She’s dying as I write this sentance.

A grand old dame that lived a life-

A mother, a daughter, a widow, an actress

She is a piece of of the local fabric

And that fabric will soon be torn

And we will be torn with it.

We call her mama

And she lets me too

Even though I am not

Officially her son.

I am not prepared for her death

And death does not care

But her children care

Her stepchildren care

And I too care, feeling from the outside

As she lies in hospice

Not wanting too many people there

Perhaps she will have a last cigarette,

Enjoying the thing that is killing her in the end

And perhaps it will be great

And she will fall asleep

No more coughing

And we can begin

To rip.

Deciding For Love

Free to choose
Like a slave in chains
Choose anything you can
And while the demons laugh and taunt
A fire burns inside.

Trees put down
Right there to see
Freedom must be worth a lot
And as the serpent weaves his lies
They mostly hold to truth
But a small thing turns water into coffee
And medicine into poison.

I chose wrong a thousand times
And the blows that followed have left me dumb
Except that I am writing this
But don’t know what to say.

I have never quite believed
Just how big a choice could be
And how could it still matter so?
And why is choosing ever here?

Yet for Freedom are we set free
And yet elusive may it seem
But wanting to make sense of it
Is part of who He made me be.

In Time of Need

I am under siege.

The grip around my neck is tight and growing tighter
The lessons learned and forgotten and learned again
Have left me exhausted in my bones.

I am afraid.

The cold is fast upon my heart
And lonely I am stuck in fear
I hear raging all around and the center is not calm.

I am failing.

The light is weak the candle dies
It flickers as I reach for death
And in the morning I might, wake or I may be gone.

Hear my prayer.

The death I seek is not with bodies
Not revenge and not my own
Let my heart be rescued now as the old man dies.

Some Days With Our Brothers and Sisters

Hope is a precious thing
And I don’t know where it goes
When your child dies.

Every day someone dies.

Everyone is someone’s child.

And sometimes you outlive your children.

Where does gentle hope reside
When grief in force kicks down your door?
And where do fragile spirits hide
With all this blood upon the floor?

Teach me oh God of Wrath
Where the rain upon the earth will fall
And where the soul that grieves may go
When every hope has fled.


You like to hang around
and always bring to mind
the party that was before
and how it caught on fire.

And now there is a nod
and now there is a word
and whispered in my ear
you lurk and will not leave.

I wait for death to come
but you still come around
and try to make me think
that we had lots of fun.

Or that it really wasn’t much
and people just are people now
and I should not regret so much
or so it is you say.

But it is not, after all
not ok at all you see
and though you would remain as friends
I smell the death upon your skin.