Spark or tickle
hiccup or yawn 
all are surprises
like a fortune 
cookie without wisdom 
shrugging of shoulders 
annoyance veiled as
amusing still some 
degree of chagrin 
and charm trying 
to disguise them

Oh to say 
that anything is
ever really over 
is a luxury 
of one’s denial 
not of destiny 
fate takes the 
winds of misfortune 
and turns them 
into tempests of 
fury and despair 
but the calm
breeze of destiny 
does not blow 
but quietly carries 
the leaves of 
hope to the 
dark rich soils
of what’s possible 

Stone by stone 
brick by brick 
and my share
of do overs 
but with equal 
parts grit courage 
and some craziness 
I have built 
a new place 
not atop rubble 
for that fails
and been cleared 
but up here 
high above my
what once was 

One isn’t born 
kind one is 
made kind through 
the types of 
things that genuinely 
kind people always 
keep to themselves 
they have no 
interest in comparing 
tragedies or trying 
to convince anyone 
of their pain
kind people are 
forged in the 
furnaces of deep 
despair found only 
by the strongest 

Wish of day
dreamt at night 
when in sleep 
I can’t deny
the dense desire 
and rooted need
a morsel of
plump humid tenderness 
placed so delicately 
upon the cookie 
dough of flesh 
a single dollop 
of melting sweet