We placed the seed in the earth

and patted the loose soil upon it.

We each took turns watering it

and before long it sprouted.

The little leaves reached, green, to the sun

while the tender roots took hold.

I saw a great deal of promise

In that tender little thing we had made.

Today I felt a chill in the air when I stepped out.

unseasonably cold and my heart knew.

Sure enough, the tender green shoot

lie flat and limp against the earth.

Death is something we must all learn

but no one is prepared for the real loss.

The death of possibilities.

The death of hope.

And so the tender shoot is gone,

and it’s lifeless form

a promise unkept,

and I wept for it.

Mirror Mirror

Mirror mirror on the wall,

who’s the kindest of them all?

Where shall I find that happy face,

who with love can my doubts replace?

Where is the one who has faith against all?

The one that shall never waver or fall.

That soul which has taken pain upon pain,

yet daily will rise again?

My champion, and my dearest friend?

Where mirror shall I find this soul then?

And the mirror spoke:

“I tell you I am just a mirror on a wall.

I reflect what is in front of me, or nothing at all.

That tender soul you long to find

is neither beside you nor far behind.

You may hang a mirror in many places,

On walls, and even on people’s faces.

And in this way you may feel so lost

Looking for such a soul, whatever the cost.

But I beseech you to see…

Reflected in me stands a soul so tall,

you needn’t search the world at all.”


We would sit on the bench until the train came,

you and I, pennies in hand.

And as the train whistles approached from afar,

we laid the pennies upon the tracks together.

What a wonder-struck child I was as the steel beast roared by!

Heaving and whistling and churning, it went, and by its weight,

pennies became pancakes, glistening like fire in the sun.

We would then collect our shared bounty.

My treasure was copper, while yours was laughter.

Much the same laughter you had when the wind

and my inexperience tangled my kite in the old crab apple tree.

For me, it was devastating.

The string’s entanglements

and the kite shredding into useless pieces

left my young mind in grief.

But your same laughter was there too,

though perhaps with a bit of tenderness,

for I was a child, after all.

Then when I was nearly ten,

you died.

I never forgot your funeral.

Many moments I kept expecting you to sit up,

smile, and laugh at me for being such a silly child.

“Why cry? I’m right here,” you’d say.

But you never comforted me that day.

I remember how brightly the sun shone

and the smell of roses and peace lilies.

Years have passed,

but I still smile when I hear the train coming.

Grandpa, I have been waiting on the bench

for a long time.

Time has aged my eyes

and granted me more wisdom.

Now I see what true treasure is,

and I would give all those pennies back

to hear you laugh again.


I am the stillness

during the waking hour

when I do not think

nor recall.

When all the rest sleeps

and the air sighs

and the dew is wet

and the sun begins its rise.

There in the border

between night and day

a space is made for me

in my calmest repose.

Before thoughts intercede

and noise drowns me out,

you will find me there.

The still observer,

the quiet child,

who lives upon the line

between the darkness

and light.

I am nameless


and awakened.


Growth may often appear gradual, but at the beginning it is an act of radical transformation. The seed bursts open and all that it was is destroyed to create a new purpose. All growing things have such a genesis, where the old paradigms and forms must be cast aside. So it is when you are starting to grow as a person. Do not fear the changes along your growth journey; they are inevitable and necessary.

What dreams belie?

Skyward I fly

above deep waters

and scorching deserts.

and fantasy realms.

And upon dreams

I sigh –

For the lost.

the treasured.

Such things as my dreams belie.

What are these dreams

of a soul so kind

beyond all hope to find?

Wise Master

Through blistering desert
and shifting sands
O’er mountains grand
into valleys low
I travailed

I come unto you, wise master
to ask of your mind
what pray thee am I to do
with this pain?
Of this disappointment?

With deep eyes and
holy countenance, the master
smiled upon the man
in his futility and spoke:

When a child is born
what of that pain?
When a fire blazes forth
what of the wood?

Not all pain is bad,
nor all joy good.
They dance together
as all things should.

For what is joy
without sorrow?
What is love
without loss?
What is hope
without sadness?

Fear not, my child
Pain and loss
are but wood for the fires.
As they become ashes
so do your hopes transpire.

Despair not my child,
for a life well lived
is full of pain.
A flame will snuff out
when there is naught
left to burn

and nothing left to gain.

That is Pride

Some will smirk and ask with a wry grin:

“Why should you be special?”

So easily do they fail to recall…

I did not feel special when they called me a faggot.

I did not feel special when they called me queer.

nor when they threw rocks at me,

and laughed in my ear.

Not when they told me to repent,

nor when they told me I’d burn.

Not when they strapped that boy to a Wyoming fence

and left him to die…

the blood on his face only broken by the trails of his tears.

I… no we… have all been knocked down.

But then we stand back up.

Pride is a celebration, you see?

Not about how special we are,

but how we all deserve to be loved.

All. of. us.

It reminds us to cherish the differences,

and honor the bonds.

For what person does not, deep down,

yearn to be loved? Accepted?

Let our legacy be to usher in a new era,

where guns and shackles are thrown aside,

and bullies and tyrants are made a distant memory!

Let our legacy be,

one of love and acceptance for all.

That is Pride.

It is for everyone.