The sound of thunder

The last known painting of Skyler blue

and the rain falls around me

each drop

revealing an image of something

that was

or perhaps

something that will be

the ghost of Christmas yet to be

haunting me like Dickens laughing

The image you leave

changes with each drop

washing away time with the water

washing away each indeterminable tiny crack

until the sidewalk is awash

and yet I run

running faster and faster

trying to dodge the drops now

trying not be be the lost child

I am confused.

I am lost.

but you can’t hear me

through the thunder

as it rolls across the ground like

huge marbles or quarters

thrown from high above

what is the source of the river?

what is the source of the flood?

the drops striking me


the quiet slowly captures me

I am lost.

The ghost of some Christmas now long past

whispers in my ear

“This won’t hurt a bit.”



If only oh yeah and wait

I hear the ticking clock on the wall. The days are numbered. For the first time in a long time I feel old. I have gray hairs now that I didn’t have before. The number of my birthdays is larger than I think I am prepared to deal with right now. I will be 50 in less than 2 months. I don’t know why that is bothering me so much. I kinda liked 40.  50 seems so much bigger than that.

Oh well. 59 days of freedom left.

What is the measure of a person?

I’ve been thinking about that because frankly of the whole turning 50 thing. What does a person need to do to be considered good?

Do you need a masterpiece?

Is there a defining moment of and for you as a person? If so what is that moment?

The moment you become a parent?

The moment you choose to help someone else, first?

When is it?
What makes me a person?

What will I become?

Anyway – it’s a jumble today.


Struggling to climb

The gear weighs more

than the heart it is encompassing

climbing the mountain

no longer sure it is my mountain


blinded by the snow

and ice


one foot in front of the other

the weight of the gear pulling

me backward

the wind pushing me backward

trying to recall

why am I struggling forward?

This is my mountain

but the footsteps

no longer fit the path that is there

can I make it

weight of what was pulling me back

the snow pushing me back

things not what they once were

are bound to what they are

can I climb this mountain?



When sea meets see

From here

to there

and back again

seems an infinite journey

selecting my mountain

I prepare the climbing gear

hyper-goggles that help you see between the lines

Jacket of reason so you are never led wrong

hat of logic (of course with the plume)

scarf of skepticism

and bag of knowledge packed with

and texts weather worn and aged

pages torn and dog eared

but for prepared for the journey

what else would you need?

Philosophical water that let’s you see

rhetorical biscuits that open your ears

and the strings


that bind your heart tight

for the mountain will not be climbed

without an open heart

and lots of pitons

to anchor your soul

when the winds blow down the mountain side

and tear at you

are you forgiven?



upon losing your way

It is a step

single or multiple?

your footing unsure

slipping you

grasp at a tree branch

but it slaps you across the face

stung you lean into the fall

launching away form the side of the mountain

you preform a swan dive


you twist in the breeze

you feet struggling to gain purchase

as you tumble heels over head

bouncing downward

until slowly

the words “I’m sorry”

slip across your parched lips

and free

they fly upward towards the sun

heliotrope words

with a meaning lost

your tumbling stops

a broken body

at the bottom of a lost conversation.



Do you see the mountain range

Each of us sees a mountain range

from that range

we choose a mountain to climb

do you see your mountain?

Pitons in hand as you launch towards the peak

a flag clutched in your hand

the mountain your goal

do you see your mountain

or the range of mountains

all the mountains

never seeing your own

you strive to climb mountain after mountain

until exhausted you lie

by the side of the road


and yet



devoid of a mountain

Do you see the mountain range?

Or do you see your mountain?



To see the light

In the darkened tunnel

the light

moves from side to side

as though a lantern carried by a drunken sailor

weaving in

and out of the tracks

no set direction

no way to go

as if a train


at great speed

shimmying on the track as it

barrels ever forward

to crush in its path

those watching the swinging light

hypnotized by what they think they see

lost in what may be

the drunken sailor

stops to

empty his stomach of the booze and cigars

chunks of light

blowing into the air

sticking on the tunnel wall


the train

blowing past

exploding the air around us

pushing us backward

the light gone

the tunnel walls still

with an eerie glow

and I do not see the sailor anymore.