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Ancient names rest on the white board, sketched out

with loving care, hoping one day someone

will listen to their words, minus all the clout,

ignoring test scores and after school groans,

some one will sit and try to read their minds

and the thoughts that they left there, all wrapped up in

pretty words, all these thoughts they left behind,

never knowing who would care or listen.

When they look down and see discouragement,

looking down from their white columns in the sky

they long to come down from that firmament

they long to come down, and to ask you “why?”,

         “Because,” we say, and that’s all there will be,

         and we’ll walk off, playing Angry Birds 3

To Yellowed Pages

The smell of old and ancient dust wafts up

from the yellowed pages of a dime store

book at the library’s front counter top,

and my mind, at that smell, hungers for more.

While turning pages to a steady beat,

I stare intensely at the faded ink

like it was a secret map to some hidden treat,

a portal to another world I think.

I will gather up these yellow, dying

paper-backs from these ten-cent back-room shelves

and after I have spent my time prying

through these great stories old and new, I’ll delve

         into those backroom shelves again, it’s true,

         but this time my dear, this time I’ll go with you.

To Our Papa, a Belated Tribute to Pope Benedict XVI

Oh Father, oh rock, you've steered this our ark,

From hellish hurricanes and spiking storms.

You have served nobly and well this bark

That has turned to you to guide it from harms.

We shall remember you as you stand down,

Do not let critics get under your skin

Do not allow them to bring out a frown.

You have stood for us, as you always will,

and stood up for what we still believe in,

and though in your place another shall till,

you, Papa, gave us an example against sin.

The good man knows when to bow out humbly,

and his family shall love him faithfully.

To the High Points in Life

Sweet jewel encrusted juice falls from a rose,

carrying with it a scent of deep joy,

that stays with her on whom it has reposed.

It brings her depth and a sense for the coy,

it brings her up to a higher standard.

What was quaint, is now regal. What was nice

is now beautiful. Eyes get meandered

from their right paths to see what once was ice

and now is fire. With lips (full berries)

With eyes (bright stones), with hair (burnt patch of night).

She’s not human, but a queen of fairies

Beneath the glean of her rose colored light.

        Then the moments done, back to daily life,

        once a fairy queen, returns to daily strife.

To those who've seen "Tree of Life" you'll know what I'm talking about.

There’s a common stereotype I know,

a Texas full of dessert’s ‘n old ghost towns,

the Texas you see on old T.V. shows,

with gunslingers, sheriffs, ‘n noontime countdowns.

They never show the green, purple, and red

flowers growing on highway medians,

the ash grey of trees fresh from winter dead

nor dogwoods and the tale they stand implyin’.

How often they’ve neglected the blue sky

or the way the thunder and lightning screams,

while that nice day you thought was there flies by,

while time and space rip apart at the seams.

         There’s something to our towns of dessert sand,

         but trust me, this, our land, is not that bland.