The Wise Lighthouse

The other day she slid her feet

into cool soft sand and listened,

to a lighthouse whisper its wisdoms

into the crashing ebb of waves

showing through stalwart radiance:

How to weave a quiet serenity

in the moments of solitude

and vast wild openness,

How to be the only structure

in an endless sea of blue

and find substance there,

How to truly inhabit one’s self

in such a voracious authenticity

and beacon that light out to others,

So she wrote that light house

a thank you in the sand then watched

as high tide carried that gratitude

to the wise lighthouse.


Laying on a futon:

One can watch city shadows

dance across a crème wall

in a precious puppet show.

The naïve youth can play their dreams

sprawled out on the open ceiling

like a cheap movie theatre.

An equally tenacious and foolish romantic

can open a window to the city

and smell their next lover’s perfume.

Yes the futon is great

for resting before new adventures,

but to not feel its fabric

before moving to silken sheets…

That’d be a travesty.

Only a Moment

Don’t give up

for sometimes,

on a blue hammock under green trees

under a warm blanket of bird tweets

owl hoots

and cricket chirps,

I can touch peace

ever so lightly –

with just my finger tips.

Please be brave

because occasionally,

in a calm bath

listening to slow piano

under red lights

I can feel serenity,

she is weightless

soundless –

kind to me.

Reflect in that possibility

the eternal chance

to touch a peace

feel a serenity

and be truly


empty –

If only for a moment.


The true words are not spoken

the real poems are not written

but rather

whispered into closed fists,

which are held against the heart.

The most beautiful scenes

are not captured in photos

but felt vividly

as a sprawling expanse

flourishing untouched,

unclaimed before us.

The deepest loves

are not requited glances

but observations

resolute in strength,

intangible in soul.

All these graces

All these truths,

are quiet.