Morning

Morning stretches out her feet
Slowly onto the shore,
Sitting up languidly on her bed of water,
Spreading her arms out wide.

She dresses in the dim,
Afraid to wake the neighbors,
Donning glorious attire
Self seen as casual frumpiness.

She takes in a full, fresh breath,
Realizing this world is hers,
And prepares to keep careful watch
Over her sleeping children.

Other Islands

I am the first who didn’t fight
Among the generations on both sides,
Questioning my own fealty

I am just one among the hearers
Of the incomprehensible ocean melody
Washing my feet

I don’t presume it’s been easier for you,
For no possession comes at higher price than self,
And while your ripples may reach me, faintly,
We’re all still islands.

I am the first who shunned the stage
As I do not bear close (or distant) inspection, and
Audiences, crowds, and mobs are just variant spellings

I am just one among the scholars,
Toiling through the ancient manuscripts,
Inking my hands

I don’t assume it’s been easy for you,
For no solidity is more fragile than self,
And while these birds have glimpsed you, distant,
We are still islands:

Sharing only the sound of the waves

And the same yearning to reach beyond

 
Our own shores

Sliding

Each day somewhere between falling and gliding —
I guess that’s sliding —
The voyage is down, I know, but still,
Life goes where it will,
And the storms always come to menace us,
But that needn’t finish us.

Life is a playground, a swing set, a sandbox,
With blocks and clocks and short talks
About our misguiding;
And yet, we keep sliding
Down into adulthood
Which sounded better than it feels good.

The road, the hills, this landscape — our destiny;
At least, so it seems to me.
So, take it in; be flexible, versatile,
Rain is not personal,
Trouble’s abiding, and won’t be subsiding,
So just keep on sliding

{ black saturday }

the feast of our unleavening
the yeast that isn’t there
the gift that has been freely given
i’ve not learned to share

the stars of one black saturday 
that rise upon the cold
the rainbow promise fire-lost
within the crown of gold

Dysphemism

I tried creative, it was artificial;
I aimed for stylish, things were fashionless —
I meant wide ranging, I got superficial;
To show good temper, came off passionless.

So many good things bordering on bad ones,
To hit our mark, both difficult and rare —
Is it a pearl, or is it a secretion?
The way we feel determines

What is there

too close

conversations flow like melting snow upon the mountains of the memories of what we'd make the world / and in between the moments we demur to take the blame for every season brings the hope of something more / and every single one of us not you not me but all of us were there / to solemnize a promise that we'd never hold too close what we should share / but there were moments in the dim our tongues touched to the whiskey and the salt / when we rolled in and out of beds not too specific but way too gestalt / it turned out love was all we knew but we were not that good at it it seems / and now we shift our focus such that signifies our paucity of dreams / the feelings that you've lost a type of backwash in the center of your heart / and all this talk a hillside view of what became of what we meant to start / of what we meant to start and kind of did and kind of didn't in the end / and now there's only melting snow and what is left of what was once your friend