Missing That Phone Booth

Does it ever get better?
Does the pain make a way?
Do the dead rise again?
Is anything made right?

I miss the tree by that old house
The one we used to oft pretend
Was a phone booth we could change
Inside of into superman.

But heros just in ink and page
Give us just a little hope
Real life flesh and blood is rare
And we do not believe.


On Evil

Evil speaks in many tongues
And fire burns from every place
It has touched and left again
That we might see its shadow’s face.

In the alleys back in town
And in the mansions countryside
Its breath is whispered in the places
We would never think to hide.

Is there hope against this tide?
This shifting malice in the night
Who will save us from this mist?
That we cannot yet see to fight.

A Prayer In Ernest Now Beginning

But if I sin
Do ears go deaf?
And if I fail
Do eyes go blind?
Will I ever see the sun
Or feel the things my mind would find?

The heart and head have lost their way
And cannot see the other here
But it is Christ that heals the blind
And it is Christ that I now fear.

Death and pain have kept me close
All these years of my short life
But death to self is something else
A wholly different kind of strife.

The morning comes on far too fast
And sleep eludes my weary heart
And in the night the demons scream
And I don’t know just where to start.

Contact Soul Walker

Since my e-mail provider shut down unexpectedly many of you have tried to contact me and been largely unsuccessful. My apologies for that and thank you for being persistent and letting me know (through comments) that you had been trying to get a hold of me. I have found a new provider. If you wish to contact me please send me an e-mail at:


Yes, I missed you too. If anyone has anything to say (good, bad, critical, or otherwise) please drop me a line. I would love to hear from you. Cheers.

Poetry in Depression

It’s nine am and I am almost awake
No alarm
Just starting my coffee
Been up for hours.

What is going on?

I tried to sleep in
I laid there alone
The fire still crack’ling
The dog still asleep.

But change can be abrupt
Seemingly without flow
Little poetry to it
All story.

I had a rhythm
I had seasons
They have been disrupted.

They were not fun
They were not good
They were not healthy
But they were a rhythm
And now they are cracking.

And there is no poetry to it
It is ugly and abrupt
And so I am almost awake
At nine in the morning.

This is a change