​Teacher, teacher…

The old man

on the wall,

he grins,

he grins at the

young man 

on the cross.

Teachers, both,

displayed on a trophy wall

of a school

meant for life.

But a school built

for barter, banter,

and grey matter takes over

the small matter —

a young mind.

I left teaching,

in haste,

avoiding the crucifix,

a little beyond

a church tower that

rings school bells.

Crisscross

I cross this strait,
once a day now.
Once upon... a life time ago;
it seemed like life, twice over,
the rush to find my space,
but the calling 
was never heard,
now or even then.

Morning, it was then,
the push for a young heart;
it is in repeat now,
but just half a tread at a time
for this another man in me,
noon it is now.

None to watch my back,
the burn spreads there;
sweat trickle and tickle
down the neck till it
becomes an itch
that drives me further,
a li'l farther, down that path
of no return...
Where I will lose the 
original sin in me to age;
and the will in me 
to the measured
words of an editor,
out of control, out at large!