A Sojourn in December

We had our first snow today.
When I first saw it,
I halfheartedly smiled from my position,
Peaking from the curtain
Draped next to an occupied bed.

Giant white flakes cover the ground and sky,
And I don’t mind.  The light
They reflect and the way they dance
Gives troubled minds a sense of ease.

And as the frigid day wears on,
The falling ceases just as it started,
With me under warm blankets,
And they finally finding peace
After a long winter’s journey.

A Gentle Breeze

The summers are hot and the winters are cold,

But during the interim seasons

I’ll brave the morning air on my porch,

To see if a gentle breeze calls for a jacket.


Mind you, spring breezes and autumn winds,

Are of no comparison,

Except that they signify the changing seasons,

Nothing more. A reminiscence upon these,

Fills my soul with emotions

From the seasons of my life, long since past.


The spring breeze…

How it brings warmth into the timber,

Patiently waiting behind my house,

Waking the vines in my vineyard.

Life finds pleasant surroundings again,

Where swift updrafts carry frisbees and footballs

Into the mouths of dogs or the arms of children,


This invisible current, ever so slightly

Shifts your hair out of place,

Just so I can fix it and be repaid,

With your never ending Love.


The autumn wind….

Chilling the air, telling the world,

Go to sleep, as it creeps. Lulling trees and vines

Into a gentle winter respite.

Death clings to the life summer has brought,

And the wind gently caresses tufts of fur

On deceased beasts and overpriced coats.

Seemingly out of respect,

This brisk zephyr, in a beautiful fashion,

Makes the flowers on my family’s graves dance,

As if my reverence overwhelms their spirits

And their souls flit in the wind.


I think I’ll bring my jacket today,

Just to be safe.


A Beating Heart

There are times

I feel as if I were your beating heart,

Constant, steady, but worn down.

And lately, it seems

Like you’ve slit your wrists,

Deep, with a blade of little consequence.

Blood, Life, pumps from me,

Traveling to your extremities

And is lost in this rhythmic continuation.

I give and I give,

With my efforts only securing

Our grim fate.

I falter, I fail,

And without knowing why,

We fade out of time,

And into oblivion.

Together in Love

For the lonliness, my life has brought me

Acceptance and regret indefinite,

Until the ends of this brief temporal span,

Until the ends of this world intertwine.


For the Love, seen in her eyes every morning,

Means more than words, more than emotion.

And an unending bliss lights my soul,

And her light shines through as would a keyhole to heaven.


And I miss you, I say, knowing the inadequacy,

Of the words in their quaint little order,

Of myself and my love and my strength.


I miss you too, she says,

Not implying a greater emotion,

Not feeling pity or lament at the distance,

But to be with me, in word,

And to be with me, in spirit,

And to be together, in Love,


Knowing What Must Be Done

My past few months have been filled with work and tragedy, with Love and envy. My time for reading and writing has been short, my emotions many, and sometimes the words just come together as I write them…


Knowing what must be done-

In knowledge, truth.
In truth, death.
In death, peace.
In peace, rest.
For I know not
What must be done,
And my deeds
Are frail and passing,
Like a gentle wind,
Or a last breath.
I feel so very tired,
And my legs, weak
And my body, useless
Yet this weight bears down
Still, And holds me,
As if in Love,
As if my troubles
Will never leave my side.
And I wish I didn’t know,
What must be done.


The Joys of an Empty Home

I am a hoarder by nature.
I have filled a house with my things,
my stuff, my items, my junk, my garbage, and
my memories.
A loving home
with clean walls and windows
was once at this address,
but that was so long ago.
As the walls became less visible
cleaning the floor became unnecessary.
The windows grew covered,
so the light didn’t shine
on all that was present.
So much sentiment,
surrounding such mundaneness.
When living became unbearable,
the misery was worn on my face.
My family would ask questions,
when I visited their homes,
about the smell of my clothes,
and what happened to my cats.
On a summer day,
I brought home a dumpster.
I took pictures with a Polaroid
and put all my things,
my stuff, my items, my junk, and my garbage,
into an album of my memories.
With my house empty,
I sorted the photos,
Burning all that remained of these things,
stuff, items, junk and garbage,
saving only the memories.
This place clean and barren,
except a photo album on the floor,
is filled with memories
and is my loving home.


by Josh Glasson