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COVER - JAY water-border cymk 1978x2560 jpg.jpg




Even when the arms of sleep

have finally rocked me still,

you rouse me.



In the dark I wince

at your loathsome presence.

Your fingers jab me.


My daily companion.


Are we a pair?

A duo? --linked forever

by one misfortune?

Here we lie,

shackled together.


You exasperate me!

You drive me mad

because where

I go, you go also. Then,

you clink your chain and

I must follow.



you have limits.

And I

have boundaries.


However hard you try;

however far you stretch

your tentacles;

you may grope for, but

never reach


that private room,

that sacred place,

where I can go,

where One stands guard,

The Master

of my soul.





-April, 1997




Autumn breeze,

stroke the golden stalks of wheat

where my soul,

as a bucket, empty,

on its side,



Reach down;

here, to me, on the ground.

Rock my soul, the

hollow pail,

from side to side.


In my prime,

way back in my Spring,

the shiny brim of my bucket bustled;

its swollen brow emptied its

kernels to the



Now, rusty,

my brow sits silent,

its granary bare.

He who fills us up and

stands us all erect – each a different

shape and size – moves on.

To posterity.


Pity me? No!

Pity the unfortunate

vessel, the container that erodes,

upright, blessed

with seed, bulging with grain,

that never planted

a thing; but

sits buried in the




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