun will have

hoped you would come.

Sunsets

Sunsets are a gift,

sent from a far-off star

that does not

know your name,

but, even as strangers,

still wants desperately

for you to feel joy.

Howl at the Moon – A Haiku

Howl at the moon; she

is list’ning – tides will turn at

the sound of your voice.

You Cannot Tell The Sun

You cannot tell the sun,

‘Stop shining’,

for he would not know how;

even when rest calls us

he says,

‘I will take to other lands

who need me now’.

Pockets of Joy

There are pockets of joy

everywhere,

of only you could see

flickering lights in windows,

feel a gentle breeze

and hear its whispers;

if only you could catch the scent

of fresh-cut grass,

and taste only sweetness.

Then the only truth

to make sense of

is that

there are pockets of joy,

everywhere.

In That House There Was a Man

In the distance there was a breeze,

and in the breeze there was a field;

in the field there was a house,

and in that house there was a man;

in that man there was a mind,

and in that mind there was a memory;

in the memory there was joy,

and in that joy was now found sadness;

in his sadness was a void,

and in that void there was a distance;

in that distance was a breeze,

and in that breeze could grow no fields;

in no fields are there no houses,

and in no house is now that man.

Trust the Tides

The river inside you

which is moved

by the moon

is the same one filling up seas

which beat mountains to dust.

You should trust the tides;

even the earth cannot fight them.

The Ferryman (The Old House and The Beach) – A Short Story

The path which led from the old house to the beach (if you might call it that, small as it was), could only really be found if you knew where to find it. Of course, the pointing finger at the door, the gentle whistling sounds of the winds which carried the smell of the water and the taste of its salt, and the distant light of the ferryman’s lamp would lead you there together. That and, from this particular door, it was the only route made possible; the only one which could be taken, now.

On nights like this it was always cold; dark, of course, and misted, in places, tongues of blue-grey air dancing through the overgrown grass at either side. It might be frightening, but it is not. Gradually, solid ground becomes less so, then gives way to only rock; after, the rock seems scared away, becoming less firm with each step, until it is only coarse grains underfoot – a quiet sshh, sshh, with each new step. As the surface becomes pure, soft sand, the final peak of the old house falls away behind the crest of the gentle hill; gone first, as always.

Even when the sea moves quickly upon the beach, back and forth, it makes little sound. This place is peaceful, just as it should be, and save a small bird is empty but for the ferryman and his boat: a humble thing, but beautiful; all sadness and hope. Whenever voices seek to ask a question here, the man ahead offers only this in return – his hand, and a gentle sshh, sshh with each new breath.

The only place to go is to the boat – a return to solid ground as its wood rests upon the beach. Of course, it makes much sense to embark, and the flicker of the lamp up close makes clear just how sparkling this beach would be if it could be seen in the daylight; piece after piece of gold, it seems.

Always with an unexpected curl of the wind, the light in the lamp is extinguished, gone next, and the boat shifts slightly underfoot. The air dances on a little farther until, at the top of the path which led from the beach to the old house, still out of sight, the lamplight is replaced by a gentle glow from an open door. But only the wind may go in that direction; all other things find their way down to the beach and then are gone, at last.

Weather The Storm

To weather the storm

is to drown in it

and

come back to life

in its waves.

Thundering Skies – A Haiku

Moments without the

sound of your voice are louder

than thundering skies.

The River Would Weep

When the river began

her time upon the earth,

she started cold

and thawed herself to life.

Then,

she would shout and thunder

and fall with all her might;

beautiful but frightening.

Given time,

the river softened and calmed

and breathed herself

into gentle streams which

wrapped their fingers around

branch and stone and reed.

She would weep

at the thought of leaving

the mountains behind.

Eventually

her tears would form the sea.

and she feared that

she might drown the world.

Little did she know

that every day

her fingers would return

to hold the mountains

as they brushed along the sand –

the parts of himself

he sent out to find her.

And so she would weep again,

but now

with thunderous joy.

You are a Mountain

If you should ever

feel as though

you are just

a grain of sand,

remember that

in its heart

sand is,

in fact,

a mountain –

and so are you.

The Sea Will Return

The sea

might leave the rock behind

when the sun begins

to bear down,

but she will always return

to hold him steady,

at last,

in the glow of the moon.

The Moon Could Move the Seas

The sun once told the moon,

‘You feel too much’,

and as she made way for him

she said

‘Of course,

how else could I move the seas?’

The Sun Can Spare a Moment

Take a moment;

every day is filled with them,

and the sun

can spare a few

of his minutes,

to give you a second of calm.

The Best Way to Dream

There is no sense

in sleeping in,

when the sandman

cannot repay you,

when

the moon

has given up her post,

and the sun

is calling out your name.

It is wise to wake;

besides,

it is the best way to dream.

City – A Short Story

He moved through the city at such speed it seemed that he could bounce off the scrapers’ glass walls, swing from posts, and vault from bodega to taxi to rooftop as though lifted by some unknown power. The city had power just like it, keeping it alive; not electricity, but heartbeats and connections and stories to be told, all with their own unseen magic. Cities are like that: living and, like all living things, flawed, frightened, free – and sometimes in need of saving. Naturally, with that secret sense of his, intuition said that they needed him. Family. Friends. He would go, and they would be there, waiting for him to land at their feet at last, ready to hold them in his web of wisdom and warmth, of responsibility and resolution. They needed him. He moved through the city at such speed that it seemed he might get there in seconds, moving faster than the city’s rushing feet can pass the time; rushing to its feet to save the day.

To Sleep – A Haiku

If only, to sleep;

dream of you; wake together;

if only, to sleep.