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.
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
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
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
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
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
At first, you
as a hero saw me, one
among the many, different —
But slowly,
melodies don’t match, and
much the sound we make is dissonant —
I feel your
warm skin in the dark; I know
that you are here, that you exist —
But thinking
of that lost connection, what
could be more make-believe than this?
I rise, and
hear you slowly breathing,
lost against the shadows of the night,
I hear again
the angry echoes, knowing
in my heart that you’ve been right —
I pour a
glass of water, pounding
heart and head that feel like they would burst —
You saw me
once a hero, fallen,
but you’re never falling like
at first
Just before the day
She sold the old house,
She took a quiet survey
Through the yard,
And found a yellow truck,
A toy, discarded,
That she’d forgotten, one
That time had marred.
She saw her children, then,
As in before times,
The way they used to play
As sunset fell,
And how, one day,
They left behind the old things,
And moved beyond
Where she could see, or tell.
But what they were
Is key to their ongoing,
The parts of them
Out scattered on the lawn,
For what is really lost
In simple growing?
What part of love
Is ever really gone?
