There he was on the side of the road.
Did he trip on the curb, maybe too much to drink?
I’d stop to help, but you know what I think?
It’s an ambush, a set-up; his gang will appear,
then I’ll be the victim; I’m not going near
this obvious hoax; I’m not falling for that!

There he was on the side of the road.
Illegal alien, without a doubt.
My only choice was to give him a shout:
“Go back to your country; you’re not wanted here.
You’re the cause of our problems and all our fears.”
That fake blood is quite a touch!

There he was on the side of the road.
He was very clearly one of those:
a Muslim or addict, maybe LG or Q.
As a God-fearing man, I know what to do:
say a prayer as I’m passing through.
Sorry, God, I’m pushed for time.

There he was on the side of the road.
I’m sure he’s to blame for his pitiful state.
When you’re one of those, it is your fate
to suffer the slings and arrows that come.
God has his favorites, and then there are some
who should stay where they belong.

There he was on the side of the road.
Someone else can tend his wounds.
A helping hand will come by soon,
but I must respond to my priestly call:
share bread and cup, pray for all.
Stop and help? I don’t have the time.

When aspen leaves are crisp to the touch
and the winter air carries little bundles of ice
crystals playfully stinging my cheeks, I snug a
neck scarf down into the collar of my
favorite blue jacket, slip earmuffs over
already tingling ears, and take my
first step onto the new carpet of
nightly snow. See how smooth it runs
down the hill and into the valley.
Unblemished. Undulating.
Not printed by human step or animal trail.
That stand of elegant pines, see how they
stretch themselves to touch the billows of low
slung clouds. Proud pines, indeed.

Does the ice-layered snow cry out or
is that just the crunch, crackle
sound of a boot’s first staggering step into
the white disappearance?
At the echoes of snap and crack, tiny ice
particles shimmer in the air, a pine quivers and
releases an avalanche from her branches, and
the early sun sends shafts of tender light over
the mountain ridge, dressing the sleepy village in
brilliant winter ermine robes.

Far down the sloping valley, a brown bear and her
two cubs, searching for early morning prey,
stop abruptly and stand motionless as the
sounds of crunch, crunch float from the
mountain on currents of crystal air.

I’d like to have a friend like you,
someone who’s kind and always true,
whose gentle spirit conveys concern,
someone from whom I can readily learn
the way life should be lived.

I’d like to hear what you have to say
about a just and honest way
to overcome the hate and strife
that seem to be the rule of life
in these confusing times.

Do you honor a hope for the days to come?
Do you think we’ll ever be able to plumb
the depths of injustice and human greed,
to speak to the causes of human need
that infect our culture’s health?

We seem afraid to confront the fools
whose shallow minds and selfish rules
hold in contempt the rule of law
who laugh at mercy as a moral flaw
while filling their pockets full.

What has become of the principled man
who stood his ground, devised a plan
to address not the symptoms but the root and core
of insidious actions that open the door
to misery and human despair.

Yes, I’d like to have a friend like you,
someone to show me how to get through
the grave disappointments I find everyday
in those who belittle and work to betray
the values that charted our course.

They come again, that eerie sight,
out of the darkness, brilliant lights
flashing and swirling, filling the air,
and out step a uniformed, somber pair
who carry their boxes of healing supplies
while twenty sets of curious eyes
watch and wonder: who will it be?
Perhaps the Red Box is coming for Thee!

If I look down the hall perhaps I will see
which way they go and what might be
their destination of mercy and care.
Ah, yes. Here they come, the uniformed pair
who scan the numbers until they see
the apartment where someone is waiting to be
cared for and treated mercifully.
Let me look again to see what I see.
O, no! The Red Box is coming for Thee.

Again and again they come in the night.
Unwelcome, intrusive flashing lights.
And each time I wonder: who will it be?
So I send up this prayer, regularly:
Please, Kind Spirit, don’t let it be me.
I prefer it to be number 7-0-3.
But then came a voice that whispered to me:
Someday, old friend, you will see.
The Red Box will come looking for Thee.

What would you say if I told you that
a Great Horned Owl and a Bobtail Cat
were last seen driving on Interstate 10,
out for a Sunday afternoon spin,
when in the mirror that looks behind,
Bobtail, the driver, saw a troubling sign.
The car back there was black and white,
that, in itself, is not a worrisome sight,
but then the red lights started to flash
and Great Horned said: What about our stash?
This is high-quality, first class weed.
Do you think I can whimper and whine and plead
and save these baggies for another day?

Bobcat began to slow the car.
He pulled off at Teddy’s Outlaw Bar,
shut off the engine and awaited his fate,
knowing, full well, they were already late
for the party hosted by a pig and a crow,
how rude of the duo to not even show.
Then up walked the Trooper to the driver’s side door
while Owl was searching for a place in the floor
to hide the baggies of fresh grown weed,
all the while thinking: I’m going to need
a very good lawyer to represent me,
one, of course, with a reasonable fee.
Owl was always a frugal bird,
sometimes described, and this I’ve heard,
as frugality with a pair of wings.

To the surprise of Owl and Bobcat, too,
the Deputy Sheriff walked right through
all the cars lined up in the parking lot,
went into the bar and had a shot,
said his thirst was more than he could stand
and he used his red lights as part of his plan
to get to Teddy’s Outlaw Bar,
order a frosty Texas Lone Star
and watch the Cowboys hammer the Giants.

Well, to shorten this story a little bit,
Bobcat and Owl nearly had a fit
when the lawman left them alone that day.
Once over the shock, I heard Bobcat say:
I thought for sure we were going to jail.
I’ve never seen Owl turn so pale.
But truth be told, and this story is true,
(I would never lie to you)
Owl lit up a sweet cigarette,
turned to Bobcat and offered this bet:
ten to one says we’ll be there on time.
I think this poet is about out of rhyme.
He’s trying to end this lengthy tall-tale
and keep the both of us out of jail.
So, let’s help him out; it’s the least we can do.
Hey, poet…stop writing! This poem is through.

Thank God for birds like Great Horned Owl.
I was just about ready to throw in the towel.
I’m out of space and my words won’t rhyme.
I was having one hell of an awful time,
just trying to keep this poem alive,
and here it is, a quarter to five.
My brain has turned to mush!

When I touched your hand,
almost by accident, I felt the
ground shiver as if I had
brushed against the earth’s
electrical pulse and lived to
wonder, should my hand touch
yours again, if I would survive
the beautiful moment.

Years have turned into decades,
in many ways thrill to contentment.
But yesterday you passed my chair
and placed your hand on my shoulder,
very lightly, no message intended,
and a torch in the shadows of my
mind ignited, revealing a memory
of a day long ago. Two lovers
walked among the garden flowers
on a spring Saturday morning, so
much in unspoken love, when their
hands brushed lightly, flesh upon flesh,
and the trajectory of the earth shifted
for a brief second to affirm the awaiting
journey and all the joys to come.

Our hands are the roadmaps of two
lives bound in the sacred journey. Far
from the smooth skin of garden recollections,
taut and unblemished, we bear the marks of
life’s beautiful mystery, even majesty. And
still, even still, your touch leads me back
to that Saturday morning among the flowers,
walking in the garden of our delight through
the fragrances of lilac and roses, hoping
against all hope that the walk would
never end. And it hasn’t. And it won’t.

Here. Take my hand.
Walk with me.

I pledged to you once I’d stand by your side
no matter how happy or tough the ride,
and you gave me in such loving words
the most beautiful promise I’ve ever heard.
You said: “I will” as you held my hand
and I counted myself a fortunate man.
Now as we live on the edge of time,
a few years ahead, a lot behind,
I sit in the stillness before first light,
creation is silent, embraced by the night
in an eerie quiet that covers the land,
and in that moment I take your hand
as you rest in the arms of peaceful sleep
and I see all the years etched so deep.
Someone might say your hand is old
but what I see is a treasure of gold.
I see children and work and sacrifice,
all the times you paid a heavy price
when life wasn’t easy, but you never quit.
And I’ll be the first to gladly admit
that your strength is greater than you understand
and it’s shown right here, in the lines of your hand.
Rest well, my love, for the morning arrives,
the gift of time which we shall prize
as we walk together across the land,
warmed by the Light, hand in hand.

My son tapped me on the shoulder today:
“Daddy, let’s go outside and run and play!”
I said, “Sweetheart, I’d really like nothing more,
but I’ve got this report that’s due at four
and I’m already a day behind.”

He lowered his eyes and walked away,
looked out the window on a beautiful day
while I went back to my important task.
Now, I just wish I could hear him ask
to play in the sun one more time.

So many years have gone by so fast.
Too many moments I let slip past.
Important things that had to be done
but not one was playing in the afternoon sun
with my beautiful, blond-haired boy.

After all these years, it’s like yesterday
that he asked me to please come out and play.
There’s a lump in my throat and a pain in my heart.
If only I knew a way to start
that Saturday morning again.

I sit here alone on this gorgeous day,
look out the window as the children play
and wish I knew something better to say,
to excuse those times I chose to betray
my child who reached out in love.

Regret is a poison that gnaws at the bone.
If only then I had sensed or known
the sorrow that comes and goes at will
when I think of him standing at that window, still.
My beautiful, blond-haired boy.