Yellow Butterfly (for Emma)

Every moment gives a gift
An opportunity to see
A yellow butterfly land
On the pool deck to give
The daughter a smile
She seemed to have lost.

Happy birthday my sweet girl.

Image: Butterfly Painting – Sunflower Butterfly Yellow Gold by JQ Licensing

Posted for my good friend Chuck at The Reluctant Poet, he has been searching far and wide for this post… here you go my friend.

The Call of the Mourning (1987: Age 16)

April 25, 1987

A voice from the distance

A hollow echo within

The victory march – a funeral hymn

The call of the mourned
To the mourning:

Life is bled
Life is finished
The Lord takes away
To give again

An echo in the distance

A voice from within

A funeral hymn – Gloria

A call from the children
To the mother within:

Spare your tears
No seed will flower
The Lord takes away
To return again

Do not mourn
We are not to return
Unite our hearts
We need not mourn

In honor of the children and families of Manchester and around the world who have fallen victim to the irrational power of hatred embodied in terrorism of all brands, a favorite song of mine from 1987 performed by one of my guilty pleasures, Ariana Grande:

Over the next few weeks I will be spending time with my 16-17 year old self from 1987. In no particular order, these poems will be presented in the final form I found them on computer discs discovered in an attic many years ago. This will culminate in the next entry of my Into My Own, My Story as a Writer series found here:

Friday Songs for You (8/10) – “Almost Home” – Keston Cobblers Club… and a new blog

Spotify’s acoustic playlists introduced me to Keston Cobblers Club. This wonderful song leads their similar titled album. The following song, Concord, will serve to launch my new blog, “mysevenstoreys” an exploration of my spiritual growth over the last year(s) and into the upcoming year(s). Inspired by Thomas Merton’s autobiography, the new blog will serve to follow the development of my understanding of the world both through reflections on my earliest writing, what I am reading these days, and what it all means when I allow my heart, soul, and mind to commune in a new, authentic way. If this interests you, head that way and look for a new post once a week. If not, please enjoy this fine song by Keston Cobblers Club.

The new blog:

The song:

Reflections on Massachusetts Ave, 7/23/18

It’s so fucked up
This culture
People with rucksacks walking there
Like There is someplace to be
As if here is never enough.

Right here!

Can’t you see what’s right here!

A tree some soul planted
Maybe from a seed or a sprout
Has grown up
Having found the sun.

A woman runs by
Ear buds in her head holes
That could,
If she were still enough,
Hear a bird in the city, singing.
But no.
She is talking business
Instead of just sweating.

Here! I tell you
The place to be
Right in this spot.

Don’t move
For a minute.

And see
And hear

And be.

Forget all the stones stacked up
Neat as can be
Organized like Earth never imagined.
A monument to nothing.
A dwelling for no one
We know.



Water drunk from plastic.
Lifewtr. Purified.

In each, a stream
Asking us to drink it
From our open palms
Living, pure.

A bronze Gandhi
Walks. Frozen.
On watch. Who
Will wake,
Walk with him
To collect salt?