Are the ruts too deep?

Is the hill too steep?

So much baggage to shed,

And things to put to bed.

Most things worth doing

Aren’t going to be easy.

To get out and start over,

An impossible task?

There’s no way of knowing,

Until you just ask.


Effervescent jewel of the eastern sun

Bubbling concoction of exuberant fun

Where do you go when the day is done

Are you tired of always being on the run

Slipping in and out of hope

Wonder if I’ve given myself too much rope

Enough to hang or just a little slack

Where is the point of no turning back

One day at a time they always say

The future is hazy and filled with gray

Maybe tomorrow the hope will stay

Until then I’ll just have to live for today


Great minds discuss ideas; average minds discuss events; small minds discuss people.

— Eleanor Roosevelt


Sometimes I just want to sit quietly in the woods and cry for humanity.


Where to begin.  That’s always the question isn’t it?  Sitting down to write immediately constipates the writing.  Unlike the times in the shower when thoughts come so freely and easily, or that surreal state between the first rays of conscious thought and full “get-out-of-bed-and-stumble-to-the-bathroom” wakefulness, writing when faced with the actual possibility of recording is suddenly stifled.

What causes this block?  Maybe it’s the act of writing itself.  Perhaps if an invention existed that could record thoughts and play them back, even if only for the originator, the flow of thought could be separated from the recording of.  The two seem to require such different mindsets altogether.  I suppose it is the hallmark of a great writer to be able to effectively and accurately capture those musings in some form, however neanderthal the technology, but I am no great writer.

I simply want to get things out, and there is some part of me that will not rest until it knows that a record of these things exist somewhere outside my head.  Only having the thoughts does not seem to quell the desire, for they resurface again and again.  Yet once the thought is out there, somewhere in “the wild” outside my own head, then it is laid to rest.

Of course no time passes before another and another thought swell up from the murky depths of consciousness, subconsciousness, and memory, demanding to be set free lest its threat of perpetual nagging be fulfilled.


Every day I feel wiser than the day before.  I remember my actions, thoughts, and feelings from the previous day and think, “I’m beyond that now.”  I remember who I was, and am glad that I became who I am now.  Sometimes I even look forward to who I will be tomorrow, but I know it’s best to take it one day at a time.

When I think about all the days that have been and gone and those yet to come, it feels like I’m surging through life at breakneck speed.  The acceleration is pressing me back into my self as I rush headlong to a destination I know nothing of, including when I’ll get there.  Then I remind myself that it’s the journey that is life, and that this moment right now is the only thing that’s truly real.  And in that moment I find peace, and happiness.


Trying to change those around you will result in change, but probably not the one you were hoping for.


Under the veils of cultural and genetic specifics, we are all basically the same.  Our fears, needs, and desires at a fundamental level are identical.  The manifestations of our motivators and how we fulfill them may differ, but in the end we all want the same things.

Peel away the layers of those around you.  They may look very different from your own, but beneath them all you will find the same heart.


window into the human psyche


radiant in the summer sun
speckled blue, a bit undone
golden shining braided locks
your smile hiding deeper thoughts

shadows of the railing
play across your thighs
as the sinking fire
twinkles in your eyes

distant houses, and a view
of the girl I once knew
breathing now so far away
yet right before me, every day