softly, we sing our songs

in harmony with the silence

that gives us form


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.

Something Old, Something Dark


I dream my dreams
and I wish and hope. . .

These are the ingredients,
I am told,
for success.

I, myself,
add something else,
another step,

much older
than the dreams
we dream,

one much older
than attaining
our desires:

I sing the song
of fear and nightmares.

Those things of darkness
we all must face,

those demons and devils
we all must conquer,
we all must overcome. . .

and are so often ignored.

I sing the song
of confronting the devil.

But ignore the dark
and it will grow.
Deny it, not, or it will scream
for release

and breathe in
the life you so desire

in the pleasantness of the dreaming

and breathe out
the refuse it
no longer needs

when it
has had
its succor.