Giving Space To The Inner Poet and Closet Story Tellers

The silent worry in the late-night dark, A heavy weight, a lonely, burning spark. The child's soft breathing, a rhythm slow and deep, While fathers watch, and promises they keep. The weary shoulders, burdened with the need, To plant the hopes and nurture every seed. The scraped-up knees, the lessons learned too late, The quiet fears that seal a father's fate. But in the chaos, where the triumphs lie, A tiny hand that waves, a loving eye. The first unsteady steps, a fearless fall, A father's grip, to catch and hold them all. The laughter echoes through the sunlit room, A brilliant bloom dispelling every gloom. A graduation cap, a tear-filled gaze, The pride that lifts him up through all his days. He sees his face in a new, young, hopeful view, The man he was, and the man he's becoming, too. And in the mirror of the child's success, The father's story finds its truest blessedness.

The ocean stirs, a distant, quiet call, As though the water listens, over all. The low tide's secret places, kissed and dry, Await the great return beneath the sky. A whispered surge, a rumor on the stones, The sea begins to gather what it owns. It creeps along the footprints on the sand, And takes them back with a slow, patient hand. A silver line advances on the beach, A tireless flood that waits for what it can reach. Each wavelet crests and falls with measured might, A gentle conquest in the afternoon light. The rock-pools, once a world contained and small, Now feel the tumbling, rising ocean's thrall. And with the turning of this world-wide key, The shore surrenders to the coming sea.  

A shadow follows, shapeless and unseen, It whispers threats of things that are to come. The steady ground beneath is no longer green, But cracked and barren, leaving us undone. A frantic search for footing, for a place, To build a wall, a shelter from the wind. But every effort leaves a trace Of how the sturdy framework has been thinned. Lost in a fog of future's grey unknowns, We drift from shore, a compass spinning wild. Each familiar sign the water erodes, Leaving us stranded, fearful, and exiled. The maps we held now burn to ash and smoke, And every landmark is a crumbling stone. With every turning, certainty is broke, And we are strangers, desolate, alone. A knot of static hums within the chest, The mind a whirlpool, a frantic, churning din. An endless, anxious, agonizing test, The future's face, a hollow, taunting grin. The hands are shaking, and the breath is shallow, A silent scream that struggles to be freed. Each question blooms, a fear in which to wallow, And every a...

The voice released, a torrent and a stream, A flood of questions, or a fevered dream. It pulls down curtains that have long been drawn, And brings the silent, hidden things to dawn. The poet's verse, the protest in the square, A tool to fight the tyrant and the snare. It gives the powerless a chance to rise, To lift the hood from blind and fearful eyes. It builds a bridge where once the canyon yawned, And seeds the ground for futures yet unthawed. But from the same deep well, the poison flows, The quiet cruelty that festers and grows. The whispered lie, the slander in the breeze, The ugly word that brings a soul to its knees. A reckless shout, a fire in the hall, That makes the bravest spirit stumble and fall. The bridge of reason burned by hurried hate, A storm unleashed, with no retreat, too late. It gives the hateful, license to incite, And drowns the truth within a raging night. So, stand we here, upon this shifting ground, Where both the balm and bitter sting are found. The gi...

They whisper in the coffee shop, a breath, A fragment of a story, hinting death Or scandal, or a hidden, newfound grace, That flickers on each anxious, curious face. The teller starts with, "Did you hear the news?" And ends with speculation, soft confusions. The barber hums, his clippers catch the light, And pauses just to give the tale a new flight. He doesn't know the hero or the sin, But adds a layer where the facts wear thin. The checkout girl, her movements quick and neat, Adds a new detail, savory and sweet. No one can trace the source, the single start, Of this strange legend woven in the heart. The story changes with each passing mouth, A winding river flowing to the south, It grows, it shrinks, it gains a richer tone, But the core detail is forever unknown. It's in the air, a hum, a low vibration, The town's own, private, dark imagination. A phantom scandal, or a whispered crime, That fills the empty, unadventurous time. And though it binds them, in a com...

Upon the canvas of the sleeping mind, A fleeting sketch, a vision undefined. It shimmered there, a whisper soft and low, A fragile promise in the twilight's glow. It was a seed, a fragment of a thought, With silent purpose, it was deeply wrought. But waking hands took hold and gave it form, Through patient labor, braving every storm. The vision sharpened, gaining vivid hue, As fervent effort made the dream feel true. The phantom air, once held in quiet trust, Began to gather shape from mortal dust. No longer just a wish, a pale belief, But rooted purpose, finding sweet relief. The broken-winged bird was taught to fly, The frozen field thawed 'neath a striving eye. And what was once a hope for things unseen, Became the vibrant, breathing, living scene. For dreams made manifest are more than fate, They are the work that makes a world create. The daring heart that chose a certain way, And brought the colors to the light of day. The unseen blueprint, drawn in hopeful night, Is now ...