Thankful

I'm thankful for the words
Through whom I've learned to reach
I'm thankful for the birds
Who serenade the beach

I'm grateful for the rhymes
Who give my grief a form
I'm grateful for the chimes
Who salsa through the storm

Been in your debt my song
Who hold my bursting heart
Been in your debt so long
You feel like body part

Obliged to time and age
Who tame events in space
Obliged to pen and page
Who hide and show our race

Sitting and Standing

My spine falters again.
Whose orders I obey?
Must I of all people
hold up here, these heavens?
My lungs against them too,
Struggling, swell, then fall.
My breath's chased down a maze
Where flesh contorts and aches,
Where echoed sighs are felt,
Escaping bony caves.

If sitting drains me so,
Perhaps I need to stand.
Should standing feel the same,
Might help this man to know
One day the struggle may,
Despite incessant doubts,
In time with grit and faith
That spring from love within,
Sustained by that without,
Let true acceptance in.

At Times

So if it's all your fault   
Then I am in the right
But then the world's unfair 

But if it's my failure 
It seems the world is fair
But I'm the one to blame 

If no one is at fault 
Nobody is to blame 
But world's no less unfair

At times the anguish wanes
The fearful guard relents
The world and I are one

At times I breathe the air
The air breathes me in turn
And pain forgets its shame

Report of an Arrest

The state police report:
At one o'clock last night,  
a liquid gold sedan—
"a Mazda 3," they write, 
"an import," driven by
a man of black-and-white
complexion, suit and tie—
had come to park beside
a purple Firebird, right 
behind the fire temple,
on Ash across from Crown. 
And not that far from stairs,
and couple hydrants there.
Police became alarmed
at once because they saw
a sickly bandaged arm  
emerging from the car,
and wave—as if a star.
"Do not report," upset,
he said, "my life, oh please,
as though the world at large
considers me a threat!"
Arrested by police
right there and then, his charge:
Disturbing of the peace!

The Gray Lion

The gray lion lingers.
Luring him a gazelle 
grazing on open plains.

You devour the flesh.
You taste the golden grass.
Pacing behind the bars. 

Craft of Living (and Scarf Making)

Human living's a craft
few will ever master,
yet many will survive—
but no one forever.

Human living's a craft
like knitting: Most can knit 
a wool scarf in the end,
and keep warm in winter.

But few will twist and knot
along with vibrant yarn, 
excite the silken fleece 
to dance in loops and weaves.

Life is a ball of yarn, 
of chance color and size.
I've dreamed of God knitting 
a rainbow scarf for sky.