A poem simply sounds the bell, of that which words could never tell.


The eyes of the future,
Looking back at me,
What do they see,
Those children.
Have I designed
A torturous maze,
In which they find
Their lives,
Their days,
Innocent hearts
That now so hopeful gleam,
Entrusting me,
With an unknown dream. 


Cut them down,
Those dusty puppets of reason,
Whose musty ventriloquism
Through flaky, painted smiles,
Is treason to the heart.


The way in,
Not too tall,
That none may enter,
Save for the child,
The inside
Carefully guarded
By a bow,
Beyond is blood,
Mud and wild,
Left as shoes
Outside the door,
Be seated,
Curl upon the floor,
Sharing breath,
The fire is warm,
Brightened by our offerings
Of kindness,
Safe from harm,
The invitation is to feel,
And in touching,
To reveal,
In gentle singing,
The whispering
Of heart to heart,
Dreaming dreams
Of how to heal.