Awake, sleeping woman, open your eyes

To what is happ’ning while you gaze away.

This circumstance can break a child. So why

Do you allow indifference to betray

The trust a vulnerable boy would give

One to whom respect ought be expected?

Naive in youth, one thinks the right to live

Should be free from this. Could he, rejected,

Thrive in such a cold and unhappy place?

Is it possible to mature alone,

To learn the ways of life without a trace

Of nurturing touch? Or do you bemoan

Your choice? Do you regret the path you chose?

This life before you sees. He feels. He knows.

The memory runs hot when ere I walk

On foot-worn paths oft traveled in my youth;

Eyes shut, but still with vision as the hawk,

Images flood the brain, can’t paint the truth

In rosy hues. Not able to connect

With pleasant happenings that surely were

A part of childhood, time cannot correct

The wrongs done to a child. He was not there,

As growing up, the learning of the ways

Of a difficult world weighed down the soul

Of a troubled boy given to displays

Of sadness, loneliness, heart less than whole

In pain of wanting more, a young boy cried,

But he who brought me out would run and hide.

Sing me blues, my gentle music man.

Play me heartache, heal the painful soul,

The hurting heart with their sweet empathy.

The music cries loss, sadness takes a toll

On the musician. He feels acutely

Raw with the deep emotion of the song

He plays. A mournful rhythm, minor key,

Evoking distant memories. A long

Slow riff, slide guitar, sad refrain, he sings

Tragedy, wasted time, relationships

That, going nowhere, pull at his heartstrings,

Make him weep. Something deep within him rips

Music out to the surface. Hear his voice,

Transformative. We listeners rejoice.

These tender, vulnerable bodies rest

So still at midnight chime and lighthouse flash;

Below the window, roiling whitecaps crest

And fill the marsh with turmoil. Thundrous crash

Belies the vision here before my eyes,

As sleeping babes, ignorant of the storm,

Lie statue-still. Outside, black, cloud-filled skies

Smother a pale moon. A ship sounds forlorn,

Its lonely call disturbing nighttime still,

But shan’t awaken those whose night is bless’t

With peaceful dreams. A father’s heart is filled

With joy at this pure sight of evening’s best

Moment. I lie awake each night, it seems,

And revel in the light of their sweet dreams.

Two small life-changing people make my days

More meaningful than ever. These two girls

Affect me in so many subtle ways.

I can’t begin to describe how these pearls,

These precious gems of human nature prove

There is a God. And when I see them smile

At me with pure unconditional love,

They make the worst of times all seem worthwhile.

When out-of-control emotions take hold,

These miracles make can shine their magic light

Where darkness lives, illuminating old

Worn-down feelings and make them all seem trite.

Two gentle people can my spirits lift;

Their sweet existence is the greatest gift.

She makes a difference in so many lives
With great intelligence and empathy,
A sense of humor and a heart that gives
So much more than it takes. But she can be

Even more. Poet, partner, shoulder, muse,
An inspiration for so many deeds
Of kindness, strength and wisdom. She will use
Skills gained o’er paths of struggle, unmet needs

That, when ignored, did heartache daily bring.
A sense of hopelessness forged in the heat
Of misplaced angers that a boor would sling
Unprompted did unleash the calm conceit

Of better times. And now radiates pride
That bathes the fortunate those by her side.

The silence after midnight shouts so loud
That I can’t ignore it’s call. It’s when I write
The truest things. While others sleep, the cloud
That hides what I feel lifts. I await the night

To record the deeper, more painful stuff
That rattles round and makes the daytime hard
To traverse. A masquerade is enough
To get by, but night brings out and forward

Silent screams that need to be heard if I
Have any hope of seeing the next day
Through with reasonable outcome. To die
A little inside, but keep thoughts at bay

That do betray a quiet anger might
Help me find real catharsis in the night.

The country roads beneath my feet define
A not-so-distant past. Yet still, in some
Parts of this place the roads mark a straight line
To another time, when people called home

The farms and fields that daily provide food
For the gentry of the now. We partake
Of bounties as they ever were. The good,
Great stewards of the land so proudly make

A life in this community. The rich
Bounty we all are fortunate to share
Is just as it ever was. Progress, which
Can be a burden, make the farmers care

About what they do each day to adhere
To ancient customs ancestors held dear.

The city pounds. Pulse awakens. The beat
Is contagious. It drifts round corners. Hear
The booming heartbeat up and down the street,
Sending chills up your spine. Pace quickens near

The source of unfamiliar, rhythmic sounds
Of diversity writ large. On the block,
A generation’s imperative bounds
Into your consciousness. The cities rock

To a diff’rent beat, as unknown to you
As yours was to the ones who came before.
It’s harsh, you say, but then, it’s something new.
And new, you remember, could make you soar

To heights you thought that you could never climb.
This city, these kids, their beats:  it’s THEIR time.

They came with nothing, crossed the sea to seek

A better life they heard was waiting there.

The streets were paved with gold, they heard, not bleak

And barren futures faced should they stay. There

The land was plenty, fertile, rich, and free

For the asking. Abundance awaited,

Paradise for all, it was said. A tree

Of life, it was said. But they found gated

Walls, hostile natives, unfriendly faces

And words, anger at their appearance. Hard

They worked to fit in, but only scant traces

Of acceptance met them. Their false reward

For sacrifice to gain that better way

Was barriers. Is barriers, still. Today.