(2013)
1998.... while touring india.... exploring the town of rishikesh a popular hindu pilgrimage site along the banks of the holy mother…
The old man, who thinks he’s dying, approached me with these words. I am sorry
Hello, can you see me here? Please, might you stop awhile. I am the one you pass by daily as you hurry homeward bound. I am that one who’s least of us.
How are you? The maiden turned and whispered soft, her turquoise eyes as deep as time.
Alone, in the same old crowd, trying to ignore this stifling pain. I am but
No words of wisdom. No clever rhymes. Not this day. Something heavy weighs me down.
That cranky old mongrel hound cooped up down the alley; he ain’t got no teeth no more but he still knows how to snarl. he gets them young pups all worked…
It was in those early days when everything seemed technicolor there was that explosion only inward then nothing
I am awash with tears of mourning for what I thought was dead and go… as though a flood of holy water has broken through the stony dam I contrived to spare this brittle…
This trembling grief is for a long lost soul, a young, guileless child I once knew as me. I truly believed
Your end? My end? Where the hell’s the middle? You say this. I say that.
Within this pilgrim’s soul exists a hungry beggar waif, who can never afford a moment of indifference or distraction. Alert to every aching nuance
Way up there on that hill of yours; that most hard-won ivory tower. Hiding there behind your perfect guise
trust the one who seeks the truth doubt the one who says he’s found…
Ideas and notions, they’re all for the dreamers, worth as much or less than one's considered opinion. You can’t even wrap fish in them.