Tag Archives: Love

Fallen Angels

07 Wednesday Jan 2026

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“I have failed morally and spiritually, and I grieve over the devastation” Philip Yancey

Now the walk begins

Hand in hand, alone

With other fallen

Grace is greatest

Here, in the lonely place

Of our true selves,

Shunned by other men

And our only consolation

Creation, as it sings,

Stings, and wrings our souls:

Which way shall I fly?

In the lowest deep, A lower

Deep, in the heart of it

Weakness. Always, weaker

Than we knew

Or, admitted to ourselves

The Geranium

06 Tuesday Jan 2026

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I lit that house up like fire,

With stringed lights,

So that everyone who drove by

Had to look in.

It was a long time ago,

And before it was popular.

Year round lights, as if to say,

What happens here is a delightful mystery.

Once upon a time,

A man bought a house next door.

He was from Portland,

And thought the lights

Would make a good neighbor.

(He told me so later.)

Many years have passed,

And now I’m looking back,

Beneath the lights,

Wondering about the belief

That strung them, tree from tree,

That lit the fire in the chimenea,

And laughed into the late hours

With old neighbors, drawn to light,

Like a lone windowsill geranium

In a colorless city,

Eventually fallen from its perch,

Broken, shattered clay of pot,

Roots reaching for a smattering of air.

Finding the Sun

04 Sunday Jan 2026

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It is a dark night

And fog has settled

As if to say no

To every question

the solitude

of not being able to see

What will happen

Or if you’ll survive

What is about to come

This is the time to remember

Who you are

How you got here

Why you came all this way

Down the broken road

Even if you didn’t know

Life, like the fog

Never seeing too far

Sight is an illusion

One more step

Keep stepping

Eventually, you find sun

I Was Wrong

02 Friday Jan 2026

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I thought she was like me,

The practicer of goodbyes,

The mover on’er

The cutter of moldering ties.

I was wrong.

Had I known how long

She’d still be broken,

Would I have broken, too,

What remaining pieces in me

Were still able to be broken:

Lost shards, tossed about,

On the floor of my soul.

Some things are too hard to see,

They must come slowly,

Like our failure to answer,

Unanswered prayers,

Or to stop the cruel rendering

Of her chronically tender heart.

Day of the Cello

29 Monday Dec 2025

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He drags the bow,

Steady, strong, and slow,

To its freedom.

And in the air, silence.

There are, maybe, one hundred souls

Sitting together in a long quiet

Before the shredding storm of song,

The hairs from some magnificent horse,

Breaking free, too. They linger, they long

To dance, eyes closed,

Raptured to a heaven,

The songs of suffering angels,

The way he sings the cello,

Transformed

To its ways, its sways,

Its dangerous foreboding,

Its celebration,

Its redemption.

—-

Six Months Later:

—-

I still find delight

In the memory of wine, music,

That candlelit night

Under a rumbling train,

Where we released our hopes to soar,

and even our mutual pain, with song;

Captured, for a moment, then gone.

Like fallen angels, we fell,

To a silent night, a silent world,

Perhaps, indistinguishable from hell,

Except in those rare moments.

Introduction

26 Sunday Oct 2025

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What is love,

But an unanswered question?

I do love the way

You listened to that note—

It hung in our mutual air

A moment we shared.

As if a matter of life

And death

Because it was that matter

Which consumed us.

And then gone.

I do love the way

You go

Missing.

——

I know love comes broken,

But it took breaking

To teach me.

——

Perhaps, my first love was longing.

And in that desperate hope

Came everything.

—-

And then there was love.

—

And then there was loneliness.

—

And then there was complete despair.

—

And then there was you.

—

Still breaking me.

Because such intensity can only consume.

Thirst and drink, but the glass is always leaking.

Reach and reach, but the hands seem empty.

—

And then there were your arms.

—

And then there was loneliness.

—

My time is winding down to tell you

About being human.

Such a world!

Born into a desperate flesh

And nascent blood.

Will we learn too late

How precious it was to suffer?

—

I would like to introduce myself:

Even as I mourn myself.

Confessions

27 Friday Jun 2025

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Would you like to hear a secret,

No obfuscation, no vagary,

A secret, that cuts so deep

It wounds you,

It unwinds you,

Because it is you,

But you want to know,

Yes, know,

It is also in me,

That we carry it together,

In shame, and in sorrow, sure–

But let’s be honest,

There is also pride–

I mean,

We have done what we had to do,

You and me,

Have we not,

And what blame is there

In surviving?

Missed Opportunities With Her

05 Friday Jan 2024

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The nows you missed with her are real,

But yesterday and tomorrow are not.

What’s done is done, at least,

In this world. What do you want

To take with you to the other side?

Or, be there waiting for you, beyond time?

Tick, tick, tick, then it stops,

What do we find beyond the ticking?

Everything is a choice, even sitting here

Now, click, click, clicking this poem.

Are all poems messages to the great unknown?

Future me, which does not exist,

Might read one, many years from now,

And wonder if she adequately loved

What was sent to her as a gift to be loved.

The real moments: tick tick and click clicking,

That come, come, come to us–

Then disappear,

Like she has.

Is It Too Soon

16 Wednesday Aug 2023

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To talk of the good things

That came of your leaving?

The way it opened up hearts,

And quieted our breathing?

Perhaps, you were too right

For our wrong little world.

Too bright and shiny,

Too unwrinkled.

She leaves the child behind

Is it too soon to say–

(You killed it) and that’s good, too?

Better to be a woman astray

Than a woman living in a fantasy.

Is it too soon to say

she will be stronger,

More beautiful, without you?

You Probably Wonder

03 Thursday Aug 2023

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If I feel your pain through her.

I don’t.

I feel her pain.

I tell her not to be the victim

In someone’s story about victims.

I tell her we’re survivors

Who make sweet lemonade

From what’s meant to be sour, tart–

We make our hurters think

We planned our hearts hurting–

That’s how happy you will be, my love.

We are a family of bitches.

I mean it in a good way—

Like good witches. Women

Who carry mystery in our bones:

We delight in knowing life is delightfully dark,

And ugly, and exquisite, and essential.

My love, in time you will find love,

But does it matter?

It will come too late to save you

From the present hurt, the sting.

The scarring. It’s fucking beautiful.

You didn’t ask for it.

But it will be beautiful anyway,

How you’ll wear it.

Maybe it will be your own poem,

Someday, when someone else needs a poem

About how to survive being thrown away.

You might learn the words that will heal them.