Posted in Songs and Spoken Word

Ode to John Prine – RIP John Prine

Like many I was saddened by the death of legendary bard and songsmith John Prine who at the age of 73 succumbed this past week to the corona virus.

Years ago, in my former life as the frontman for the band Jeremiahs Run, I wrote a song called Ode to John Prine (It’s my wife’s favorite:). The subtitle is State of Contentment which I hope is Mr. Prine’s place of residency as I hope it will be mine someday.

I offer an early version below. Hopefully, we will release the full band version soon.


Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree (Poems)

Perhaps what I am waiting for

perhaps what i am waiting for
is already right here
waiting for me
to simply acknowledge
its presence
like a precious thing
once thought lost
that never was

hidden in plain view
until i took my eyes
off the distracting shine
of what i thought
was precious
and saw again
that which so
patiently and
lovingly has
always been here
waiting for me

Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree (Poems)


I have felt
so much like
a fish out of water,
awkward in situations,
lost from who I am,
flopping on a strange
spit of sand,
to breathe.

This morning
it came to me like
the ruby-throated
hummingbird suddenly
appearing before me
on the wind
that perhaps
I have been cast
from my familiar seas
to grow wings
and become
a fish that

July 19, 2019

Posted in The Sunday Driver: Life in the Slow Lane



Life is . . .
finding a precious coin on the sidewalk,
blissfully unaware that it is the same one you lost
so very long ago.

Posted in Musings and Reflections

You Don’t Fit


You are a square peg and your world is filled with holes, round ones at that. Is it any wonder you don’t fit?

So stop trying.

Be not conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind.

That renewal does not come from the latest fad, which usually is just a regurgitation of what was popular ten years ago. Or endless hours in front of the screen watching reruns of the same old violent plots.

Originality has gone out the window, along with the manger baby and the baptismal water. Stop trying to be original for originality’s sake.

Be yourself. But in order to do that you need to turn off the noise and the voices around you clamoring for your time, money, and attention. You need to know yourself.

And the One who knows you best.

You will never fit. You are not supposed to. There will always be some discomfort.

But if you seek, you will find . . . your place and contentment.

Posted in Prayers and the Sacred

Gimme Gimme


Wake up every morning
say what you want
grabbing what
you can get
Go to sleep at night
empty heart unsatisfied
trying to
hold onto it

Wake up every morning
open heart asking
what you can give
Go to sleep at night
empty and spent
dying to live

Posted in The Sunday Driver: Life in the Slow Lane



An apt name perhaps
I the creature lured into the trap
by all of the bells
and whistles
Come here, boy!
Fetch your new toy.
O tidings of comfort and joy
I drool to the ringing of Pavlov’s bell
but all is not well,
this thing has stuck to my soul like a thistle.

Neither gentle nor merry does it make me,
I give it power to take me
lead me astray.
Further I am dismayed
by nothing
save that I have become possessed by what I have
something other than the greatest gift
and the rift
between us cannot be bridged by an advertisement.

I am so quick to
give away my soul
that which is more
costly than gold
and sweeter than
honey from the
No matter where
I roam,
through the ringing
and piercing shrieks,
the din of snapping beaks,
a still small voice
offers deliverance and
true satisfaction.

Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree (Poems)


Dusk makes all figures into shadows like the flickering forms cast upon the walls of Plato’s cave.

I drive past the blurring silhouettes, knowing that I too am fading into the darkness of my days.

And so I must embrace what I must let go and cease to grasp that which I cannot hold onto.

Strangely enough that is what makes a life of freedom.

Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree (Poems)

Becoming Real


sometimes I have the sinking
suspicion that I am
missing out
that there is something I am
supposed to be doing
that I am subconsciously
I am active
life is good
I am blessed
yet there is this prickling on the
back of my neck

I do not want to move through
life as a ghost and then
suddenly wake up
to find that I have
faded away into

I am haunted by the fear of
never doing anything truly
the lives I have touched
the words I have spoken
the love I have given
the tears I have wiped
away from your eyes
all are swallowed by the
subtle storm of

I may never be
that is the nature of a
creative soul
so I continue
to live
to love
to write
in the hope that the pattern
will become clear
my fading ends and like
the velveteen rabbit
I become more