They left the green land behind,
where the púca ran unseen
beneath hollowed branches,
where tricks stirred in the mist
and footsteps never quite found firm ground.

Across the restless waters they sailed,
heavy with exile, grasping
the promise of gold and breath,
chasing the mirage of quiet years,
somewhere the ghosts could not follow.

But the rivers whispered—
not the rivers of home,
nor the winding black paths
of the púca’s mischief,
but something heavier, deeper, waiting.

Birds drift
Caught in the current of the sky
Sea planes
A sharp trill that catches meaning
As the sun diffuses into a dusty impression
Branches take on new shape
Quivering with changing light

On the other side of the veil
To whisper a memory
In the shape of sifting leaves
This feeling is important

The ducks were gathering on the lawn,
children had come to play.
The cobbled streets and sun filled alleys,
welcomed the coming day.
A grayish mist, was arising,
the lake was cool and gleefully shinning.
The children felt that God was listening
His offering lent to their dismay.
Walking along the sandy shore,
with joy they fed them specs of bread.
Promises made by their fathers
left their hearts in disarray.
Their hopes and dreams all swept away.
Time swept by as if a tyrant

Wander through the burrowed light,
mud-packed walls breathing warmth,
a kettle thrums—no rush, just the steady,
unbroken rhythm of being.

Hands work the earth, kneading sun into soil,
tucking seeds deep where roots raise memory.

Footsteps soften against moss,
small strides, sure and deliberate,
paths well-trodden yet never worn.

Bread breaks, laughter follows,
cups filled, emptied, filled again—
contentment settling into the bones.

One unassuming morning
I was in transit
under a gentle early sun
I became aware of a unique grove of trees
Burgundy plum and gleaming white dogwood
Interspersed with an occasional Atlantic cedar
Shafts of morning sunlight penetrated intermittently like carefully focused lasers
Gently piercing this magical acre residing in the understory of taller oaks and maple

All I am asking you
That you treat God right
And don insult him
He needs you respect
So respect God
Also God is the man
That create you
With his holy hands
If wasn't for God
You would not be here
Also God is waiting
For you to pray to him
Every single night
Before you go to sleep
It only takes a couple
Minutes to do it
Then you can go
Straight to bed
Tomorrow will be
Another day
That will arrive first
Thing in the morning
You also need to

Friday vibes
Fireflies light June nights
Inflaming the quiet heart
For love poetry

They came for the feast of phrases,
gathered ‘round the wordless flame.
Empty cups clinked, unsated,
as the poet shrugged—his muse unspoken.

“There’s no story here,” he muttered,
his mind a drought-struck desert.
And so they sat, grasping shadows,
a poem promised but never served.

The roses in the garden are especially beautiful and multitudinous this summer

They stand proud and open in their unapologetic, stunning way

As if they are ignorant or unaware of the world crumbling around them

Or perhaps they’re just tenacious and brave

Perhaps we are those roses

My boots exit the leafy duff
and hit the tar and gravel road.
The stars are out.I've had enough
of carrying this lonesome load.

I unsling my rife from stiff shoulder
the place it in in its well worn case
then exhale a breath that's turning colder.
Of mid-day warmth there is no trace.

I carefully get in my truck
taking care with achy knees
already stiff from slippery muck
which an hour ago began to freeze.