Think, they need only to understand
Understanding means commitment
One side or the other
There’s no middle ground
The victory of the conception
Means the distinction of the other
The diminished responsibility of proof, just the response to obey
The scale of disenchantment and disillusion that will follow
The manipulation of Ferber
When the political forces seek loyalty above compassion
Correct positions aligned will come to the poet to the intellectual
Not abstract to be the mouthpiece of the tyrant
Once the voice of the abstract people
Now slaves to their cause
A scapegoat for their errors
An undeclared war on society
Pitting those who will gain the advantage and to those who will find discrimination, disappointment and depression

Ignorance will be the death of our democracy

If you go, you’ll never come back
Not whole, not unchanged.
The wind will take part of you,
The silence will teach you your name.

The trees will whisper truths
That cities never speak.
The stars will etch themselves
In the corners of your sleep.

And when you return,
You won’t know how to explain
The way a mountain
Made you weep in the rain.

If you go
You’ll never come all the way back.
Some part of you will stay
Where the world still remembers how to breathe.

No one holds the key to this door.
Not you, not me
Because we chose to close it gently,
Then locked it, lovingly,
From the inside.

Together, we stepped past the threshold,
And left the world behind.
No fear, no need to turn the handle,
No exit in our mind.

Here, inside this quiet space,
Our love is free to grow
Unseen, untouched, uninterrupted.
Just us.
And that’s all we need to know.

We’re not locked in out of fear,
But by choice, by trust,
No need for a key.
This room was made for us.

Me and my anxiety,
We’re friends now.
I’ve spent so much time with you,
Might as well shake hands.

Me and my sleep disorder,
We’re friends now.
The bags under my eyes
Are just part of the outfit.

Me and my fear of driving,
We’re friends now.
I grip the wheel,
While everyone else becomes a threat.

Me and my eating disorder
We’re friends now.
Hunger feels like control,
And silence tastes like victory.

Me and my multiple personalities,
We’re friends now.
At least I’m never alone,
I kinda like them.

Me and my bipolar,
We’re friends now.
Two versions of me
Taking turns with the microphone.

Me and my schizophrenia,
We’re friends now.
I talk to the shadows,
And Granger always listens.

But me and my depression..
We’re not friends.
I’m tired of your weight,
Of waking up with you sitting on my chest.
You don’t talk, you just stay.
And I’m so **** sick of you.

I watch the ones I love
Drink slow,
Then slip-
From laughter into spectacle.
Bright-eyed,
I see too much.
Not by choice,
But by clarity I didn’t ask for.

They celebrate,
And I’m there-
But I can’t quite be there.
Their fun feels foreign,
A language I’ve forgotten
Or never learned.

Voices rise,
Inhibitions fall,
And I smile out of place,
Wishing I could feel
What they feel.
But I can’t.

I made a choice
That separates me.
In a world drunk on escape,
I choose presence.
And it feels like exile.

I’d find comfort
If they saw what I see.
If they stood where I stand.
But I am.
A strange creature,
Craving connection
But fearing the cost.

I don’t choose not to go.
I just… can’t.

Then it turns:
The stumble, the slur,
The ***** on the floor—
And still,
I stay silent.
Because judgment is lonely
And honesty isn’t invited.

I’m searching for truth
In a world that’s intoxicated.
And that’s
My struggle.

You were drawn to my shine,
To the light in my steps, my aura, my time.
You walked beside me all the while,
Curious-why do I smile?

I spoke of joy, of a heart that glows,
Of peace within, the love I know.
But you had none, you’d lost your spark,
And sought to ***** out all my dark.

You didn’t want to see me grow
You only came to steal my glow.

I wish I could
But you’ll soon see,
The words don’t always come to me.
I stutter, stall
unable to rant,
And what I’d say, I simply can’t.

I don’t speak much,
Though I wish I might,
But my thoughts don’t land just right.
From brain to mouth,
There’s something lost
A moment’s pause,
At such a cost.

They call me quiet,
Say I’m shy,
But they don’t know how hard I try.
To shape my thoughts into a stream,
To speak aloud what I dare dream.

I long to stand
And boldly say,
The things I hold back every day.
A public speaker
I’ve wished to be,
And I’ve worked hard in therapy.

They taught me breath,
To roll each sound,
But still my voice gets turned around.

So if I stutter
Please just know,
It breaks my heart
To let it show.

To simply speak
As you all do
To say what’s real,
To say what’s true.

But I stay silent,
Face composed
The quiet one
That no one knows.

Life is funny like that.
It spins you in circles
then asks why you’re dizzy.
Gives you a heart,
then dares you to guard it.

I was never sure of myself,
just a constant echo of “maybe” and “not yet,”
all that doubt
stacked high like unpaid bills
and broken promises
to the person I was supposed to become.

Never had the money
to take the next step,
never had the nerve
to leap without the net.
So I stayed.
Right there.
Stuck in the space between
what I wanted
and what I feared I’d lose.

I let you go,
but only halfway.
Held on with one hand
while waving goodbye with the other.
Not because I stopped loving you,
but because I couldn’t bear
to be the reason you broke.

I didn’t wanna let you down.

And still, I kept living
Even when falling felt like flying
without the freedom.
Even when the silence was louder
than the words I couldn’t say.

Life keeps changing
no warning, no manual,
just motion.
Fast.
Relentless.
And sometimes cruel.

But I fight to stand tall
in the shadows of my own doubt,
hoping..
no, believing
that maybe one day
I’ll break through it all.

Because life is funny like that.
Sometimes, the fall
is just the beginning
of the rise.

All we have left is a photograph
Where memories live, where shadows last.
Bell-bottom jeans with embroidered patch,
“Magoo” stitched neat on the pocket flap.

A smile wide beneath round-framed glasses,
A knit cap perched as each moment passes.
A snapshot kept so time won’t erase
The lines of love etched in his face.

My uncle’s shadow, soft and thin
Rests on my cheeks, my chin, my grin.
My auntie says I’m much like you,
With kindness clear in all I do.

You left too soon, a fleeting spark,
But I hold you still within my heart.
Though years have flown and time has passed,
The McKenny name and love will last.

Who are they calling Them?
Like Them doesn’t have a name.
Like Them has no story.
Like Them just appeared one day
uninvited,
unwanted,
unwelcome.

Is Them different than me?
Does Them not bleed red, dream big, cry soft at night?
Does Them not hold memories the way I do
with trembling hands and silent prayers?

Who are they talking about when they say Them?
Oh… Them.
The neighbor. The worker. The mother. The son.
The one who speaks with a different rhythm,
prays with a different posture,
loves with a different fire.

Why are you so afraid of Them?
Do you think Them will replace you?
Take your place,
steal your space,
erase your name from the page?

There are fewer of Them than there are of you.
But still, you tremble.
Still, you point.
Still, you speak of Them with spit on your tongue.

You use harsh words to describe Them.
But I know Them.
I’ve laughed with Them.
Worked beside Them.
Heard Them sing when they thought no one was listening.

You claim strength,
but your fear betrays you.
You built this nation on the backs of Them.
Sent Them to die in wars you declared from safe rooms.
Expected Them to serve your plate,
then disappear before dessert.

But don’t you still need Them?
To harvest, to heal, to build, to teach?
To raise your children
and bury your dead?

I don’t want Them to go away.
I like Them.
I am Them.

And maybe…
maybe you are too.

I’ll call you a sucker
But that ain’t quite right,
You reek of betrayal
And swallowed the light.

Did you drink the Kool-Aid?
Bow low, kiss the ring?
Now you’ve got buyer’s remorse
Feel the blade as it stings.

Are you a loyalist,
Blind in your grace?
Ready to bleed
Just to save their face?

You’ll take the bullet,
They’ll walk away clean.
You die for a cause
They live like kings.

You’ve been duked, my friend
Sold out and used.
The crown they wore
Left you bruised.

MMR.
Three letters.
A shield forged in science.
But you turned your back,
Called it poison,
Chose pride over protection.

You read one blog.
Watched one video.
And suddenly,
You’re wiser than the centuries
That buried children
By the thousands.

You walk freely,
But carry death on your breath.
Invisible.
Unknowable.
Unforgiving.

The infant at the store-
Too young to be immune.
The neighbor with chemo-
Too weak to fight.
The pregnant nurse-
Counting heartbeats
That may never take their first breath.

You say,
“It’s my choice.”
But your choice
Becomes their grave.

The virus doesn’t care
What you believe.
It only cares
That you were kind enough
To let it in.

So when the fever comes-
When the rash blooms
Like fire under your skin-
When the breath shallows,
And your lungs forget how to rise-
Know this:

You could have stopped it.
You could have been the break in the chain.
But you chose to be the link.
And now,
You’re the strain.

I wish I could
But you’ll soon see,
The words don’t always come to me.
I stutter, stall, unable to rant,
And what I’d say, I simply can’t.

I don’t speak much,
Though I wish I might,
But my thoughts don’t land just right.
From brain to mouth,
There’s something lost
A moment’s pause,
At such a cost.

They call me quiet,
Say I’m shy,
But they don’t know how hard I try.
To shape my thoughts into a stream,
To speak aloud what I dare dream.

I long to stand
And boldly say,
The things I hold back every day.
A public speaker, I’ve wished to be,
And I’ve worked hard in therapy.

They taught me breath,
To roll each sound,
But still my voice gets turned around.

So if I stutter
Please just know,
It breaks my heart
To let it show.

To simply speak
As you all do
To say what’s real,
To say what’s true.

But I stay silent,
Face composed
The quiet one
That no one knows.

You said it so well
Love…
It’s not just a feeling.
It’s a force.
Profound.
Precious.
The kind that reaches deep,
that doesn’t flinch when things get hard.

Your parents
they gave you a glimpse
of what love looks like
when it’s real.
When it’s patient,
when it’s not performative,
but lived.

They showed you
what it means to be seen,
to be chosen again and again,
not because you’re perfect,
but because you matter.

And now,
you carry that vision
a love that’s sincere,
pure,
unshaken by storms,
unafraid of silence.

It’s what we all want, isn’t it?
Not the fairytale,
but the truth.
Not perfection,
but presence.

So if the road feels long,
if hearts have closed
and promises broke,
don’t lose faith.

You-
the one who believes,
who dares to dream of something more-
keep walking.
Keep loving.
Keep becoming.

Because love like that?
It doesn’t just appear.
It arrives
for those who are ready
to receive it.

And you will be.

I’m always in love.
There’s no means to its end.
It’s in my message,
it’s in my head.

It’s the beat that I tap,
it’s a smile on my face.
I’m always in love
there’s no way to replace

I’m always in love.
There’s no point where I stop.
I fall to my knees,
I throw you my heart.

She is
like a flower—
not blooming for admiration,
but blooming regardless.

Whether anyone sees her or not,
she must blossom.

Not to please others,
but to be
the most radiant version of herself.

Not an object of admiration,
but a force of beauty
and strength
for her own sake.

They ask me if I’m proud to be white.
And I pause—
Not from shame,
But because I’ve learned not to answer
Without first remembering what came before me.

Proud of what?
Of conquest dressed up as progress?
Of freedom that came with a foot on someone else’s neck?
Of laws that wrote Blackness into *******
And whiteness into power?

My people wrote the rules,
Then broke the spirits
Of the ones they feared would rise.

They burned books
To keep minds dark.
They banned reading
Because education meant rebellion.
And rebellion from the enslaved
Was labeled violence,
While the chains weren’t.

They tore families apart,
Sold children like stock,
Then centuries later
Wonder why Black homes
Are fighting to stay whole.

They unleashed dogs on marchers,
Sprayed fire hoses at children
Just for asking to be seen.

This is how I remember.

I remember Emmett Till,
Fourteen years old,
Lynched for a lie.
I remember Tulsa, 1921,
Where success was a threat

Black Wall Street turned to smoke and ruin.

I remember redlining,
Where maps bled prejudice
And banks drew lines
That locked Black families out of futures.

I remember the war on drugs,
Where addiction in white skin
Was a health crisis,
But in Black skin,
A crime.

I remember George Floyd,
Face pressed to pavement,
A knee on his neck
For nine minutes and twenty-nine seconds
A public execution
That still needed a trial
To prove what we all saw.

This is how I remember.

And today
The Confederate flag still flies
On porches,
On plates,
On shoulders
Like a badge of glory.
Some still preach “heritage”
But won’t name what it honors
A war to keep humans in chains.

They talk of “states’ rights”
As if those rights weren’t
The right to own a man.

In some parts of this country,
They still act like the South won
Like their freedoms were stolen
When the shackles came off someone else.

And racism?
It didn’t die.
It just learned how to dress.
It put on a suit,
Picked up a microphone,
And ran for office.
It showed up in school curriculums
That call slavery a migration,
Or erase Black names from the pages.

It whispers at kitchen tables,
It votes in silence,
It marches in khakis,
And calls itself “tradition.”

This is how I remember.

I am a white man.
I didn’t own slaves.
But I live in the house they built.
And every brick
Carries the weight of what was done to build it.

I’m not proud of that.
But I won’t pretend it isn’t mine to reckon with.

I am proud of my shame.
Because shame means I still have a conscience.
Because if I can feel it,
I can face it.
And if I can face it,
Maybe I can change what comes next.

I remember
Because forgetting
Is the first act of violence.
Because pretending
Is how this all keeps going.

We don’t heal
By rewriting history.
We heal
By learning to carry it honestly.

This is how I remember
And this time,
I refuse to look away.

Author’s Note:
I am a white man.
Fourteen generations here in America
I sought my family history
I choose to remember all of our history—
not just the parts that make us proud,
but the parts that make us pause.
I refuse to wash it away.
Because truth, no matter how painful,
is the only path to justice.

I write this in the eye of the spiral,
Where every thought is gospel
And every whisper is war.
Where sleep is for the sane,
And I?
I haven’t met sanity in days.

I built kingdoms out of caffeine and chaos,
Prophesied truths at 3 a.m.
Scribbled scripture on sticky notes
And left them like prayers
On the altar of my kitchen counter.

I am brilliance undone.
A floodlight in a room of candles,
Burning too bright,
Too fast,
Til even the shadows weep.

This is my testament—
My confession wrapped in fire.
If I crash,
Let the wreckage teach you something.

When I needed you most
there you were.

I was just a child,
desperate for love,
hungry for attention.
Should I have asked for more?

The TV was silent,
the power was out.
The fridge held no hope,
just hunger and doubt.

Food stamps for dinner?
No—sold for a high.
We waited in corners
and learned not to cry.

Our clothes torn and tattered,
no shoes on our feet.
They flapped as we walked
through the cold, cracked concrete.

Then,
a knock at the door.

We froze in our place.
Curtains half drawn,
no light on our face.
I watched through the gap,
afraid they would see
the dust, the stillness,
the nothing of me.

Laughter came easy
for children at school.
But not for the ones
raised outside the rules.

You filled your lungs
with a poisonous smoke,
while ours filled with fear,
too young, yet we broke.

I saw you fading
your chest rose no more.
Your eyes stayed open,
but life left unsure.

You chose your escape,
and shut every door.
And left us behind
with you dead on the floor.

If you told me I was wrong,
You might be right
Truth runs blurry
In this fractured light.

Now lies wear robes,
Declare themselves true,
And I, once sure,
Don’t know what I knew.

What once was logic
Now fades and strains,
Bent by power,
Twisted by gains.

What fits your truth
Becomes your proof,
But the cut still stings,
And pain needs no truth.

You say it loud,
You say it clear
But just repeating
Doesn’t make it real.
A thousand times
Won’t make it true
A lie, dressed up,
Still won’t do.

Hunger doesn’t reason
It just consumes.
And I’ve been forced
To live in someone else’s truth.

Not one the same,
But all as one—
Different paths,
Same rising sun.

Thinking thoughts
That feel aligned,
Needs not one,
But all combined.

We eat to live,
We sleep to dream,
Our voices clash,
Yet still, we scream.

A cry is heard,
A hand extends,
The hurt we feel—
The heart that mends.

We rise, we fall,
We learn, we grow,
In separate soils,
But roots still show.

And in the end,
We all return—
Ash to ash,
And urn to urn.

Not one the same,
But all the same.
We bear one name:
Human.

Hey—
Look up. Be still.
Life won’t wait and time won’t chill.
It moves with or without your glance,
So don’t just scroll—give now a chance.

Being present ain’t just “being there,”
It’s showing up with eyes that care.
It’s hearing meaning past the sound,
And feeling what’s beneath the ground.

It’s catching more than just the loud—
It’s reading silence in the crowd.
It’s not just nodding to pretend,
It’s listening like you’re with a friend.

Don’t wait to speak—
just wait and hear.
You’ll see the world become more clear.

‘Cause moments fade and chances fly,
And you’ll miss life just blinking by.

So don’t drift off or disappear—
You’ve got a mind, you’ve got an ear.
You’re not just watching—
you’re the scene.
Be part of life, not just the screen.

Be here.
Be now.
Be wide and true.
Be present—
The world is waiting for you.

Our world runs on hard work
The sacrifice of self,
With no regard for safety,
Dropped into the Earth to mine coal.

Generations of miners
Uncles, fathers, grandfathers
Rose from the mines,
Their skin darkened by dust, not sun.

But who will take their place?
As generations tire,
The work remains,
Yet no one volunteers to fall deep into the Earth.

Have we denied ourselves a workforce
By coddling the young?
They sit in gaming chairs,
Lost in fantasy, where reality is not.

Unwilling to do the work of their fathers,
They’ve seen the pain,
Heard the cough,
Watched lungs blacken with coal dust—
In a society that turned its back on them.

And would I take that chance?
I can’t blame them—
I understand where they stand… or sit.
They do not know the sacrifice of kin.

They are the Yeah, No Generation.

Scraped knuckles,
Flesh torn—
The work of shovels,
Then rake the thorns.

I scar the ground
Where roots are born,
Worms wiggle no sound
Giving life now reborn.

I picked stones in windrows,
No boundary before—
But laid them by hand,
Now they form the field’s shore.

My back now bent,
Like the *** in my hand,
I plan to seed—
Soon, corn will stand.

My skin now cracked,
Like sun-dried clay,
Hands gnarled and split
From each long day.

The sun carves lines
Across my face,
Like furrows dug—
A farmer’s grace.

My spine curves low,
Like the rows I’ve sown,
Each step I take
Feels carved from stone.

On bended knee,
With ***** I tear
This burnt earth—
I treat it with care.

Each wound I earn,
Each line I wear,
Marks the bond we share—
Me and the land laid bare.

The harvest feeds
What labor yields—
But worn hands must rest
Like fallowed fields.

Words chosen with care,
left behind like whispers—
scrawled in a quick hand,
on paper torn to look like a heart.

Held to the sun,
a love-shadow cast,
heart drawn in mustard
on a sandwich half-masked.

Steam on the mirror,
a whisper of grace,
uplifting words
for the start of your day.

Etched in the sand
before tides sweep by,
written in smoke,
love’s note in the sky.

Scraps of paper,
notes left everywhere,
have outlasted our love—
but still linger in air.

I never meant to be alone,
But life just carved that path in stone.
I’ve had some friends, or so I’d say—
But none of them would choose to stay.

I see the crowds with hearts so bright,
Their laughter glowing in the light.
They gather near the church each day,
To sing and praise, to bow and pray.

But even there, I felt no peace,
No calm, no joy, no soul’s release.
I slipped out quiet, walked away—
Still searching for a better way.

I talk to folks while on the grind,
A passing word, a glance, a kind.
But something in me makes them pause—
Like I don’t fit their world, their laws.

I thought I moved like all the rest,
But maybe I don’t pass the test.
A little odd, a bit astray—
Not built to walk their kind of way.

I wander now where silence sighs,
Beneath the stars and ghostly skies.
I hope a spirit sees my pain—
But all I feel is cold, like rain.

So loneliness becomes my friend,
A shadow that won’t break or bend.
No hand to hold, no voice to say—
“You’re not alone, come stay, just stay”

I was tasked to clean it up—
but the mess?
It wasn’t mine.
I stepped right into your ****,
you led me,
right into it.

Now we both reek,
covered in the stink—
of choices I didn’t make,
but still, I’m forced to sink.

You lit the fire,
I brought the hose,
but somehow I’m the one exposed.
You played the victim,
I played along,
now I’m left wondering
where I went wrong.

They point at me—
the smell too strong—
but they don’t know
who led me on.

You wiped your hands
while mine stayed stained,
you walked away,
and I remained.

Cleaning up
what you left behind,
still gagging
on the ties that bind.

So next time you’re looking
for someone to save—
remember:
even heroes
get tired of graves.

I don’t find it hard to be sober.
Being social and sober—
that’s the hardest part.

It seems like everyone has a vice.
They call it “Cali sober,”
but I can’t do that either.
If you’re masking pain with anything,
you’re not sober.

I stopped drinking on the road,
living a life of quiet solitude.
Hotel rooms, empty diners—
I’m not the type to drink alone.

Even eating at the bar feels heavy,
lonely beneath the hum of televisions
and clinking glasses.

I have friends.
But when they drink,
I shrink.
I always want to leave.

I’ve always been anxious,
but now it’s sharper—
more present,
more real.

It’s been a year
since my last drink.
Twelve months passed quickly,
but the pride remains.

Clarity came soon after—
clear as the sky after rain.
But being social
still feels like walking into a storm.

Because everyone drinks.

I’m not the one to call them out
when they get loud,
when they stumble,
when they slur.
But I no longer want to be there.

So I stay home.
Alone,
more than I’d like.

Searching
for someone
who sees the world
the way I now do.

I find myself
on the outside looking in—
like standing on a porch
at someone else’s party,
hand raised to knock.

I peer through the window:
laughter, smiles,
cheers rising like music.

But I don’t knock.
I don’t go in.

I didn’t stop drinking
because I had to.
I wasn’t destroying myself—
not exactly.

But in hindsight,
alcohol lit too many fires
I spent years trying to put out.

And that—
that’s the hardest part
of being sober:

Living in a world
that drinks
like it breathes.

Hackles darned and threaded tight,
Dubbing blends to shape and hide,
Hook disguised as nymph in flight—
The bait,
The lure,
A scaled-up knight,
Who swims beneath
The sun’s bright gleam,
And hides within
The water’s dream.

My rod pulls back—
I give a cast,
Ten to two, then two to ten,
I let the fly drift past again.

It drops in place,
No sound, no trace,
No tug, no pull, no race—
Until I twitch and snap the slack,
The hook sets firm—
I’ve met my match.

The water slaps,
I hear my shout,
A trout! A trout!
I dance about.

I tug the rod,
I turn the reel,
A fight too strong for me to feel.

And when the net secures my prize,
I stop—
and look into its eyes.

Compassion, sudden and alive,
I free the hook,
I let it dive

We’re both really lucky you and me
Until tomorrow ,
We are both free

They ask us to give
when we have so little.
They promise to protect us—
protect our way of life.

But why must we give,
when we already have so little,
and they have so much?

They say it’s to preserve a way of life…
But whose life are they saving?

Is it our way of life—
where we struggle, scrape, and survive?
Or is it theirs—
where they ask for more,
and take even more,
from those who have none to give?

If those with plenty gave a little more,
there would be food at every table,
hope in every home,
peace in places worn by sorrow.

If those with wealth shared their hands,
the world would heal
faster than it ever broke.

A better world is not beyond us—
it is just beyond their greed.

Dressed —
to reflect our mother’s respect.
Left —
on the steps,
waiting —
What to inspected.

With little intent,
we — boys —
unable to pent,
spilled down the stairs,
our mischief —
a crooked sklent.

No fear —
for the unkent.
Our joy —
wild, content,
without pause,
without consent —
for our mother’s lament.

Her eyes —
narrowed and bent,
as she breathes —
in our scent.
Emotions rise —
then ascend,
but all she shows —
is dissent.

We—
too young to repent.
Boys —
full of descent.
Her smile —
soon blent,
but her love —
never pent.

With arms bent,
mouths full of incent,
spitting mud —
with wild intent —
we drank —
from puddles.

Oh child,
so young to be alone,
no means to cope,
left sobbing on gravestones,
void of all hope.

Now searching for a home,
the old one now torn,
wanting for what’s gone,
lost is the memory—
forlorn.

When all those who passed,
love’s shadow is cast,
young sorrow to last,
Left aging so fast.

I lost my safety net
the day she left this world.
The one who caught me
when I slipped,
when I stumbled,
when I fell too far.

I lost my guard rail
the day my mother died.
The one who kept me
from flying off the road,
from crashing into the dark,
from losing my way.

Now—
I’m stuck.
Stuck in a rut.
No hand to catch me.
No arm to steer me right.

And maybe—
maybe that’s grace.
Maybe that’s mercy.
Because at least I’m stuck…
and not
drifting
away.

I see you there,
hiding from the light.
Come, sit with me.
Let’s share this good night.

The glimmering stars
shine so bright.
Look up with me.
Let’s share this good night.

See the moon flicker
as it rises to its height.
Stay here with me.
Let’s share this good night.

Now the night has passed,
Soon the sun will rise bright.
Thank you for being here.
For sharing this good night.

Hiding my sorrow,
no one sees me there.
No one will notice—
I’ll hide my tears in my hair.

I watch and I wonder
if anyone cares.
No one will notice—
I’ll hide my face with my hair.

The world feels so empty,
and I’m lost in the air.
No one will notice—
but maybe… someone might care.

We are born with kindness in our hearts,
a quiet urge to give, to share—
but giving all would leave me bare,
standing where the weary start.

So many turn their heads away,
passing by with lowered eyes,
ashamed of what they can’t erase,
of empty hands and silent sighs.

Some pockets hold only dust and air,
while mine hold coins, a privilege earned.
I ate with ease before I shopped,
no fear my fortune might be turned.

I do not judge, I do not scorn,
but pity lingers in my chest.
Their path is one I’ve never walked,
yet sorrow whispers, manifest.

If I had wealth, would I bestow
or clutch it close in quiet dread?
It’s hard to know until you’re there—
just like the ones who beg for bread.

I love Sundays—
waking slow, stretching wide,
one last day to savor,
wrapped in the warmth of morning light.

But then it creeps in—
laundry piles, grocery lists,
gas tank half-empty,
a whisper of duty pulling me forward.
I hate Sundays.

Tasks complete, I stand outside,
admiring the work, the order,
knowing the week will not demand
more than I have already given.
I love Sundays.

Yet as the sun sinks low,
so does my heart—
the weight of the week ahead,
the early alarm, the Monday grind.
I hate Sundays.

But imagine if Monday was ours to keep,
a four-day week, the American dream.
More time to breathe, to rest, to live—
now that’s a Sunday I could always love.

You asked me—
Where do your words come from?

My heart.
My brain.
My mouth.
They move together—
like rhythm, like breath.
When I speak,
I don’t plan the stories…
They just
come
out.

From the memories—
The ones I carry,
the ones that carried me.

To those who built them with me,
walked beside me,
loved me—
then pushed me
out.

You’re still there.
In the stories I tell.
In the moments that rise up
like waves I thought had passed.

Friends—
They’ve given me the words,
the courage to speak
without the shadow of doubt.

Spirit talks—
In the echo of every footstep taken,
in the silence between
laughter and tears.

That’s life.
Right?
That’s what it’s all about.

We all feel the same things—
joy, heartbreak,
the ache that sits just under the surface.
But we hide it.
We hold it down.
And doubt?
It doesn’t walk alone.
It comes
with company.

So let’s talk.
Let’s remember—
what made us happy.
What made us cry.
What made us doubt everything
we once believed in.

These are our building blocks—
of motion,
of emotion,
of memory.

This…
this is the story.
This is what life is all about.

You visited me last night,
In your angelic, glowing light.
I saw your shadows dance with mine,
Your golden hair, a holy sign.

Your smile—it wrapped around my fear,
A gentle pull, you drew me near.
No need for words, no need for sound,
Your presence was where peace is found.

You brought me comfort, soft and true,
A moment shared with only you.
One I won’t forget or hide—
It lives in me, it grows inside.

Your hand reached out to calm my soul,
In silence, somehow made me whole.
Your aura wrapped the night in grace,
I saw the stars light up your face.

To be with you—it stilled my mind,
A sacred hush, a rare rewind.
Though brief, your light erased my fear,
And left a warmth that lingers here.

When morning came, you slipped away,
But I still feel you in the day.
So if you can, return in flight—
And find me on some quiet night.

I want them to shake you-
not to break you,
but to stir something deep.
To rattle you, gently,
from places I’ve let fall asleep.

To spring anger—yes—
but only where healing begins.
To draw tears,
like cleansing rain,
and decorate the silence
with something real again.

I want them to leave you wondering,
just quietly wanting more.
Not confused,
but curious—
like standing before an unopened door.

I want my words to shake you,
not to harm—
but to hold.
To bring you to the floor,
only so you rise
even more bold.

My words should empower you,
Implore you to want more—
more peace,
more light,
more truth than ever before.

To leave you hanging—
not lost,
but suspended—
in a breath,
where something new is just about
to begin.

Because words can move—
and I hope mine move you,
like kindness in full bloom,
like quiet strength
in a still room.

I asked myself daily—
What would Jesus do?

Did you read the Word of God?
Preach it amongst the followers?
Find comfort in your parish?
Fellowship in the church?

Do you walk the walk?
Or just talk the talk?

Do you follow the teachings of Jesus?
Do you help others?
Give of yourself—
The shoes off your feet,
The clothes off your back?

If so,
You walk the walk.

But—
Do you tell them of your good deeds?
Read from the Word?
Practice what you preach?
Or do you talk the talk
But don’t wanna walk?

Do you follow in His path of righteousness—
Or are you just righteous?

Do you practice your religion,
Or parade it?
Do you heed the words you read,
Or twist them when it’s convenient?

Do you show kindness to the less fortunate?
Do you care for the poor?
The marginalized?
Do you teach them the ways of God?

“Blessed are the poor in spirit…”
“Sell your possessions and give to the poor.”
“Love your neighbor as yourself.”
“The Kingdom of God is for the poor.”

Jesus Himself showed compassion to the poor.
Healing the sick,
Feeding the hungry,
Speaking out against injustice.

So remember His words—
Before you use them as your own.

Walk the walk.
Don’t just talk the talk.

“Whatever you did to one of these brothers and sisters of mine…
You did to Me.”

So different,
But so much the same.
We don’t walk the same path,
But we came from the same name.

We find strength in numbers,
Power in presence,
Comfort when we gather—
A sacred kind of essence.

The wisdom of our fathers,
The stories they told,
Passed down like treasures,
More valuable than gold.

We’ve stood in different places,
Lived in different lands,
But still—
We carry the same name
With the same proud hands.

The miles may stretch,
But they can’t erase
The blood we share,
The bond we face.

One name.
One line.
One heart.
One flame.
Different faces—
But the fire’s the same.

Yes, we are family.
We wear it like a crown.
The Goodrich name—
We hold it down.

Our roots run deep,
Our love runs wide.
Whatever may come,
We stand with pride.

So here’s to the name,
And all it became—
Different, yes…
But built the same.

In the town of York, Maine,
on these two acres,
stood the house my grandfather built
for my grandmother—
the MicMac.

As a child, I played with my sister and brother,
while my mother and grandmother bustled about:
rooms to clean, linens to wash,
the clothesline filled with sheets
drying in the summer breeze.

Grampy’s lawn tractor out back,
the Cadillac parked in front.
Family came together here—
we always knew the door was open.

This family business helped so many,
more than we will ever know.
Friends, aunts, uncles, cousins—
Grampy and Nanny Beagan.

A late-night knock on the door
delivered a message
we would never forget:
the loss of my Uncle Murray.
His memory stays
in my heart—
and on my chin.

Mary Ellen is there
as Nanny makes me an ice cream shake.
Grampy in his chair,
sipping a highball,
watching the evening news.

In Murray’s dresser,
I find his music albums—
and a pair of pants
with Magoo
embroidered on the back pocket.

A picture of Murray,
in a knit hat,
sitting with friends.

Mom and Dad are on their way to Florida.
Christine, Shannon, and I
are going to the MicMac.
Nanny always made me feel better
when I was sad without my parents.

When Mom was in the hospital,
Nanny and Grampy held us tight,
keeping our minds
from how much we missed her.

One October,
we moved into the MicMac.
Mom would run the motel
while Dad went off to work each day.

Those were good times—
with the Chick boys,
and Jeffrey next door.
There was always something to do,
a new world to explore.

We all grew up so fast,
as time passed us by.
Graduations, weddings, funerals—
we returned
to the MicMac.

Through the years,
it’s become hard
to live the life
the MicMac requires.
The days are long.
The bell will ring.
The grass will grow.

But I always hoped this day would come:
so Mom and Dad could walk away
with the pennies they earned,
and the time
to enjoy the life they deserve.

This place—
this MicMac—
has made us rich with love,
filled us with joy,
and given our family a home
only we can understand.

I will miss her.

But I am full—
with the love
that we all know
as MicMac.

Thank you, Gramps.
Thank you, Nanny.
Thank you, Mom and Dad.
Through your hard work and love,
you gave me
the riches of a lifetime.

I will never forget the MicMac.
Nor will I give back my key.

May I Be the Last Thing on Your Mind
As you end this day and slip into sleep?
May I be the calm that softly finds
Your resting thoughts, where silence runs deep?

May I be the peace where your dreaming starts,
The hush that lingers, warm and kind—
A whisper held in your quiet heart,
The very last thing on your mind tonight.

I gave you my love—forever.
But forever was mine to give.
Now loneliness is my forever,
And alone is mine to live.

I gave you my heart—forever.
My heart was mine to give.
Now broken-hearted is my forever,
And heartbreak is mine to live.

Love sent me searching, longing for more,
The kind that don’t knock—it kicks down the door.
The love that you showed me was twisted, confined,
Not trinkets or words stitched frozen in time.

Love is a feeling, it crawls down your spine,
Fills up your heart, takes hold of your mind.
It’s not always gentle, not always kind—
Sometimes it hurts, leaves pieces behind.

Love sends you reeling, hoping to find
A flicker of joy from someone in time.
But love made you angry, it tore you apart,
And the love that you gave me—
It bruised my heart.

Not of my kind, not born from the same—
I’ve learned that now, it’s not all a game.
But it’s hard to show love when you think you know how,
When your past plants a flag and won’t let you bow.

I learned from my father, my mother was kind—
Their love carved a space that lives in my mind.
So the love that I carry, the love that is mine,
Is gentler, is deeper,
It’s not of your kind.

You sent them my way,
Put yourself in my path—
Smiled as you passed.
I missed your signals.
I missed your signs.

You brushed my arm,
Put your name in my head,
Smiled, gave me your card.
I missed your signals.
I missed your signs.

You cut my hair,
Put your hand on my head,
Smiled as you said that…
I missed your signals.
I missed your signs.

You watched me waiting,
Put your hand in my hand,
Smiled as we discovered—
I missed your signals.
I missed your signs.

You offered your love,
Put your ring on my hand,
Smiled, shared the moment.
I missed your signals.
I missed your signs.

You asked me to share,
Put us now, not me,
Smiling together.
I missed your signals.
I missed your signs.

You needed my help,
Put matters aside—
Smile fell from our face.
I missed your signals.
I missed your signs.

You should have known
Put these issues aside—
Smiled, and remembered.
I missed your signals.
I missed your signs.