W.B. Yeats

welcome old friend,

come in from the cold

and rest awhile,

I recognize your voice,

it is one I have heard

many times before,

the accent was a little different then,

from what it is now,

but still, it is the same;

we have talked often,

you and I,

during that soft

and painful transition,

as I tried to hold on

to the dark and dying night,

and you patiently waited

for the pale morning dawn,

tell me old friend,

have you found that precious

light of a new day,

for which you waited

and searched

for so long?

ah well;

nor could I

hang onto the darkness,

but what difference does it make?

it is in the trying

that matters most,

you and I,

were never born

to live in the black

or the white;

it is the cracks in between

where we belong.

.

.

O Eire

O Eire,

who could taste your sweetness,

and not cry out for more,

who could stand upon your cliff tops,

or walk the banks of the river Shannon,

and not feel your mystic magic;

your hills breathe with life,

so young and fresh,

but with a wisdom

so ancient and old;

O Eire,

even the mightiest invader

is overwhelmed,

by the power of your land,

as they succumb not to

your sword,

but to your spirit,

you take not their lives,

rather, you take their souls,

making them prisoners to that,

which they had come

to imprison;

O Eire

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Dog Shit and Other Saturday Morning Rituals

in the morning, we awake to

dog shit on the kitchen floor,

Cody, our family dog, is getting old,

he can no longer control his bowels,

this is not the first time;

“That dog has got to go!!” cries my wife;

I suppose she’ll want to get rid of me too,

when I start shitting on the kitchen floor;

upstairs, my grandson watches

Saturday morning cartoons,

Hercules, or some other super hero, I think,

when it is over he and I will go to McDonalds

for out ritual hotcakes and sausage,

he usually eats all the sausage, and

about a quarter of the hotcakes,

I eat the rest,

I think that is my role in life now,

to finish eating what he cannot,

someday he will grow up and eat

everything on his plate;

I suppose I will starve to death then;

elsewhere, my 15 year old

comes bursting through the kitchen door,

fresh from spending the night

at her best friend’s house;

“Watch the dog shit!” I cry out,

“Ooooooh! Gross!” she replies,

then bounds up the stairs to her room,

where she will sleep most of the day,

after being up all night,

talking to boys on the phone;

she thinks I don’t know about

these things;

meanwhile, I get out the paper towels

and Lysol,

to clean up Cody’s shit,

who looks at me with deeply

apologetic eyes;

“It’s ok” I tell him,

“we’re all getting old.”

.

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In The End

Jesus looked directly at them and asked, “Then what is the meaning of that which is written: ‘The stone the builders rejected has become the capstone’? Everyone who falls on that stone will be broken to pieces, but he on whom it falls will be crushed.”  Luke 20:17-18

“What good is it for a man to gain the whole world, yet forfeit his soul? Or what can a man give in exchange for his soul?”   Mark 8:36-37

Overhearing what they said, Jesus told him, “Don’t be afraid; just believe.”   Mark 5:36

when I was 18,

I was the real deal,

the high school, jock, superstar,

the golden boy

with the golden touch,

class president,

everything to everyone;

it was an image,

I spent most of my adolescent years

perfecting;

I could have married the hometown girl,

bought a house in my parents neighborhood,

spent the next 30 or 40 years making

a comfortable living,

gathering after work at the local bar

with all the other hometown boys,

living off old press clippings

and exaggerated sexual conquests,

collecting interest on Friday night touchdowns

and Saturday morning hangovers,

instead I did everything I could

to kill who and what I was;

I wandered,

I searched,

I smoked,

I drank,

I snorted,

I embarrassed,

I lied,

I deceived;

I failed;

I burned every bridge,

I slept with whores,

I broke man-made laws

and spiritual taboos,

I sinned against man,

I sinned against God;

I did everything possible

to commit personality suicide;

but in the end,

I was still here,

stuck in the same skin,

unable to escape,

unable to change,

unable to be anything

but what I was,

trapped by the truth

living inside;

in the end,

I became exactly

what I was destined to be,

and You were still there;

knocking,

watching,

waiting;

in the end,

You put Your arms around me,

quietly whispering:

“Don’t be afraid, just believe”;

forgiving the suffering,

forgiving the humiliation,

forgiving the beatings,

forgiving the pain,

forgiving the isolation,

forgiving the torture,

endured by You,

for the evil committed by me;

in the end,

You forgave the sins

of a world not worthy

to kiss the dust beneath

Your feet;

in the end,

You shined Your light before me,

and my eyes were blind no more;

in the end,

I will stand before the throne

of Your glory,

and the joy shall be

forever.

.

.

Blessed

When I look up and see the green mountain tops, I am home. When I cross the James River, and look down on its mighty flowing waters, I am home. When I feel the cool breeze blowing across the valley floor, I am home. And when I realize that this is only a taste of the home to come, merely a shadow of that which You have prepared for those who love You, I am left humbled beyond words or comprehension. Thank you Lord.

You have blessed me

beyond all that my mind

can comprehend,

You have led me through

traps and snares I could not see,

bringing me to perfect places

I never knew existed;

to You do I owe

all that I have to give;

Your mystery is unfathomable,

Your glory beyond mere words,

You stretch out Your hand

and all creation is silenced,

You speak and Your word

becomes reality,

the Holy King of the universe,

the Lord of all there is,

the Great I Am,

Ruler of Heaven and Earth,

my God,

my Everything;

let me praise You

forever.

.

.

for the best

perhaps it is for the best,

that I never knew you,

you never knew me;

I would like to think your

life has been better as a result;

I can only hope that

you are happy,

that your life has been full,

that you've grown up

to be a good man,

a good father;

this is the only gift

I can give to you;

we shall meet one day,

in another time,

another place,

I will know your face,

you will know mine;

I will be waiting.

.

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Choke On It

I was working the graveyard, and sleep

just wasn't happening,

so I turned off the television,

started reading Bukowski,

it didn't take long to be reminded,

that this world, this life,

this moment, is much bigger

than who we think we are,

that it goes on, with or without us,

he’s taught me many such lessons,

but they never seem to sink in,

so every now and then,

I have to pick him back up,

for a good kick in the ass,

then climb down from whatever pedestal

I’m standing on at the time,

forget about what is politically and

grammatically correct,

and just say to hell with it all,

because none of it really matters,

and I couldn't change it,

even if it did;

whenever I talk to a self-proclaimed ‘poet’,

I always ask what they think of Bukowski,

ninety percent of them say they never heard of him,

which always tells me a lot,

they always look at me with disbelief,

when I tell them he is the most read poet

in the twentieth century,

with more published books than any other poet,

living or dead,

I don’t expect them to be passionate,

or even like his work,

but I would at least think

if they are going to call themselves ‘poets’,

they would at least have heard

of his name,

but then ninety percent of them

aren't really ‘poets’, (are they);

to them, poetry is about sweet sounding words,

which roll around in your mouth like marbles,

until you either have to spit them out,

or choke to death.

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