Within my skull a stranger roams
Away across the cobblestones
So long upon the weary way
So long in homeward coming

One more bend my heart recalls
‘Til wistful gaze discern the walls of home
Oh the sweet sight of home!
An end for all my roving

See it now? The open door—
My barefoot feet so travel sore
Shall find within a resting place
A haven from the treading

Hasten now!
The noontide glare is sinking
In the distant air
A sweet perfume is beckoning
From lilies on the byway

There dusty bones shall find their ease
I’ll lay my head on gentle knees
A lucent hand will soothe my brow
At last, I’m homeward coming!




Tick, tick, tick. Time moves slow across my face. Another night of reminiscing that I’d prefer to dream away.

It’s been months since my lifelong insomnia has bedded down with me. The introduction of an essential oil diffuser tremendously improved my sleep quality ever since I made the investment. But now the old familiar wakefulness is straining my nerves, electrifying my consciousness; wildly, jubilantly spinning the reel of incessant thought. Perhaps the honeymoon is over?

As I stubbornly lock my eyelids my mind drifts back to many sleepless nights gone by. Was it truly all of ten months ago that the moon found my pillowcase drenched with heartache?

My mind circumnavigates the globe—faces rising and fading—some known and some imagined. I spend these fleeting moments in prayer, remembering the poetry of my last insomnolent grief. I’m at peace now in spite of my wakefulness. I simply remember.


In the grip of the early hours laid
They pass like a dream in the waking

Over one or a million with ache like mine
Where they lie matters little at all

Only grant them their prayer
From my lips to your ears
For I feel them behind my own lashes

With fingers pressed to their sleepless eyes
Whose only companions are tears


The forest is a gallery
Where autumn blithe comes painting
With sweeping stride the countryside
And finds me there escaping

Summer wanes, my passion breathes
For northern oak and maple leaves
As red as life that pulses new within me

Verdure flutters from the trees
Like amber floating on the breeze
There never lived an artist so elating!

Shall not we wish eternity
Upon this forest gallery
While autumn still upon the earth is painting?

Let fall and winter never meet
When gold dust stirs beneath my feet
May time stand still
Before the trees are empty


Only Dust

Across the emerald crest of earth
A gentle zephyr blows
She stirs the languid bowers
And the cool of eve bestows

The noble trees give shade and strength
The vines upon them trust
And blossoms fair perfume the air
But I am only dust

The sapphire stream refreshes
As she dances on her way
She laughs along in careless song
For toil is her play

Sweet produce dangles on the stem
Enchanting & robust
It nourishes the life of all
But I am only dust

My futile longing throbs within
Yet resignation grows
As grows the thorn in many
Whom inadequacy knows

So sprinkle on the water now
Then sprinkle on some seed
I’ll settle here, content to lie
Beneath the stems and leaves

Below, unnoticed, just a medium
Means for life to live
Such helplessness
Yet willingness is all I have to give

I’ll hush my own desires and dreams
To silence if I must
Just let there bloom a beauty here
Where I am only dust

Shades of Art

Strokes with no rhyme, the shades of art
The ceaseless longings in my heart
In restless whine, the green of time
I seek to hush its stirring

Colors blur, afraid, unsure
But finally believing
Silent voices, brilliant lines
By eloquence deceiving (?)

Tease and stay by night and day
As silk and satin dreams do fly
And surge with promise, false or honest?
Fact and fancy merging

Line on line true wisdom’s sign
Oh may I see it shining!
More I plead, still more it binds
With deeper roots entwining

Painting still, against my will
The dreaded rose unfurling
Thrill and soar, but just before
The agony of dying

Shattered inkwell, broken quill
A canvas torn, the brush is still
And out of emptiness the fullness,
Taking back my “never”
Willing now to be made one
Or solitary ever


A Psalm For The Drought

A psalm of rest seems mocking me
No flock upon this path I see
My shoulders ache beneath my load
So weary is the soul

When have we lain in pastures fresh?
For many a mile, I must confess
My lips could not your promise vaunt

I shall not want
I shall not want

What comfort is a beating rod?
Your staff around my neck oh God
No, every blow was meant to heal
And by your staff you guide

Through snares and pits I failed to see
Your discipline has sheltered me
Distrust shall not my courage daunt

I shall not want
I shall not want

If I, the only wounded sheep
The shepherd’s lonely footsteps lead
Shall I turn back for want of streams?
Or pasture golden dry?

Or shall I follow faithful
Though you spread an empty table?
Shall I stay though deathly shadows haunt?

I shall not want
I shall not want

For from the cracked and splintered board
Shall spring a feast—a fountain stored
Yes, quiet streams shall sing again
And pastures come alive

Your mercy I shall ever know
My cup at last shall overflow
No more shall foes or feelings taunt

I shall not want
I shall not want