Your Door: A Poem to My Son

Such is the challenge
To behold a door
To sense all it leads to
While not grieving more

To know if it’s opened
The Divine has willed
To praise, when it’s closed
His providence, still

Forth, amble with purpose
Or wait night and day
But ask for The Blessing
God’s presence, to stay

Andromeda

Before begins the countdown
A single opportunity abounds
Surely you see it

Before I seek a new galaxy
The last simulation
The door closing

Before bedtime today
Knock, You
I’ll deny the universe begging

Slammed

I think, given this headache

All is credible and nothing is possible

See here, these long-deceived eyes

All the mimicry as parallels and delusion

Well, heart, or rather, once-well heart

You will run the defense once again

Each Of These

From the dusty nearby corner
An isosceles scrap-wood of a thing
Unintentional it seems
Crammed in its acute condition
‘neath the uneven crack
The lumbering, commercial door
Drafty on cold days
Chipped-paint, metallic creak reminding
Facilitating
Nothing more than standard deliveries
9-5, Monday through Friday
Plus angry employees
No special deliveries here
Only sweat and swear-word tears
I am

And My Door

I confess 
I do need the few things that I want
For they’d help me to walk less only 
My heart put to the test
The more longish glance
The brush of a hand
Some help small or grand
And of course, that last dance
Reserved though this is, for the rest