Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree (Poems)

Another Winter Without Snow

The scrape of a leaf outside my door

is a lonely sound I have heard before

from a latent memory of long ago

and another winter without snow.

Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree (Poems)

Sometimes It Seems All Of The Days Are Gray

sometimes it seems
all of the days are gray
and the doors closed
without a glimpse of the one
who steps across the threshold
you are the one who walks in the rain past the curious stares of dry children in their after school program coloring within
and further along past the empty storefronts waiting for new tenants
you smile at the woman smoking beneath the dripping eaves
the open sign flashing red behind her

inside at home it is warm
the lights cast off the chill
but you know that you can
never ever leave the gray behind

Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree (Poems)

A Little Less Vanilla

When one bakes with diversity,

add 3 cups of humility,

and take a long taste of Chocolate City.

Listen to some go-go.

Watch a young man dance before the coffin of his grandma in a love show.

Hear the song of joy and grief.

Add 3 tablespoons of the river Anacostia.

The change in your pallette may very well cost ya

and there could be some heart burn

as you listen and re-learn

to really breathe

because trying to mute DC is a form of hypoxia.

What you been cooking up doesn’t make much sense.

It’s time to use some different ingredients.

Maybe a little less salt.

And a lot more pepper.

More chocolate.

Less vanilla.

Because this is more than grabbing a chili dog from Ben’s Chili Bowl.

What good is soul food if you’ve lost your soul?

Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree (Poems)

Ode to M. Alcofribas

Though I am not as wise as Solomon,
when I think of a certain Friar John
whose abbey was made most Gargantuan,
I see a misreading of Immanuel Kant.

A church born from a babe in Bethlehem
is now most like the Abbey of Thélème
for it has cast off its royal diadem
to follow the mantra, “Do What You Want.”

(see this article for more info)

Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree (Poems)

Yore Infatuation

the universe is expanding
not so your mind
you are an old wineskin
about to burst with new wine
you look up at the stars
gazing back in time
but you are not enlightened
by what you find

you pine for a time
that just wasn’t true
because the good ol days
were only good for a few
and the past is past
it will never renew
so why does yesterday
have such a hold on you?

history is a great teacher
with few who enroll
in her classes to learn
if the truth be told
when what you believe
is another black hole
the price to be paid
is the loss of your soul

Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree (Poems)

The Timetraveler

like a lone hand
grasping for
drops of rain
are the memories
that grab me
suddenly
out of the gray
and i am
back there
with you
your words
falling down
around me
like brown
leaves

Posted in Musings and Reflections

Wise-eyed in Wonder

my inner child
has an old soul
wide eyed in wonder
with a weighty load

my old soul cares
for an inner child
and hopes to still see
wonder with wiser eyes

Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree (Poems)

When I am Overwhelmed by the World

I wake to a morning of dismay,
caught up in the troubles of the day,
ensnared in what I cannot change
and a world that won’t rearrange
into a kinder, gentler place
where I’m just another runner in the human race.

Somehow I’ve learned that being painfully aware
is synonymous with showing that I really care
when I simply get caught up in the hoplessness
and the news of another’s tragic distress
which sucks the strength right out of my bones
and leaves me feeling so alone.

There seems to be a lesson here,
rising out of the worry and fear,
that perhaps there is a Voice I should be listening for,
Creator cares for this world so much more
than I ever can or will
and it is with that Love I seek to be filled.

Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree (Poems)

The Melancholic

perhaps it is the rain
the gray of the day
the fog across the window panes
the wet that keeps
the hounds at bay

the clap of refrain
where fingers stray
to jog across a tender frame
the fret that weeps
the sounds of a ukulele

the trap of my brain
the notes that play
and slog across my inner disdain
regrets that sleep
in mounds of dismay

perhaps it is the rain
the tune of the day
the dog that sees me with eyes of pain
sets aside the sheep
having found her prey