The Follower

The Follower

Death is always near. 

He follows closely like a friend.
He whispers in our ear –
Loud enough to ignore,
Soft enough to remember.
He hides his attributes,
Yet reveals his absence.
He promises nothing,
Gives nothing,
Takes everything.
He’s numbered our days
And hidden the sum
Between the leaves
Of our life-pages.
Regardless of what we do or say.
He lulls us into sleep
And courts us in our dreams.
He wins our hearts in slumber
Until sleep becomes our lover;
Though sleep is just short death.
Our fragile beating heart could stop
By the choice of any other.
Our breath depends upon another’s
Assessment of our worth:
To kill, to care, to leave be, to cut short…
I came across an infant possum
abandoned in the grass.
Eyes half-closed with thirst,
Lethargic from lack of food,
Lying where he fell.
In an instant, his entire world became
That small patch where he lay.
He barely stood and barred his teeth
At any living thing too close,
But couldn’t move away.
His breathing slowed and his body curled.
His tail wrapped around the air,
Never to be used at all –
Save for the little comfort found
In trying it’s intended form.
He lay there unaware
That no one would return.
That his world would not again expand,
That his hunger would only grow
And consume what time he had.
What does it matter
If we rage or we go gentle?
We go nonetheless.
Death is patient with his time
and time will wait for no one.
Death delights in suffering,
in slow waves of hope and fear;
for time is his ally,
Cruelty and Loneliness, his brothers,
Apathy, his mother.
My constant follower,
My distant, ever-present threat;
Oh that I could love the day
I finally shake Death’s hand.
Oh that I would smile in his face.
Oh that I would see
that his release is not the end.
Oh that I would know
that exile by his command
is freedom from his hand.

If We Breathe, We Create

If We Breathe, We Create

They say I’m foreign to “creatives”,

as though I do not understand.

I am called “other” than “creatives” because I schedule life; I plan.

I work with creatives.

I  help them organize.

I’m praised for “dealing” with creatives.

As if my patience is their prize.

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Little do they know…

The “chasm” set between us isn’t all that great.

The sign of a creative is that they create.

Their mark on this world is that they ignore the gates

that hold all others to an equal, binding, common fate

of a life just half lived, waiting for its death-date;

Empty of all beauty and longing for a taste

of something greater than this life;

to find some meaning in the waste;

to find some hope amidst their strife.

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I am not “other” than creative;

I own the term;

I write.

My art is channeled through how I live;

My pen is firm,

Not trite.

Insecurity and Trust

Insecurity and Trust

Sterling silver, once around my neck

lies coiled on the tile

in a serpent arabesque;

double-crossing the cross along its chain,

reminding me again

of the paradox of things,

which are seldom what they seem.

When, at times, words run dry

and actions spill their hollow contents on the floor;

when, at times, you feign a smile

and leave bloody handprints on the door;

words may come and words will go

and someday we might find

that these words we needed most

are the same we left behind.

You’re out of sight

and out of mind,

but only on the surface.

Sight is gone

but thoughts go on,

and thoughts are ever restless.

So, out of sight

and out of eye;

but never out of mind.

You always leave a residue;

a reminder of some kind.

See You There

See You There

We all just want to be seen.

I want to be proud of my story;

I want to look at the horrible things that have happened,

And even those things I want to love.

It’s the tales with the most traumatic of scenes

That become most beloved of our history.


Because they mean something.