a merrier christmas…

there was no need
to study the life line
coursing down the palm
of her hand
to know
of her past
one need only
to count the scars
on her face
stitches added
over the years
but this christmas
was different
she was alone
in the house her father built
atop a mountain
miles from the city
she thought she loved
in a one room cabin
with a small tree
adorned with left over
but each one
was placed with love
upon those branches
and she
felt loved
not by a man
but by
a simple

i’m taking requests so…

what instrument shall I play for you
shall it be a magic flute
with melodic tones
that drift you into an even deeper sleep
where you can claim
this to be
the best of all possible worlds
or shall i play a song
that stirs your soul
a march
that will let you see
the world around you
where slavery still exists
and hate burns deep
into the souls of men
like the searing heat
of a branding iron
or shall i play
a clever little melody
with notes to let you see
a child’s badly bruised face
from a loving parent
or the makeup covered scars
of your neighbor’s adorable wife
or perhaps you would prefer
some blues
to help you see
the deep stench of misery
of a ragged homeless person
or a flag caressing a parent’s coffin 
while small hands are left behind
whatever you choose
please tell me the key
so as to unlock
the heart within you

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

when pilate saw…

i am an old soldier
the scars i have
and the wars
i’ve fought
are many
each scar you see
is yours
for each war
has been for you
so my blood
runs in your veins
transfused there
by some battlefield medic
that you have
only read about
not cared about
as you stood in line
at starbucks
holding the morning news
in hands now ink-stained
hands that you washed
as if the ink was blood
and you wash them again
when i returned home
scrubbing me from your memory
as well as any thought
of your part
in those deaths
upon the cross
of freedom