pearl necklaces

new roads lie ahead,

old roads fade into the past,

nothing as it seems,

nothing made to last,

I could use these words to write

about a forgotten memory,

I could cry these tears

over what had to be;

Christmas and pearl necklaces

were never enough no matter

how many shots went down,

in the end she was just a touch too far,

just beyond the reach

of silent schoolboy fantasies

hidden within small, sleepy little towns,

still she hesitated for a moment

before heading out the door;

is this then it?

the moment you have waited for

all your life?

we are all living on borrowed time,

some more than others;

I awoke last night,

it was a little past three,

that is the time when it

usually kicks in;

the fear;

when everything is quiet

and you can almost taste it,

that is when I hear His voice best,

and He comforts me

as He always does;

“don’t be afraid,

just believe.”

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.

One Sheep

Then Jesus told them this parable: “Suppose one of you has a hundred sheep and loses one of them. Doesn’t he leave the ninety-nine in the open country and go after the lost sheep until he finds it? And when he finds it, he joyfully puts it on his shoulders and goes home. Then he calls his friends and neighbors together and says, ‘Rejoice with me; I have found my lost sheep.’ I tell you that in the same way there will be more rejoicing in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who do not need to repent.  Luke 15:3-7

walking along this ocean shore,

sound of crashing waves,

cool breeze blowing in my face;

we are all living on borrowed time;

no matter how hard we work,

no matter how much effort we put forth,

it is never quite good enough,

never quite hard enough,

none of us has what it takes,

none of us can pay the cost,

we are all faking it,

we are all alienated,

we have all fallen short,

we are all without defense,

we all deserve the punishment

of liars and cheats,

murderers and rapists,

swindlers and thieves;

we are all guilty;

inside we are running from the truth,

not concerned with right or wrong

only the opinion of others,

how others see our efforts and toils,

how others judge our actions and decisions,

deluding and deceiving ourselves,

thinking we can measure success by

money and wealth,

patting ourselves on the back,

holding up self-made scorecards;

look at me;

I made the right decisions,

I am successful,

I deserve respect,

I have earned the right to retire

and spend all day walking the beach;

I am somebody;

when in reality we are all nobody

without the sacrifice of the One

who suffered and died to let us know

that we do matter,

that we were worth the torture and pain,

that in heaven there is more rejoicing over

one sinner who repents,

than over ninety nine righteous persons

who do not need to.

.

.

Borrowed Time

with a sigh you let it go

once and for all,

throwing open the massive locked gates,

allowing entry and exit without charge,

a free concert for all

with no hope for tomorrow

or the day after;

what else is there?

what more could be left?

squeezing out every little drop,

making more with less,

spreading around the harvest

like butter on a hot piece of toast,

filling every nook,

saturating every cranny,

choking on the excess,

swallowing the vile;

settling for leftovers;

all the warm moments,

all the fond memories,

nothing but dust,

here today,

gone tomorrow;

wasted space,

useless information,

yesterday’s news,

I need a new identity,

new goals,

different reasons,

loftier aspirations,

a new home;

winter approaches,

when you’re young

you see things through

different eyes,

you see the world

in terms of possibilities

not finalities and dead end streets,

you assume the best

without looking for the worst,

you still have hope;

now you sit around waiting for the

check to come in the mail,

the roller coaster ride almost finished,

the thrills almost gone,

just one more left;

it will come soon enough;

you wonder if you’ll ever stop

being afraid again,

but you know you will

there is One so much greater,

calming your fears,

soothing your pain;

America you have nothing,

all your big trucks and fancy cars,

all your 500k homes,

paid for with blood and

borrowed time;

nothing;

in the end they will rust and

crumble into the ground,

they are nothing

without the LORD.

.

.

Guidos On The Boardwalk

insomnia at the beach,

what a dangerous combination,

it all comes to an end;

vacations,

dreams,

youth,

life;

in the morning

old lovers walk the beach

holding hands

as young yuppies

ride bikes on the boardwalk,

jogging or walking very fast,

the important thing is to look like

you’re going somewhere;

you can tell the Guido yuppies,

pulling their Guido kids in carts

behind their Guido bikes,

whizzing by at 50 mph,

straight ahead,

making everyone else

watch out for them;

just a little house,

a boardwalk

and an ocean;

is that asking for

too much?

.

.

Dangerous Combinations

cold rainy Monday afternoons,

thick rich dark glasses of Guinness,

Stevie Ray Vaughn on the jukebox and

attractive, strong-willed, red-headed

Irish women named Susan,

make for dangerous combinations

so far from home,

leaving a sickly sweet sensation

deep within the darkness

of the soul,

like when I was a child,

stealing forbidden cookies

from the kitchen cupboard;

wishing

it would never end;

but soon

it will all be part

of the never ending ocean

of old memories and

forgotten stories

that could have been,

that should have been,

but were not

and never were;

I always was

a pushover

for attractive

strong-willed

red-headed

Irish women.

.

.

Only the Wind Remains

your beauty fades,

the darkness of night

does approach,

there is no truth left,

no more hope before

the dawn,

this moment of ordinary

clarity disappears,

chance encounters inside

realms of creative laughter,

another answer,

another possibility;

only the wind remains;

words flow like delicate swans,

wrapping themselves in

royal robes of comfort

deep within the sound of

your breath,

soft and secure,

speaking unknown mysteries and

telling tales of untold valor,

staggering like drunken sailors on

maiden voyages,

weaving inside blurred lines

of forgotten innocence,

lost upon midnight dreams,

unable to grasp even the

fundamentals;

the window is closing;

the time almost here,

the silence roars without a sound,

the hour upon which it

stands grows near;

only the wind remains.

.

.

nothing can ever be the same

the rain comes at last,

the storm has been brewing

for days,

for weeks,

for months,

for years;

for a lifetime;

changes come like lightning,

new creatures, emerging

from under the spotlight of

iniquity and anonymity,

the metamorphosis complete,

the way back,

closed forever,

the way ahead;

lost in the melodrama;

down in these sewer pits,

drunken monkeys rant and rave,

rampaging through the

dark, eternal night,

precious time lost

valuable energy spent;

gone forever;

words?

Rimbaud had words,

Morrison had words,

Bukowski had words,

I have words;

I have no need for theirs;

I observe them like a disease,

just a glance here,

a taste there,

carefully preventing infection,

swallowing the antidote,

puking up the symptoms;

now,

nothing can ever be the same.

.

.