Trespassing with Gerald

The week went too long
January's numbing cold wears on.
The month that makes living well hard.
Call it cabin fever, or finding forever
All I know is these walls are closing in.

Sky as grey as despair, I drive
without a word
no cell phone
no radio on
As the tires hum along
through a world that stopped caring
a some time ago.


The lot is abandoned
wooden sign says the park
closed an hour ago.

But when have I ever cared
about the opinions of signs anyway.

My old work boots slosh through the
mud, each step a journey
away from this mess and toward myself.

The path sprinkled in leaves
ends at the waterfall of Rock Creek.

And there it is, as my blood runs cold.
A voice just out of earshot,
a footfall not far away.

"Who's there?" I say quietly.
Of course, who else would it be
out here, at twilight's last glow
but Great Uncle Gerald
the woods is where he always go.

I'm the young one, so I break brush
and let the old man follow close behind.

And it's been awhile, so I catch
him up on a lot.

I've got a good job in Chicago now,
been further than I ever thought I'd go.
Seen a lot since I left home.

Yeah, I've changed,
but I think most of what matters
is still in my heart.
And I've never stopped being fiercely proud
of where I'm from.

But I wonder aloud how I measure up to
him. By my age he'd
suffered through a winter in France
without enough food
and never let the flag fall.

Then he came home, had a country store
and a family.

He probably saved even more people over here
from hunger and foreclosure
than he did doughboys from the Nazis
But they don't give medals back at home, I guess.

Since I'm sure he's wondering,
I tell Gerald I'm not married yet.
A couple of broken hearts along the way.
But I'm stronger now than ever,
and I've never treated even one woman bad
just like he taught me.

The sky grows dark now
and I say with a lump in my throat and a tear in my eye

"Till next time
The lessons you taught me
help me every day, I can never
be far from your love,
even so far from home."

And with that the old flannel shirt,
the feed cap,
the wise blue eyes
fade away.

Goodbye is just as hard today,
as it was 12 years ago, when
we laid him to rest.

At these woodland meetings
he patiently listens
but never speaks.

But for all he so-called success
and 15-minute fame,
More than anything
I hope he's proud of me.

So, if you see me on the horizon
speaking softly and walking alone
please, just give me a minute
to finish my conversation
with one of the greatest men I've ever known.

Skipping Rocks on a River at Sunset

Skipping rocks on the river at sunset
on a bank away from the world
as the last rays fade from red to pink
bathing light on the water, a cliff,
an old gnarled tree,
and me.

Wearing a tan deep as oak,
an old torn up hat.
And a smile of unending possibilities.

You see, I was 17
and we were young and on fire
and I'm so much older now
six summers later.

On the river, for a moment
we believed we could have it all
and we thought things could always be this way
and we thought love came easy
and we could bottle time.

And I believed eternity
would be like her brown hair on my shoulder.

And it wouldn't be long
before friends parted ways
before death touched our lives
before her mistakes met with mine
before the first heartbreak
and final phone calls.

Before the dreams would nearly burst from my soul.

Before I risked it all
and saw my mother's tears in the rearview mirror.

And then, one day
the dreams became my life
problems, joy, and all.

As the possibilities got big
and the world got small
and the time went quick
and now I'm 24.


The breeze blows warm
for this time of fall.
As if to welcome me back
to the place that will always be home.
Where success and failure don't measure a man.
Where change comes slower, and family
is still one of the strongest words.

I walk slowly to the river
in some worn out boots
and designer jeans
while the memories are as thick
as the leaves beneath my feet.
And I speak softly of lessons learned.

Time cannot be bottled, but
should be treasured.

Everyone should have just one perfect summer,
one childhood love,
one dream that won't die.

The old lessons passed down
mean more to me now
then they did back then.

Doing good is simple
if we would only let it be.
And, always remember,
it's not up or down
thin or flush
comfort or pain
but about the journey.

That 17 year old kid grabbed the world by the horns.
Now, with two cell phones
a sports coat for TV,
and maybe changed more than I thought he would.

I find one smooth stone
a little smaller than my palm
as I throw it, side-armed alone
as the rock skips on the river at sunset
on a bank away from the world.
As the last rays fade from red to pink,
bathing hope on the water, a cliff,
an old gnarled tree
and me, as I breath out slowly
I'm so thankful for this journey.

The Story

Such a busy world
we have climbed into
full of bright lights
glamour and lies
and potential.
Yet paved in broken dreams
of fragile hearts who came before me.

Please don't misunderstand,
this is what I've always wanted.
though not everything I'd hoped for.
And the kids I went to high school with
are all grown up now.
At the reunion, they talked of
how I really made it.

But there's always a tinge of pain
even in the greatest happiness
you can never escape.
And I guess there always will be
this side of heaven.

Something about how the air hangs still tonight
with a cold front moving in
pulls my mind to tired cliche's
that play like broken records
as they say

"time changes everything"
"the sand runs out on everyone"
"all we have is today"

But I understand the meaning
and it is this: The hands
that pen these words
will eventually turn to dust.

And we pride ourselves on working in entertainment
and I'm certainly a part of it.

But pop culture is an unfaithful friend,
or a wicked master
depending on how much soul you give.

Yet, for all of these hip parties at art galleries
nothing holds back time
which will kill these puffed up careers long before it takes us away.

And the day is coming
when we will be the punchlines to a joke
or maybe a half-remembered name in a
"back when" conversation.

On that day, when so much of what
we have lived for has dried up,
and all that's left is unfiltered life,
the kind that richess try and avoid.

On that day, I think I'll be the first to say,
"Yeah, I've made my mistakes,
but I took hold of grace,
and fell away from my pain."

Whether or not these words really mattered,
or all my plans were labored in vein,
I can see two things that count.

Carrying the one story well,
and loving my neighbor as myself.

But those can be so hard to see
in this Hollywood Storefront Industry.

So, maybe that's it
the secret
the answer
the mystery.

You and I are walking here together, tonight,
to remind each other
that it all comes down to love
and love will always be
the story.

The Story

Such a busy world
we have climbed into
full of bright lights
glamour and lies
and potential.
Yet paved in broken dreams
of fragile hearts who came before me.

Please don't misunderstand,
this is what I've always wanted.
though not everything I'd hoped for.
And the kids I went to high school with
are all grown up now.
At the reunion, they talked of
how I really made it.

But there's always a tinge of pain
even in the greatest happiness
you can never escape.
And I guess there always will be
this side of heaven.

Something about how the air hangs still tonight
with a cold front moving in
pulls my mind to tired cliche's
that play like broken records
as they say

"time changes everything"
"the sand runs out on everyone"
"all we have is today"

But I understand the meaning
and it is this: The hands
that pen these words
will eventually turn to dust.

And we pride ourselves on working in entertainment
and I'm certainly a part of it.

But pop culture is an unfaithful friend,
or a wicked master
depending on how much soul you give.

Yet, for all of these hip parties at art galleries
nothing holds back time
which will kill these puffed up careers long before it takes us away.

And the day is coming
when we will be the punchlines to a joke
or maybe a half-remembered name in a
"back when" conversation.

On that day, when so much of what
we have lived for has dried up,
and all that's left is unfiltered life,
the kind that richess try and avoid.

On that day, I think I'll be the first to say,
"Yeah, I've made my mistakes,
but I took hold of grace,
and fell away from my pain."

Whether or not these words really mattered,
or all my plans were labored in vein,
I can see two things that count.

Carrying the one story well,
and loving my neighbor as myself.

But those can be so hard to see
in this Hollywood Storefront Industry.

So, maybe that's it
the secret
the answer
the mystery.

You and I are walking here together, tonight,
to remind each other
that it all comes down to love
and love will always be
the story.

24 In

Here's a new one...wanted to have a record of this weekend...
-tower

24 In

Let’s pick up at 11pm.
White knuckles, 24 years in the making.
The final pitch…
Cardinals win!

My heart skips a beat
for glory
for love
for a game that makes us kids again.

And then, it’s like that
scene in Ocean’s 12.
Old friends reunite
as stories shuffle faster than the cards
we let loose and laugh
as I knock back a white chocolate.

And then, the air holds still
And the clock is almost afraid to tick.
We’re down to three players
I go all in.
The last card turns
as it all comes down to this moment, and…

Dang it, I’m out!

Night must always end,
And mine does just before dawn.
Hit the pillow at 4, but I’m up by 10.

Throw on an old grey sweatshirt,
Grab a shotgun
blast some targets from the sky
as the west wind
shuffles brilliant orange
while we shoot our shoulders sore
thankful to take two hours
to simply live and be.

Driving home, country roads
The majesty of the heartland in fall.
While Springsteen keeps me company
as I pass a cemetery
where two men lower
a casket into the ground.

4pm. If I don’t sleep I’ll die.
Up a couple hours later.

The house is quiet.
I make a simple dinner eaten late,
Around 10.

Surround sound comes on
as my favorite songs build and burn
skim some books, just sit and ponder
then pen these words.

And now it’s 11pm again.
and I’m 24 hours in
to this weekend, this jouney, this life.
And the moments are holy
and each breath a prayer
and if you’re blind to that
I pity you my friend.

For living is an art
we all sometimes abandon.
But the spark can always return
24 hours in.

Eternity in a Conversation

So, yesterday, I had lunch with Jamie & Tricia from To Write Love on Her Arms...as well as Craig Gross (XXXchurch.com) and his wife and two adorable children...and my friends Brittany & Ashley.

Here's what came out of that...

Late last night
I woke from a dream.
Where it was shown to me
that great men and women
are the ones who see the end.

Some find greatness
through intellect
some through strength
some through playing
the Russian roulette of fame

but a few find it
in humility.

Yesterday, our lunch was common,
but our conversation divine.
On grace and fun
Mercy and freedom
an existence far removed
from what we've been sold
all our lives.

Nine friends, some old & some new
feasting on bargain-priced chicken,
looking more like club punks
than churchgoers.

Dressed in black, living to love.

Each coming
from world's apart.
And I look at these friends,
each with a unique mission
yet one in the same.
And each of us understands
there is an end to these days.

For we've all tasted mortality,
witnessed the agony
of death too soon.

And even now, feel time
slipping away.

Yes, our bodies will one day fail
so we live in the now.
With a philosophy community.
We eat, we laugh.
Finding God in a road trip,
meaning in a friend,
hope in a song,
serenity in a word,
and mercy in the day.

We know we were born
for a reason, one truth
we'll never take for granted.

Even now
time passes
and beauty fades
while some build empires
and others moan and waste away.
But let the business of hope
be what we do with these days.

Even now
eternity echoes
the truth that we will die
and someday our graves will be washed away.
But, today we are alive

So God, let love
be the mark of these days.

Kings

It happens every few months to me
at one of these whose-who meetings
Where I'll smile and sit quietly
as the kings of this industry
walk in.

Their voices too sharp to be genuine
Their smiles held too long to be real
As they work the room, while some show respect
and others jump and jitter

trading values for so-called cred
true dreams for another rung on a ladder
that should never be climbed

because men sell their souls
to reach the top, only to
find they've journeyed to a lie.

The two kings
of this storefront hollywood
step to me.

My mood remains cordial
giving them another chance
I speak kindly
as I would to any living being.

And, as always, the pretend
not to hear me.
Thinking surely I'll give up soon.

Moving on, their stench goes with them
of blood money
drenching their profit-thrones, built
on broken dreams.

The elder king looks back with a smirk
believing one day soon he'll break me.

Stepping away from the party.
There has been enough drama for one evening.
Enough looks telling me,
I'll always be the lowest.

I know the looks well,
I've been seeing it for years now
and proving them wrong just as long.

But now matter now
for the cold air hits my lungs
as I hold the breath for a moment
and let it burn.

Pedals spinning, light fading
as I glide silently
to a house
where being real still matters
and no one trades business cards.

I sip some hot tea, and meander out to
the backyard bonfire, dropping to the grass
in an old grey sweatshirt and
jeans faded through the knees.

A group of 10 companions
watching the fire consume the wood
traveling on this journey and swapping stories
passing the acoustic guitar and laughing.

And I think of the two men in power
of their existence and what they believe.
And the raw truth is the opposite of the way things seem.

For they are the kings of misery
while, tonight
We are the kings of living.

Influences

When I was young,
my mother
to love and be kind
live a good life
and let God have your problems.

But I grew up too fast
in the middle of violence
becoming acquainted too soon with death.

And all of a sudden I was alone
when my friend Brian Hooks told me
It takes being hard to make it in this world
And I believed him.

We were just 14,
and I see now we were wrong.

There were so many problems,
and I found an outlet when 2pac taught me to scream,
while Billy Corgan put a voice to my wound
and Johnny Cash taught me to come home.

I looked in the mirror one morning
and saw an 18 year old out on his own
when Switchfoot put words to my dreams
John Denver explained my longing for the farm,
and Cash taught me to come home.

At 23, I've seen 5 countries
cause Jack Kerouac taught me the glory of the road.
While robert Frost illustrated
the impact of choices,
and Johnny Cash showed me the way home.

Then U2 stepped in and proved that 4 chords and a chorus can change the world
as Skynyrd taught me
Happiness comes in being a simple man.

Then C.S. Lewis showed truth through fantasy
Tolkien honor through epic.
Dante took me on a tour of hell,
and one professor put me through it.

Sarah Kelly showed me the power
when honesty meets a song.
Counting Crows helped me to yearn,
Don Miller to wonder
Bob Dylan to stay an individual in a world
that wants you to be anything but.

While Common showed that hard streets
don't have to end in a life of violence.
And Kanye sat me down
for a class on perseverance.

Drive-By Truckers helped me to stay
proud of who I am and where I've been.
As Sleeping at Last sheds light on where I'm going.

They’re poets and dreamers,
thinkers and priests,
and I ponder the weight of their art on my soul

on a dark night
with Cash coming through the speakers
as I find my way home.

hello.

Hey frieds.

Well, myspace's blogging just isn't working out for me. So I'll be trying this.

Not only will it be a place for my thoughts on various life topics...but it's going to be the first (and only) place online I share my more personal writings...such as the spoken word that as of now only exists in my journal.

So, thank you for stopping by. Having a voice is the dream for me. Whether it's on the New York Times best seller list, spitting my word creations at an open mic night in a coffee shop, or blogging here, I'm grateful.

tower