The worlds we build

Let him sleep where he may lie
Let him give all when he may try
Stepping in small shuffles
with voices muffled
The cold blindfold over the eyes of justice
entrusted to substance without her feathers ever ruffled

Are the pursuits of purchase
over objects so worthless?
For what he may build out of passion and service
lives unearthed as his matter of purpose

To create what we love
inside our shells spells out
the lining on the wings of doves

What it is to free the scars of what we are
from our eyes to our work
to reveal the depth of our stars


Some wish it forever, the smart and clever
Never have I heard one claim, with true intent “I wish to be old.”
The bold are with grace, the young faces of curiosity
are with mischievous animosity

To want to be young again
with pen and pad, pencil sharpened to never quit
Darkened from mud baths and playing on foot paths
in full commitment

Bathing in the luxuries of true friendships
of short lived enemies
reliving moments
of youth in anonymity

Mission Street 2016

A street with two sides, separated by wealth of old and new, and changes that occur over time. A shift in the socioeconomic, a corner for drugs just as a corner for the up and coming, the new and fortunate. The older residents march the streets in pursuit of their lives, the fresh and young do not have a minute to spare in their busy, ceaseless world.

This is a pearl in the heart of the city. The old styled stores carrying merchandise from mixed fabrics, worn and unbranded. The joys are in the essential for America’s fringe, along for the ride in the heart of the mission district. What is a life spent on the streets of San Francisco, a city for all the poor, the young, the rich, and those who are vulnerable and marginalized to the ways of the world?

Surrounded by beauty, by concrete, by foggy street lights and sights that often miss eyes, it a pleasant place for a break indeed.

Watching scenes unfold from balcony windows, the nighttime chatter in the bustle of evenings. Restaurants serving great meals welcome guests for the evening. A small bar hosts a couple in a window booth. They engage in their drinks and the city. Life is abundant, never to sleep on Mission Street.

Trips into darkness

In a box carriage, a glass marries me to one-way streets, floating backwards in these dreams I wish to speak.

But I mumble in sleep, eyes closed, mouth open roped into my seat. My feet tingling from the motion of my mind, I find a black space around me in the form of scenery. The greenery no longer bright in dark night. Sounding out into an evening of empty howls, the calls of wild owls hovering alone, watching those prowled upon by the worn claws of winter’s gasps and scowls.

Seizing warmth from the odd spectators wishing but a little place on long benches, now finding solace in the passing by of frozen trenches, in search of a relaxation comfortable as the wool of sheep on a winter day. The colors necessary to fill the artless and put an end to seasonal darkness are close by.

Lights flicker in the carriage, my cold seat at last defeated by touches of heat, putting an end to the months long marriage to wintry sleep.

The Runaway

Run away as a scorned child
across mountains, across seas, up trees and into the skies
Shut your eyes and sleep on clouds
where you shall not be caught
in a place that cannot be bought

They will seek no more
when you snore away dismay
and they can do no more
for they fear what cannot be purchased
through the hands of wretched pay

Sketch book

My black book is my work. It is a sketch of letters, of words, of lists to uncover life. It has gone too far in many ways just as it has not yet scratched the surface of what it reveals. Its purpose is to fulfill the emptiness, to carry me through the dry and empty patches of my rides through bone barren patches of life and land. It is also a smile through the floods of fulfillment. It has painted faces of the familiar, reflections of the obscure, it is entirely a secret but it has been through the hands of everyone I have met.

The pictures I draw outline the life around me. A cursive creation submerged in my passion. It notes my attractions, my defeats, my victories, and happenings. A little black string keeps the ends closed, safe from flinging open into naked view, helplessly into the hands of those in silence. The pages thicken with every sheet penned in blue and black ink. It is a parenthesis of poems and prose, the book never closed on the infinite subjects that arise in day to day life. It is my light and my darkness, it faces the difficult just as it approaches life in all its harmony.

The coarse edges around existence are noted and the soft, spoken for. The pages are turned until there are no more lines to continue, until my book is full of inklings and thinking. One by one, from start to finish, the flow of words streams through my sketchbook until it may hold no more sentences, no more observations and it is replaced by the sponge of a newer black book. It will open again when I wish to sift through the river of my thoughts and I wish to swim through from one end to the other, in hopes of understanding this journey through words.

The Bus Stop

It was the most beautiful bus stop in the world
And all knew except the few
Who stood at the bus stop
Together in the world’s view

Some were green about this bus stop so true
Some were blue
For they could not be a part of this bus stop with you

I saw you stand
at the bus stop without plan
You could not see me when I waved my hand
So I watched you from afar
at the best bus stop
by far
in all the land

A Little Library

I stumble upon a scene fit for voracious readers and friends of literature. Walking through the student village, a spotless glass pane showcases a world of books to those passing through the little lane. An overcast skyline brings a spring season of snow and chills onto the large window. The roads are covered in ice, the frost still clinging to the roadside. The room, however, is warm and scattered with an abundance of books. I sit upon a small couch intended for students and others who wish to immerse with words. There are papers, articles, and magazines lining the tables and shelves within the small room. Stacks of books outline the little library, sitting thick through the middle of the room and forming great walls of literature.

The endless content of these books is filled in different languages. Finnish, French, and German words are etched across the spines of the hardcovers and paperbacks poking through the shelves. There are more books than space allows with literature spilling onto the old wooden chairs and tabletops. There are hundreds of places and plots to explore within the worlds of this room. The older books with yellowing paper hold together despite the years and hands that have passed over their delicate pages. The books, organized gently by genre, invite readers to fall into the couches. The study room begs a second look from passing bookworms, casting invites upon those wishing reflection and relaxation into their busy souls, to come in from the cold and spend a few minutes away from the outside world.