I don't believe in umbrellas.
With water falling from the sky,
Others shrivel up and hide.
An overcast can ruin their day.
Getting a little wet never bothered me anyway.

Souls of ink.
Magnificent masterpieces crafted by pen but they're all just ink.
They overlap and create hues so bright or dark it blots out the scene.
She is a brilliant red,
So bright that the outlines fade and all that's left is a feeling of hope and adventure.
She melts the canvas she touches in a captivating way.
If I were white ink I love to be  a carnation.
Overlapping gently, making an emotion, a memory where bland scraps once stood.
Constructing romance like flower blossoms.
A chance to show that white ink
Can be beautiful too.

He was an oak in a vast forest.
A sapling stunted by a storm.
Twisted, but not broken.
He stretched his branches far into the heavens.
Bursts of leaves filling places in the canopy others couldn't.
Reaching for the light.

But there was poison in the groundwater.
His roots withered at the base and it couldn't bear the rest.
He tumbled down to join anew.
The vibrant violets; a gorgeous hue.

Convoluted thoughts intertwine like cats squabbling in the yard.
My mind is a neighborhood.
Scores of houses and cars, all neatly arranged;
Like packages wrapped under the Christmas tree.
Inside are storms and fires.
Beautiful earthquakes shake them about like a locomotive running laps.
Graffiti on buildings and discarded tires.
A harmonious melody of rain and a whistling teapot.
Bells tolling.
Bikes litter the cul-de-sac.
A basketball rolls into a puddle.
Daisies and peonies sprouting out of little baskets, hanging from kitchen windowsills.
Streetlamps *ignite.

A subtle scent draws you in,
Into a wormhole; a leap through time.
The wholeness of a passed rain on an Autumn day.
Sweet perfume hanging in the air around you and your nose.
Warm feelings flood through every nerve in your  hand..
Between the gaps of your fingers and the inside of your palm.
A cool draft across the back of your neck sends goosebumps down your back.
Children chatter and shout as they pass a ball back and forth.
Millions of blades of grass dance from side to side in harmony, to some unsung tune.
The ringing of the telephone at your desk draws you back to reality.

Look in the mirror, do you love what you see?

The weight presses on my eyelids
Urging me to sleep.
Just a few more minutes
I'm almost finished.

The grandfather clock cried out in the hallway.
Just a few more minutes.
I know it's late, but I'd like to finish before I sleep.

The silent sound of snow cumulating on the world outside,
While I diligently work.

I open the curtain.
The sunset rising over my yard blanketed in cold crystals provides an astonishing light
To review my completed project.

It isn't perfect
But I am content.

A cacophony of bird songs
Shrieking among the firs
Two sparrows roosting on a branch,
Knitted feathers sever and fold
White waters roar through a craggy riverbed,
Alive with the scent of Spring
The hum of hornets emerging from a hollow tree,
A hidden hive
A lonely fawn tramples among the vegetation,
Desperate for a drink
Unopposed, a peculiar person rests upon a severed stump,
Discovering beauty for the first time

I still need to get her a present.
I'll stop at the florist on my way.
I know how much she loves flowers,
Especially on her birthday.

Three different types should suffice.
One daisy, as bright as the sun, for her personality.
One hydrangea, dark blue like the ocean waters, from our seaside cottage where we used to stay.
One rose, dark red like the setting sun, on the evening of our first kiss.

I head up a dirt road and through  a field of stones to meet her.

I leave the flowers on her grave, just like I do every year.

His sneakers **** on the concrete sidewalk of a busy boardwalk.
Time blows by as the faces around him come and go.
He glances up occasionally to observe the passersby, each writing a story.
The master of fate walks among the quick.
With each turn of the street his own adventure is being written.
Each decision marks another chapter in the book of life.
The world is a soft metal malleable to forge; an apple tree, teeming with fruit.
Every choice blazes a new trail with infinite possibilities.
Pondering ceases and he glances around.
The boardwalk is crowded with individuals, each, masters of their own fate.

Walking slowly, I enter the kitchen
I have been here before, but this time is different
Alone on the table a cheeseburger rests
Unattended
I glance both ways weighing my options
The burger is fresh and dripping with juices
Thinking ceases and instinct enacts
Within seconds the beautiful sandwich is gone
Stomach full, I lie on the floor
Guilt sets in
I have been a bad dog.

A lone drop of coffee
Running down the side
Of my cup
Escaping the terror
Of teeth and tongue

Black gold in the morning
A precious liquid
Awakes me from a slumber
And brightens my day
Sip by sip

Rejuvenates the body,
Mind and soul
Caffeine flows
Through my veins

Motivation in a mug
Brewing is an art
Coffee so dark
It can wake the dead
But instead
Wakes me
Every morning

Today a hurricane blew through
Its violent winds tore with every word.
Its icy rain poured at every noise.
It tore down walls and homes with mighty ease.
It devastated trees, roads, and bridges in the blink of an eye.
It left the survivor unscathed.
But when no relief effort arrived I realized,
It was all inside of my head.