on this winter’s day…

why do you stand there
staring off into the horizon
as if he’ll be coming home
he is already home
he is buried
with his friends
his cross
bearing the helmet
he wore that day
a day when death
took his hand
and led him
into a negotiated peace
one paid for with blood
so there is no need
for you to stand there
waiting with ribbons of tears
tying up your life
around a gift of hope
for someone
who cannot come
to christmas day
so come in from those cold memories
and join me around
the warm embers
of existence

to my friend’s life questions….

i could not see his face
nor hear the sound of his voice
but printed words
his words
were tears
tears one could hear
if listening with the heart
not for sounds
but for a soul’s approaching storm
where changing winds
swirl in patterns of disbelief
tossing sacred vows
against the rocks of  uncertainty
swirling the dust of doubt
into his mind
blinding his eyes to love
and to distant dreams
just beyond the horizon of hope
he could not see them
nor feel their presence
for the darkness of faith
was upon him
a darkness so thick
not even the voice of god
could be heard

the wood carver….


his hands bore the scars
of learning his trade
the thick calluses in his palms
were like the rings of a tree
sharing with those who chose to look
his years upon this earth
this piece beneath his blade
was now complete
a sea
where each wave
seemed to move
as eyes scanned the horizon
at a distance
one could see a small
yet distinct
fishing boat
bouncing with expectation
of a bountiful harvest
and sea gulls
cruising through the sky
one would swear
they saw the wings
move from time to time
so precise was his work
but do not look for this place
nor the life he portrayed
for now you will only find
the black death of oil
smeared upon the scene
erasing the history of this place