In the absence of friends, I made a swing,
And sat and swang, as the seasons changed;
Without any purpose, I dreamed my dreams
Of a life, and a love, and a world without pain
Like a multi-hued waterfall, wondrous and strange,
Where the lone cats wander and wild birds cry --
In the absence of friends, I made a swing,
Then sat and swang, as the world went
"Bye"
hello, i haven't left --
although i moved from there
into simplicity:
the mirrors run on time,
and i can close my eyes
against adversity.
for i cannot contain
the seeds that sprout,
unbidden, from the ground:
for you who long, bereft,
come fill your emptiness with
no more
sound
Lying on a blanket In their backyard With an old pair of binoculars: She and her sister, Ten and eight, respectively, With a book of star maps And a flashlight And a universe of discovery Everywhere around them. Under a similar starry sky She drives towards her sister's new house Way out in the country; She and her sister, Fifty-eight and fifty-six, respectively, With electronics to guide her No more looking up at the sky For a universe of discovery That is made for you Is no universe at all
Maybe I'm not a spectacle. There's nothing here that is amazing, or astounding: I am not the best or brightest, Neither the strongest, the fastest, nor best to look at. Maybe this is not a historically significant place -- Nor a place of current interest or intrigue -- Not just the right thing At just the right time. In a world and an age full of grabbing, Whether of attention, or hair, or opportunity, or money, I am a being of releasing: Of letting go, of setting free. None may stop to view such a lack of drama, Indeed, I scarcely pay it much mind, myself -- Maybe I'm neither all I think I am, Nor as little as I fear I've done. Maybe I'm not a spectacle, But I can honestly be what I genuinely am: Used, homely, full of purpose, faulty of execution, Closer to the dust than to the cradle. For I am neither angel nor demon: A digital bard from an age of paper coupons, A song no one listens to anymore Although there are forty-five hundred versions available. There is a genuine you of sinew and heartbeat, There is an actual me of skin and breath, But without the right dash of cavalcade, Do we qualify for real existence?
DO YOU, in the morning pine trees know Why things were made to bloom and grow? How all that lives submits to fate, And whence cares go when they're too late? Do you, as the waking birds sing on Find solace in the peace of dawn, Or do you stew, and stir, and fret For all that hasn't happened yet?
WHEN joy rains down like paint falling from a clear sky, and laughter streaks across pavement, turning the rain into a riot of color, then do I understand togetherness: two parts dignity, and three parts vulnerability, this wonderful mess that is our lives -- hues, pavement and water: time, place, and love.
three tall stones and one tall story; faded love and ransomed glory -- three lost sheep and one found jewel: love is kind but fate is cruel
Though heart and mind agree in this, We find, at last, the hedge That indicates the limits of Our yard, our reach -- the edge -- And though sleep flees beyond the flood Of all that we would do, It's all just puzzle pieces spread And us without A clue
In an open field, beyond the weight Of the walls that seem too tight of late, She stares towards what seems foreordained, And a total change of life. As the clouds blow quick, and the sun streaks high, There's the moment she knows that there's no more "try", As it's all been ventured, with nothing gained But a broken man-and-wife. And a thousand moments come all at once: When the days seemed minutes, then the hours, months, And as the grass blows, she feels a spirit depart, Like a shadow across her mind -- In an open field, by a lovers' tree, Wide open has sprung an immensity The she must sail across with but one lone heart, And a much younger girl left behind
