Texas Sundown

Coral fingers tickle blue, gone purple.
Moments flee; the fingers pale, then retire.
Vast power fading, intense light heightens
The hues of dusk, grasping for lost moments
Of the day.  No beauty is held in time.

Source of Inspiration for Texas Sundown
I try most evenings to slow down to enjoy a gift from our Creator.  Sundown, the daily, one-of-a-kind display of power and color never cease to awe and amaze me.  When asked once how I came up with the color palette for my Florida home of corals and purples, I admitted that it was not an original concept rather an inspiration from the “ultimate decorator”.  
Texas Sundown was published in The Best Poems and Poets of 2004.

A Fisherman’s Affair

The saucy sun shimmied and danced on the sea,
Glistened, and teased, and beckoned to me.
Come, my friend, you know you want more.
You’ll not sate desire if you stand on the shore.

The Lady, the sea, sent her winds after me,
Haunting and howling her endless plea.
Come play with me and I’ll grant your wish.
I’ll calm the waters; the trade winds I’ll hush.

You know what I want, Lass, there’s no need to wish,
To go several rounds with a great fighting fish.
Strapped to the chair, feet planted in the stirrups,
We’ll wrestle past hours ‘til one of us gives up.

No sooner the thought gushed from my mind
Than a great fish jumped up and ran with my line!
A fighter he was, indeed he was fierce.
We fought ’til my muscles, taut, brought me to tears.

A victory I sport o’er this denizen of the deep,
And my Lady once more entices me to keep
Our rendezvous in this paradise of blue
To dance in the sun while the wind moans and coos.

The Ship with No Sea

A void, a vacuum, a ship with no sea
Imprisoned in a bottle, no future there be.
Black visions, gray memories of horrors untold,
Awaken, shackled to a floor damp and cold.

Tossed and churned on this ship with no sea.
No escape from the bottle, no air to breathe.
In my head waves crashing. The storm won’t subside.
No beacon of hope.  No where to hide.

No hope for return on this ship with no sea.
Tormented, anguished, down on one knee,
Cry to the Father,” Oh Lord, Help me! Please!!
Escape from the bottle and this ship with no sea!”

My God, my ship!  Now sails on the sea!
Free from the bottle! God lifted me!
The white foam, blue water, a new course I steer
With God as my Captain, my ship will not veer.

My ship now sails on this blue water sea,
The ship’s log, the Bible, the Father and me,
Storms will blow, and batter my sails,
But with God’s love and blessing, my life will not fail!

Source of Inspiration for The Ship With No Sea
Tim, an alcoholic for 20 years, regained consciousness on the floor of the county jail.  He thought he had lost it all – family, home, job.  But he struggled to his knees and begged God to “take this alcoholism away from me”.  From that moment, God lifted Tim’s ship from the bottle and set him on a sober course.
The Ship With No Sea was published in Poetry’s Elite, The Best Poets of 2000.

Good Friday – A Tenebrae Service

Tenebrae, the darkening, cloaked the earth.
The Spirit wailed from the horns, heralding
The agony of the Christ.
Human cries begot a host of angel choruses.

The Crucifixus crescendoed.
Grey clouds, angry vile cumulus boiled, rolled and roared,
Fervent fury for the sins of all men.
His last breath, surrender to grateful death.

Christ’s ascension, melodious, light and free.
Celestial music, soft, adagio,
A wash of mercy and peace – sweet, sweet peace.
Cherubic words affirm hope through His love:

“Jesus loves me this I know,
For the Bible tells me so.”

Source of Inspiration for Good Friday, A Tenebrae Service
Tenebrae, Latin for shadows or the darkening, is an ancient Christian service recreating the emotional aspect of the passion story, usually celebrated on Good Friday.  I attended such a service at Christ Chapel Bible Church in Fort Worth, Texas, 2007 Holy Week.  I was enthralled by the magnitude of the music from the orchestra and the voices of the choir, each one empowered by the heavens to recreate every emotion felt by the people at the foot of the cross.  I penned this poem that night to commemorate this unforgettable event.
Good Friday, A Tenebrae Service, was published in Centres of Expression, Noble House, London, 2007.

Invisible People

Your eyes fall not on mine eyes,
Rather into an oblivious distance.
Thus, I am invisible.
I make no foot prints, no shadow.
I do not exist.
Our world, a lonely world, relationships over waves and wires.
No faces.  No smiles.  No kindness.  No worthiness.
Am I not worthy of your smile, your kind, “Hello”?
Oddly, the only face of Jesus one might see today is
Your face.
Is it a face of love?  Is it a kind smile?  Is it a reassuring acceptance?
You speak volumns with your oblivious demeanor.
Silent words of unacceptance.
The homeless man…Is he not worthy of your smile, your eyes of recognition.
Unless you are willing to live a life walking in the footsteps of the Lord,
You cannot be called a Christian.
Do you want to be a follower?
Give me your eyes of recognition
Your smile of acceptance.
Your words of worthiness.
Your face……….of Jesus.

Night Eyes

As the evening chases the sundown, the night eyes deliberately focus.
The work togs hit the floor, as the dancing shoes waltz out the door.

The Friday night revelers save a table for ten.
With the first round down, the conversation amplifies.
The harried waitress, warily intense, quickly traverses the crowded tables.
Then it’s time again for another round.  Toss a coin.  Who’s buyin’?

The Shapeshifters warm up for the Friday fanfare.
This troupe of eleven animated troubadours ignites the night.
Their music, full, familiar, and euphonic, entices the patrons to dance.
Yet some contented souls just sip and listen, for the music appeases insatiated ears, not just wanton feet.
The bearded vocalist croons favorite tunes; the guitarist, though ingenious, appears whacked!
The flute player’s notes encircle the room luring all ears back to the stage.
The keyboard explodes with two hands mocking ten, as the trombone laughs at the night.

The groupies arrive early to claim the front tier, order their pleasures, anticipating the show.
Two grand size ladies giggle and swoon as the guitarist fires up his hips.
A cowboy, spit-shined, and plainly on the prowl, drinks beer, chewing gum like he’s fanning out a fire.
One young man, drugged out, or truly disturbed, gnaws his fingers to the beat of the drum.
Two lesbians entertain onlookers with their libidinous dance.
It’s the night life, where purple hair and gray coiffures, all delight in the music and gaiety of the night.
But as the dark chases the dawn, the night eyes cease to focus.

The Reunion

Reunion time!  We’ll have to look our best!
We’ll shed some pounds, and buy a flattering frock,
That hides our hips, and lifts our dipping breasts.
Yes, cleavage wasn’t part of physique
In ’66, there wasn’t much to see.

We came from innocence and small town views,
Embraced a world of hope we thought we knew.
But we were destine to rewrite the codes
Of moral standards, long the social guides.
Free love and peace and pot would fix our world
Of bigotry and hate and futile war.

Oh, yes, old friend, we fixed it good! So good
We rue our days.  Our children suffer most.
Single moms with phantom dads, the carnage
Of free love, my friend, that wasn’t free at all.

But we’ll go back and talk old times and skirt
The pain we caused.  We’ll flash the pics of kids
And grands, and analyze our aches and pains.
What fun we’ll have.  I just can’t wait!  Can you?

Source of Inspiration for The Reunion
The Reunion was written to assign responsibility to the “free love” movement for the premature loss of youthful innocence, and the degradation of the sanctity of marriage, a holy union now taken lightly, thus easily voided by the divorce express lane.   The Reunion was published in The International Who’s Who in Poetry, 2004, in which I was sited as one of 4 featured poets and the only American poet.  The other featured poets were from Thailand, Italy, and Greece.  This was an amazing honor!  

The Devil’s Pack

When first you took a drag from cancer’s stick,
Your throat hurt.  Was that not a blatant sign?
So cool.  You wore the badge of societies clique,
Too young to care ’bout lungs or facial lines,
But soon the Devil found your psyche weak,
And cool became addiction and denial.
“Oh, I can quit today!” False words that reek,
And stain the air, destroying youth’s sweet smile.
You’re dying!  And your hair and clothing stink.
Society now says, “Go outside to smoke!”
Outside, alone, you must have time to think.
Your breath’s so weak, you cough until you choke.
What will it take? A coffin lined in black!
You want to live?  —Then toss the Devil’s pack!

All My Soap

Today the world will fall apart.
Tomorrow still the same.
The wicked plot; the good will cry,
For Erica’s to blame!

Bianca, Dear, you’re gay, you say.
You play a dangerous game.
You ruined your life; you killed your love,
But Erica’s to blame!

The lover, Chris, will leave her side,
She’s just to hard to tame.
The web she weaves, with vile deceit,
Yes, Erica’s to blame!

The long, lost child, by rape conceived,
Is back to stake her claim.
Her life was ruined; you gave her up,
And Erica’s to blame!

Today the world will fall apart.
Tomorrow still the same.
The wicked plot; the good will cry,
For Erica’s to blame!