When The Well Runs Dry

The well of creation
is a fickle pool
from which to gain sustenance.

Running dry when you
need it the most.
Overflowing at the most
inopportune times.

Gurgling with choking mud
when a clear drink would
quell the thirst hanging
on parched lips.

Cool and pure when the lips
refuse to open to
receive the gifts it offers.

As the well runs dry,
sharpen your ax and knock
the rust from your shovel.

Dig into the rock of
the obscure art of living,
mining the hard, but sparkling
gemstones of experience

until the well of creation
begins to flow again
with the pure waters
of innocence.


Nothing Shall Harm Them

Sweat and the electric beat
of drum and brittle guitar

as the sway of the faithful
moves to the words of an
unknown tongue.

Spoken with fire, spoken with
urgency, spoken by the flame-
kissed lips of an unknown

angel descending upon the
unworthy soul of an ecstatic
believer. The words move

and take hold in the center
as the eyes go white and the

tempo increases to match the beat
of the rising prayer going
up to G-D as the spirit of G-D

descends upon the people,
moving them to do the Will
and be unafraid.

The faithful raise their fear
unto the LORD and by the taking
up of every serpent,

prove their faith,
showing themselves to be unafraid
before the devil,

filled with the Holy Spirit
in the prescence of G-D Almighty.

Nothing shall poison them,
no unholy spirit shall harm them
as they take into their arms

that which they fear and
by the Spirt have overcome.


They walked for miles to the
creekside where they lay
their heads upon the bank,

a line of worshippers, too
tired to go any farther,
resting in the heart of
the sacred ground

where their impure souls
would be cleansed of their

The creekside raised itself
to meet the people in their
reverie, the land touching

the flesh of pink faces
in an embrace of innocence.

The water wrapped itself
in and out of the masses
in serpentine undulations,

a fearful and merciful,
unnaturally beautiful
spinning of earth to spirit

and breath to flesh.
Singing in their weary voice,
the masses make their

words heard. Singing in
their sorrow and sin and
waiting to be washed,

to be made new, to become
creatures of God, creatures
of eternity and animals of light.

The creek wrapped itself
around the congregation,
its waters like fire, dripping

pieces of salvation. The
masses gathered before the fire
and from their place of

bent knee and heads bowed
in worship and exhaustion,
their eyes looked up.

Nine Years A Baker

For nine years
I’ve kneaded dough
and pressed discs
of frozen cookie batter
onto paper-lined
stainless steel pans.

Those pans are
battered with use
and stained with fire,
seasoned by years.

For nine years, I’ve
walked miles in the circle
of the kitchen,
from hot to cold,
hot to cold,

oven to freezer,
oven to freezer,

worried about deadlines,
meal plans, paychecks,
home and work,
home and work.

For nine years, I’ve
wondered if this is
the right thing to do,

the right line of work
for me, the right line
of life for me.

For nine years, I’ve walked
miles in this kitchen,
and there will be more miles,
more cookies, more dough,
more doubts and more
fulfillment in each step.

But now I need to get
back to work.

Wayward On The Straight Path

Pardon me, but do you know
the way to Oblivion?
I’ve walked for years but
the land I seek seems to
only grow further from my grasp.
Could you point me in the
right direction? Or make for me
a signpost which can guide my way?
I’ve seen no one else along this
road and the long day is
beginning to dim.

Who are you, tall man in shade?
You cast no shadow in this
evening light. Your hands are
unseen beneath your cloak
and your feet tread so lightly
they cannot be heard.

Where do you come from?
Where are you going?
You seem so still, yet you
are moving. Should I match
your steps or stay two steps
behind? Could you help me
find my way to my destination?

Silent figure, I beg of you,
if you know the way to
Oblivion, where I am beckoned
by the call of new shores,
new colors, new thoughts, new
faces, make just a gesture
to guide my foolish steps.

And, if I may ask, would you
walk with me a little,
for I fear the road is longer
than I ever imagined.

Let Me Dance

Let me drink from
the rivers of the dead
and breathe new life into
the murky veins of
the earth.

Let me dance in the
boneyards with skeleton
shapes, shedding the skin
that holds in my fear.

Let me sing in the
lofts of every living chapel,
in belltowers that expand
with each breath they take.

In a symphony of death, a
metered plague of cause-
and-effect, let me dance
in the fires of destruction
and rise to dance again.