Everyone I talk to tells me life is a set of rules


Everyone I talk to tells me life is a set of rules,

With internal rhythm and set-in-stone schedules.

It’s a planned pursuit, a calculated crime,

With structured time, and internal rhyme,

And meter and accents that must be in place,

And synthesized flow to set a nice pace,

And a clear and concise road to success,

which will maximize profit and minimize stress,

And a future of comfort and ease awaits,

For those who simply follow their fates,

But any and all who make their own way,

Will be starving or poor or led astray.


But I don’t think so.

I think life is a journey to find yourself.

And you may not be the perfect daughter.

Or you may not be the perfect son.

Or the perfect mother, or father, or uncle,

or aunt, or cousin, or sister, or brother.

But that is okay.

Because you are finding your own way.


Harry The Performer

The man! The mystery! The mysterioso!

Who could be in that black mask?

Look at the tightrope- There’s Harry

He turns to face the crowds!

He spreads his arms; a mischievous faerie,

He begins his stroll high in the clouds.

Oh no! He trips and stumbles!

What will happen? Will he fall or succeed?

He spins around and nearly fumbles-

A lucky man indeed!


Harry fakes a smile and sighs deeply

The two hundredth time he’s “fell”

He shows it in his face briefly

As the audience screams and yells.

He crosses to the other side unscathed,

And his demeanor remains unfazed.


The man! The mystery! The mysterioso!

Who could be in that black mask?

The villain performs on the stage solo.

He calls a victim for his task.

He hypnotizes a poor young boy

And controls him with a flick of his hand.

He completes a myriad of devious ploys

And finishes all he had planned.


Harry pulls off his mask and slowly reminisces

He sends his young assistant back in the crowd.

He looks into the audience, the faceless abyss,

Full of expectations and judgement throughout.


Huzzah! Look over there, it’s Harry!

He’s holding a great big sword!

He swallows it like a strawberry

And he pulls it out fully restored.

He can pull a rabbit out of a hat,

He can teleport in the blink of an eye,

He’s can do flips-he’s an acrobat

He can even sprout wings and fly

What he cannot do, no matter the place

No matter the circumstance,

Is relive his brighter, younger days,

The days of his first performance.

The Lotus Flower

On a slow moving river,

lies a lotus flower,

pure white and innocent.

On a slow moving river,

lies a lotus flower,

pure white and innocent.


Its pale petals shiver in the wind

life flows through delicate veins.

It opens its heart to others,

for it does not know any better.


Sharp winds cut pure white,

And the flower bleeds a little.

Fish tear at pure white,

And the flower bleeds a little.

Children pluck pure white,

And the flower bleeds a little.

Still, the flower drifts onward,

swept by the gentle pull,

of the slow moving river


It has seen all the world

and knows of its cruelty.

But it still opens its heart

to the innocent and pure,

to the conflicted and unsure,

but most importantly,

to the evil and wicked,

so that they may change to be

Pure white.

“What happened?”

he would only ask ,”What happened?”

Jet black hair and dark brown eyes,

wide, innocent, pure, and full.

He’d stay close to his mother’s side,

and on her shawl he’d pull.


Clock strikes twelve, his father comes home,

he’s burdened with work and alcohol.

He suffers from an incurable syndrome:

lust for money, for fame, for all.


His tired eyes sweep the cluttered apartment,

on which toys and clothes are abandoned.

His fearful son clings to his mother’s garment,

But he would only ask ,”What happened?”


The boy inherited his father’s position,

the head of a struggling company.

His lust for fame grew huge ambition,

and with it insatiable gluttony.


Employees would scramble to place,

and leave everything else abandoned.

Inevitably  they would fall off pace,

yet he would only ask, “What happened?”


He pushed away his friends and family,

leaving wife and relatives saddened.

His children were innocent casualties,

yet they’d only ask, “What happened?”.


Years later he retired rich amd lonely,

friends and family he could only imagine.

He would sit in his chair and rock it slowly,

And ask himself, “What happened?”.