Monthly Archives: April 2017

Near To Me

Mercy Lee is sitting in front of her highschool, in the green and manicured
lawn, eating her lunch. She brushes stray strands of her long, auburn hair
from her face as she takes a bite from her sandwich. There she is; real,
alive, and near to me.

I walk across the parking lot. This is as close as I could get. So little
time to save her. I feel my heart thumping in my ears. My throat is tight.
Have I come soon enough?

I make it to the little courtyard in front of the school where Mercy sits.
She has stopped eating her sandwhich, and is looking up at me. She smiles.
Those pictures never showed how beautiful she is, here and now.

“Hello.” Mercy says. She places her sandwhich down on her lunch bag. She
offers her hand. For a moment I just look down at her. I’ve finally made it
to her. I take her hand.

“My name’s Mercy.” She says. “How are you?”
I don’t reply. I just pull her to her feet.
I hear doors slam out in the parking lot. The two gunmen are walking our
way, laughing. So little time left.

“They’re here Mercy. We must go.” I tell her. I try to pull her towards the
soccer field, to safety. The gunmen never went there on this day. She’ll
live if she follows me.

“What’s going on.” Mercy asks, refusing to follow. I turn to her, look into
her gentle eyes.
“Those two students, Rick and Joe, are going to attack the commons area and
kill as many people as they can. I must get you too safety.
“No.” Is all she says.

She pulls her arm free of my hand. She runs across the courtyard, to the
front doors. Rick and Joe are, maybe, fifty feet away. I run after her.

Mercy makes it to the doors. I’m too far behind. I cannot catch her.

“Everyone! Run! Someone’s coming to hurt you!” I hear her shout. She’s
standing in the door, holding it open. I’m almost to her. I’m stretching out
my arm. I few students turn to look at her.

A loud shot rings in my ear. Another one. Mercy‘s body writhes, then falls
to the ground. Rick and Joe are laughing. The students turn to see where
Mercy has fallen, sees the others with their guns. Everyone starts to run.

I slam my body into Rick, knocking him to the ground. He hits the cement
sidewalk, yells a swear. I try to wrestle away his gun.

Joe kicks me in the back of the head, and pulls me away off of Rick. He
holds the gun on me while I lay helpless on the ground. He smiles like a
viper. Then he fires.

Rick and Joe enter the school. I crawl over to Mercy, leaving a trail of
blood like a wounded slug. She is already gone. I could not save her.

Breathing Ghost

Mach 1 Mustang up the two lane highway, heading north.
Holding on to the hope of her at my side for all it’s worth.
New England is golden and bleeding red in Autumn,
the bleeding out of the green as the leaves fall in the rain.
How much farther can I go before all the hope is lost.

The sun is dim and a watered down golden hue.
The cold is in the air, biting my skin, when I sleep
on the side of the highway, my jacket thin and useless.
I’ll lose fuel before Rochester I know, wear down my shoes.
Will she be there when I come walking in like a living ghost?

It’s all spread into darkness and loss and a loss at what to do.
She was in Rochester when the lights when out and hope faded.
Is she still there? I push the car harder and harder to New York.
I’ve got to find her again, I’ve got to have her at my side in Winter.
I’m walking dead, a breathing ghost, if she’s not there, waiting for me.

To A Far Better Shore

An angel was seen in the area, pale and bright and golden.
> Not
to the strings pulling the bloodshed was she beholden.
> She carried
a man in her arms, who had been lost in the war.
> She carried him out of this world,
to a far better shore.
> So many bodies, so much blood, so many hearts will be broken.
> But it never ends, never changes,
all the same old curses spoken.
> The
angel walked, silently weeping tears bright as the midday sun,
along an shattered street, children, mother to be, all under the gun.
> The mother
to be feels her child stir, tearful as the angel passes
> silent.
> She wonders will it be
a boy or girl, love or hate, victim or one of
> the violent?
> She wonders will it know peace, will it know war, will it be
> cherished, or
tossed away?
> Will it be sheltered from this dead end world, will their be
an ear to
> hear it pray?
> The children watch the
angel pass, torn up by her weeping, and why it
all means.
> They counted flowers once,
and heard that angel’s happy voice, a host
and queen.
> Is that man
almost fortunate, for he is been taken home, to that happy
and eternal place.
> Is that man
almost better off, for he can hurt nor bleed anymore,
> despite terror on his face.
And the angel walks up the stairs to the clouds and to a hole in the
> sun, disappears.
> What damnable tenderness, what cruel devotion,
to see what can be in
> these tears.
And the silence fades and the bombs and gunfire roars, but the spell
> still lingers on.
> Will there be
a happy and eternal place for us, when death comes, the
> gun is drawn?

Walled Garden

A crack in the tenement wall

I would disappear through,

come to this walled in garden

and play all day with you.

So many games and adventures to play

down by the cool waters.

Sitting hand in hand with you,

one of the Tsar’s many daughters.

The sun was honey in your hair

and the glimmer in your eye.

With you all was well,

I never had any need to cry.

As the sun fell I’d kiss your cheek

and go back through the wall

to the angry words and harsh things,

the corruption that held that life in thrall.

But I’d always return to you again,

and we grew as angels in the light.

Without a thought we’d nap in the sun,

as I held you so close and tight.

Yet even in our walled garden time did pass

and soldier’s of red did come.

Forced to know of the forbidden tree we were

by their cruelty’s bitter sum.

But I held close to you, I stayed near,

as the rifles were fired.

For being with you in the garden

had been all I ever desired.


Athens, but not the one my goddess gave,

and there’s no wisdom in going back there,
sweet, wild summers are lost, even to the young.
I knew the river, the muddy waters, overgrown banks.
She was an Atlantean queen on her rock, sunning,
demanding my tribute of devotion.
Thick woods as green as the queen’s eyes.
The mouth to hell called and called.
I didn’t go until she was lost to the moon.
Underwater, we were weightless and open to angels.
Murky depths called up Lucifer’s Mermaid Court.
A pact that gave me my first kiss.
Athens on the hill, the light lost in daylight,
the magic sold out and returned to sender.
I can only reclaim innocence when I’m a victim.

Reply all

Angel On The Edge of Breath

Angel on the edge of breath,
in the morning fog,
in the misty rain on my skin.

The things that burn in fear
burn your photographs to ashes.
I’ve forgotten your hand in mine.

A gun to point, inward or outward,
is just a dragons tooth tearing skin.
But I don’t know how love can win.

The world it is burning, without end.
You blow on an ember of lighted star.
Let it lead us to peace, to an end.

Atlantis, Lemuria, First Love, Still Exists In Dreams

The forest by the lake, thick and lush, with kalediscope gold of sunlight.

The cool wind and cold mornings, even in Eden, I hold myself tight.

I sit by the fire at night, dreaming of her song, before I go to sleep.

In my tent, through the top, my dreams go to the depths as stars creep.

In the cold morning, the wind trying to push me back into hiding in the trees,

her song comes up, her head and shoulders above the water, putting me at ease.

Her jet black hair, and candy apple red irises, and pale, moonlight glowing skin

is the siren dream of the day of bittersweet innocence, as my hope grows so thin.

I get into the water with her, and we make a world in the depths of this hidden lake,

and in a loss filled wonder, and in a tender wakefulness, in momentary paradise we partake.

The castles of Atlantis, The wonders of Lemuria, the white sand footsteps of a first love,

we are king and queen, the angels of lost kingdoms, the velvet with out the fist or glove.

And as the stars come up, we float on the water, hand in hand, maybe her tail splashes me,

playfully, and we are on the earth but we can touch the stars, and a kiss will make us light, fitfully.

A whole day with her, without the blood roaring in my ears, or The Devil pulling me under the earth.

She is the bloodshed of dreams and the wholesomeness or a naïve desire, and the dream of birth.

She kisses me, one last time, as I go back to my tent, hanging to our day together, a radiating lightness.

I sit by the fire, and see her bright and raging eyes in the flicks and cracks of flame, in that shifting brightness.

And as I slip away to sleep in my tent, watching the stars pass onwards, the ghosts of life lost but that lingers,

I know I have to go back to the waking world, The Devil’s kingdom, but I will be brave, her smile is in angelic singers.

Walking Home To Cambridge

Walking home to Cambridge, leaving London, leaving the lights,

those shining places, that thunderous sound, those lovely young girls.

I saw the face in a shadow and it walks with me as I’m going home again,

but home is not the place for me now; only my mind holds any dream for me.


The leaves are golden and yellow and bright, bright red, the sky a soft blue.

I dream of Emily dancing in the grass. A song playing seemed like it told everything

as she turned to me and smiled, long chestnut locks falling over her wicked eyes.

I dream of making love under stars, her softness and warmth, not that she left me behind.


The road is endless, and even when I’m back in my Cambridge home, it will travel on.

The road doesn’t end at the door, or in my bed. There’s not a woman wailing for me with

welcoming arms and a kiss on my grizzled cheek. Not a woman here to wipe away my tears.

I’m traveling down that road even standing still, with the shadows and demons picking skin.


In my old room, with that plastic rocket ship and tattered poster of Marilyn Monroe ,

the records grown dusty, the bed weighed down by the universe and the scoured mind.

I hope in dreams I can catch Emily’s hand again, and call her down like an angel of devouring.

Dreams, the only place to run, the only refuge in a blacked out mind. Count the cost of desire.

Rachel, Can You Hear Me?

It’s a cool afternoon in a Colorado spring,
Green and lush and blue into the sky.
The snow is gone for the summer,
and life begins again beneath a butterscotch sun.
I saw your grave, the marker of your life and death,
and I remembered, I remembered how your spirit
led me to The Lord and to a better world out of shadows,
to a Light that made we clean and whole again.
But the Light has gone dark, the butterscotch sun
soured into vinegar, and I see the blood on Jesus’ hands
is not solely his own, and I’ve seen him sold out for
silver and power, and a sneer on the lost in the gutter.
I try to be loving and giving and forgiving like you,
but faith slips away from me, as God is silent in his undoing,
in the tears of those left out, left behind, and cursed to night.
In those that wonder how the Light burns the world.
Rachel, can you hear me? Can Jesus or anyone else hear me?
I need bravery and faith to fight these demons and their kin,
those who wash away the world with the blood that saved them,
that stamp on the cross while kneeling before it.
Rachel can you hear me? Can I feel the heart again that led me
to Heaven and the hope of peace after the madness burns me,
that showed the world with the Light behind it, bright and warm?
Can I feel close to the way you showed, when you spirit took my hand?
Rachel can you hear me?
For Rachel Joy Scott

Butterscotch and Wine

The flames of the stake perhaps do not purify,
but they do release, from flesh even as strong as hers,
and the weight of snow and days and years and sleep,
and the cruelty that comes down so thoughtlessly.
When she was a girl, just a moment ago, but another life,
she danced hand in hand in circles with the other girls
around The Fairy Tree, in the woods with Edenesque light,
free for a time, to laugh and dream of trifling things.
Free to climb it’s height where she could hold the sun
in the palm of her hand, and kiss the beams of light
that were butterscotch and wine, that soothed her
as she saw her nation burn, just down the road, just out of sight.
She kneeled once at it’s roots, the tree between heaven
and older realms and Eden and the waking world, loss and warmth,
God wrapped in the silver blade pulled from a Pagan breast,
and she felt the warmth of a better sun, as her angels came.
And no more trifles, now more play in the height of the tree,
though a better sun shown ever on her face, that she could not
hold in her hand, or taste it’s sweetened beams, but knew it’s grace,
as she went of to war, shorn of pride, but brighter than all the stars.
As she slept, among her soldiers, course and holy men, brave and tired,
she dreamed of The Fairy Tree, which was another tree in Eden,
that we did not choose to eat from, but just the one that showed our nakedness,
but not the life that could come from a better sun, held only in God’s hand.
And as the end came, on that stake, on that hungry and devilish fire,
her work done but her place among loved and trusted ones taken,
placed among vipers that speak in holy write and sacred scripture,
who bleed out the true and pure with the edges of words of love.
The Dove emerged from her heart that stayed whole and true and red,
and her soul with it to the sky, to the clouds all the way to that better sun,
to it’s light everlasting and all the weight of war and death and blood
were washed by blood, and she was free again, free and a child, free
And again she was at the roots of The Fairy Tree, The Tree of Life,
the better sun bright through it’s branches, and faith given over to warmth,
know that she was home, and the fruit was given and received, precious communion,
and in Eden played and wandered, and no more weight was on her forevermore.
She was a child. She was free. She was eternal. She was unashamed.