For One To Whom This Should Not Be…

For one to whom this should not be for you

were meant to love me.

But, so confused, you thought me you

and misread my heart as yours.

But in my heart love was there

even as you cast blame for all your hurt and pain

upon the one who was always true.


Together, we journeyed-across oceans, through time.

We stood upon a thousand shores and gazed upon a thousand reflections

until land and pool, person and image blurred into your vision

of a dark world of black waters and jagged rocks.


In your vessel we voyaged to fantastic lands

of whispers and gods and monsters and secrets


I left you for a fortunate isle.

I left you to journey alone

into your will

into your darkness

into your end.


I think I will whisper truth, truth, truth into the wind.

Perhaps a gull will carry my message and perch herself upon your ship’s mast

and whisper





When you reach your end, will you know?

Know the truth.

It is my hope-not for vengeance but for justice that only the truth can yield.

Winter’s Son

You came from a place of warmth and light

and found me on that cold winter night.

I held you in a mother’s embrace.

Of what was to come, there was no trace.


You came so full of contradictions

now ruled by human jurisdiction,

and thrust upon life’s sacred altar.

Her powerful swell makes you falter.


Lumbering through balmy days of woe

except when moving through the deep snow

where you dance through the drifts with delight,

your heavy body suddenly light.


Senses so different than the rest

some have proposed that you have been blessed

to cross the tundra with your bare feet

and walk desert sands in scorching heat.


I don’t know.

I just don’t know.

Can you tell me?

Can you share

just a bit of what we cannot hear?

Of what you see fit for our ears?


Can you make sense of it in some way?

Can you work it out while other children play?

Or can you not share what you know

of what makes others despair?


But not you little one.

You do not despair.

You walk on icicles

through winter’s harsh glare

and feel it all,

the heat and the cold.

You feel it all

as it all unfolds.

And you hold out your hand.


Chubby fingers meant to do man’s work.

A burdened boy whose free spirit lurks

awaiting release from confinement

to relish his earthly assignment

with the wonder and joy of a little boy.