Toby contemplating life

a tent
men reside
her stride
peer inside
the rubble
left behind.

(*my intention is never to bash mankind or any particular belief unless and only if it is detrimental to personhood.  And even if a belief harms another it does not mean the philosophy, psychology or religion is at fault.  Deep inside we all are flawed.  End up harming another in some way.  We can be versatile, possess world views similar in outcome and remain miles apart.  Many have felt a belief to be true but have witnessed the belief perverted for personal gain.  Even that thought, perverted and true, will rumble together and result in individual outcomes.  The world is simply love but exists in never-ending controversy.  We are complicated poets.  All of us.)

Church is poetry. Poetry is life. A life well lived.


the warmth
of this good earth
though light
descends from far away.
the morning dew
refreshes her
and sun sparks
flame within.

the evening sky
though dimly lit
imparts possibilities
of deeper thoughts
that exist
beneath the wings
of man.

i took
Frost’s road
the one less traveled
and never found.
his words
an enemy
blanketed my feet
and the stars sneered
at my gullible defeat.

they slid their feet
grass blades bent
among humid air and
freshly-washed sheets.
laundry flapped in the wind
while underneath their bodies
lied an unfinished book
their confession too long
to write the ending.
blood-stained fingertips
hit the back-space button
and life with broken spine
and tattered pages
was wrapped in ironed,
pure-white Egyptian cotton,
800 ply.