The Empty Sage So much to be gathered, then throw… Stuffing data into tight places No room to breathe, no room to wan… Pure thoughts looking for sacred s…

That Special Night I found it deep within my soul That power, that steaming current… Turning my timid spirit into a rag… My life into a book without a page

Gardens of ancient years, of seasonal endurance, of high intelligence and low mentality, of humble charity

Off in the distance on top of the… above the sun-baked pine trees, the late afternoon sun splashes ag… silken white alabaster clouds that… floating in the crispy summer skie…

As summers fade and autumns near There’s a different kind of atmosp… Instead of watching the vineyards… We harvest the grapes before the s… And time marches on as the seasons…

For those who have fallen as the white wings of death have come to their bedside and spread their cushy wings around their lifeless bodies

Red gossamer skirts shielding secret caves, riding silky avenues high and low, thighs of lustrous white velvet, exposing more secrets along the wa…

As the day rises up for the dawnin… With all the well rested flowers y… And the mantles yielding to the li… Brother Sun comes back from overn… As caring brothers do, he lends a…

That Glorious Work The work of salvation, that Most glorious work of God, is That eternal mirror that reflects In its grandest manner,

Mother Nature, the supreme artist that she is, painted the mountain tops with a glistening white powder. From afar it was a masterpiece that made the blood run with pleasure. It was a...

Where there is no place to look up… As if heaven was a vast wasteland, An abyss alone in the darkness, The only place to go to, The only place that comforts the m…

Enveloped by the sound of music With arms that cast me Into an exotic paradise And planted a seed That blossomed in my imagination

It was the termination of a long day of living when the sun became tired as it sank into the sea, exhausted from holding Mother Nature in its hands. Although she is kind, she can be ve...

Where is Santa’s calendar? Blown away by the stormy air? Is it December or is it July? Should he look up in the sky? Or just play it by ear,

Man of ardor and man of song, Man of iron and man of velvet, Who throws his heart and soul, Loves and hates, arms and legs Into the storied depths of the son…