shells

shells beneath the surface shine
in sharpened joy for summertime,
and colors dance before our eyes:
the shock of rainbow-edged surprise -

and you know love like lips on lips,
in water splashed with fingertips,
and sunlight searing through a soul
that's gained its way, but lost control

so live as though you full intend
to come, to go, to reach, to send --
and hear the water splash like bells
on freed up toes, and bits of shells

barefoot moss

at twelve years old,
the yearning’s strong
for freedom’s close
equivalent

like carefree mornings,
barefoot moss,
and rushes
unambivalent

on bicycles
with arms held wide,
and lakeside morns
exploring

the slipping feel
of barefoot moss,
a young heart’s full

outpouring

Wednesday Hope

How do you breathe a magic sky
And touch the lights of Halcyon?
For what is Love to you but paint
That smears and drips across the Dawn?

Come whisper now of Wednesday hope,
Of glistening and glimmering,
Come feel the cotton, silk, and rest
While fireflies are shimmering

How do you hold the infinite,
When much that was has broken wrong?
Exhale the colors of your hope,
Extend yourself, for you

 
Belong

A Country Autumn – 7

the rolling hills, the curvature
of life. that he loves best of all,
before the autumn shows itself
in full, and every leaf
makes travel plans.
what is this
innocence, expansive
as the feeling in his heart:
the joy that seems connected to
this place and season and this day,
that sends regrets to find their
own address. and which may be
a sign of something more;
a harbinger of truth,
a sacred song,
a type
of violin, that’s
heard above the roar
of all the cars, thoughtless
with radios and sports and those
who have the chance to see and feel,
but don’t. a chance, a happening,
a sight that’s truly seen, is
not forgotten, like a love
that’s truly felt, and
and just as truly
curved

Never / Tuscany

Never have I been Tuscany, except for books and movies.
Still, I have an image of it, bright within my mind —
Beautiful, with long and shapely trees, out in the fields and vineyards,
Distants hills and waiting meals of succulence and wine —

Never have I been to Italy, at all, to any region,
Still, I have a picture of it, as though I had been —
Beautiful forgotten summer, traveling as though in wonder,
What my heart as seen, my eyes could only see

Again

Driving Through Villages

They drove through villages for hours, and he
Was just a boy, but still he watched, enthralled.
What seemed like sameness wasn’t so to him,
Like models come to life, this row of toys.

The roofs, the windows, factories, and spires,
The bits of grass and trees, the shops and cars,
The animals, the kids out playing football,
The houses, big and grand, or small and fine —

His eyes, so sharp, discerning, saw it all:
The artist loves much others might find dull