I wonder,
do birds love each other,
or is it just a people thing?

I sip away my sorrows
by drowning them in the heat of my tea
and pay better attention to the nice warm feeling of it sinking to the bottom of my stomach
rather than think about the stranger that wouldn't look away

The myth of what is real -
I want to know the truth.

Does the winding river feel,
does the tree speak of its youth?

the language of my love

                                                        it's you

brewing,
steeped so long
the tea is hot,
almost too strong

darkened;
a burning tongue
with steam that also
burns my lung.

porcelain;
tea-cups clamber
broken pieces,
cutting anger.

Write and
Write and
Write and
Write.
With your pencil
Be the knight.

at the end of winding roads, you still follow.
I believe in everything you are
to me, you are the reason and the means
to anything and everything I need.

sometimes you must be your own fighter,
your own believer.

the life breathing in will quell the dread of a burning day before you; for, in the mornings, the air is fresh and chilled,
and you may graze in the openness

until the flowers fulfill you,
awaken you.

Take your forest path, your field trail, the one you marked yourself
for these moments. And bring the dogs,
let their leashes be loose,
let your soul be freed here, in this scenery.

fragile hands shaking;
I have sharpened the sword's blade.
You stand as my ghost

hover behind me

in the rain I feel restored

you say,
walk out to the view with me before we go,

and I forget the drone of cities and am looking at it, with you

The beast, in solitude, who roams these woods,
of wisdom only he is led to know,
he wears a crown so heavy on his head,
and walks through autumn, summer, spring, and snow.

He is not seen, but wearily, is feared -
a figure hiding deeper in the minds,
the hunters and the people keep away,
although the beast is difficult to find.

On stilts, he wades and crosses riverbeds
a mind so keen, remembering the way.
The burden of his crown does not weigh him,
the wind invites him to a gentle sway.

So many moons have passed the monster's eyes -
he knows how rivers come to meet the lake;
So when the hunter settles down to aim,
the moose is still, and it is no mistake.

Once upon a midday mourning,
thoughts and thrashing came a-swarming -
came to me, without a warning,
stayed in tide 'till the next morning.

Under the sun we are beautiful beings.
I want to spend my moments in this light with you

yes, I am unlimited;
like a record
doomed to replay
its brokenness
forever.

I will not break,
I am the friction of fire
and ropes tethered to cement
and anchors shattering coral.

I am unlimited
unlimited
with limited time
and limited self.

but yes, i am unlimited -

in your eyes
a monster lies;

in your smile
a steep beguiled
beast.

in your hair
flames that flare
and cease.

in your mind
what will I find?
an ever delicious
feast.

and in your song
a siren call,
a melody ever
triste.

God or that breeze, spoke out and I could feel the caress on my young face. An intimacy only longing could tell you.

I have lost so much in so little a time,
I forget this and this and this moment is mine.

I have watched you love
seen you hate
and I know the horrors
of forgetting to appreciate.

and I sing of my dreams
as if they are to be
though I am afraid
that forever caged, I'll be.

one man's freedom fighter is another man's terrorist.

death takes over us,
with a kiss to break this spell;
the longest lover.

take care not to abandon me,
the blue things whispered as they fell apart in the terrible fog of forgotten memories.

who am I
who am I
who am I;
I feel like a flower, forgetting rain while it is sunny.

and in the dusk
where all days end
will we find ourselves in the hues
of gold into darkness

-

in the dawn,
we were brought
from summer into fall
cleansed into being

and now it is spring into summer
and we close this moment
with a song
a celebration
a sunset

What am I to do?
Even when I'm not thinking,
I'm thinking of you.

When Innocence has a baby,
born in Spring,
they name her
"Loveliness"
"Pure"
"Precious"
"Her"

My eyes see things differently than how things actually are.
Everyone's eyes do.
Our glasses are fogged
we see life through interchangeable perspectives.

Feet and toes dipped into throws of milky waves and morning haze

and pelicans on a tiny isle,
and houses staggered over cliffs

along the shore, and seagulls drift
and hours wane, our legs yearn

to stand, to stretch, and we are swift
beneath the day, I want to burn.

Lapping idly,
bands swirling ankles with light:
weariless traveler.

-

a lover's soft kiss
beneath this strawberry moon:
spring into summer

The shoreline isn't what it used to be.
It's staggered now; the smoothness has regressed,
and aquamarine ice is stinging the water
like a knife. The room itself is warm,
though stifled with smoke and dust. We go out
in the night and inhale.
The cold smells nice. Where is the moon?
Where are the stars? All I see are city lights to the south,
and an unbreakable darkness in the east.
I miss the sound of moving water,
and I dream of summer.
But how I love these winternights, tucked beneath blankets
and snow. An interval to the dissonance
of a January that is too warm, too dry.
In the early dawn, the sky is periwinkle darkened,
and the waves crash me a song reminiscent of you.

Spray has christened the pines and firs in frost
at the waterfall.
Overtake me in the mist,
whirl your pointed pines
and infuse your senses
as you cover me in the spray.

I took a break on
trying. But tomorrow is
when I try again.

The lady of burdens,
she who walks unseen, in darkness,
with stealth and blade.
She comes unsummoned and slices shadow.
She knows only remorse,
cursed always to follow one path.
She slays all things of dissonance,
and is deaf to the songbirds.

What could have saved her from this life?
If only she had turned to see the morning -
light beyond a castor of shadows.

the pelicans swoop
in a sea of cloudless blue,
tethered to the sky.

a safe distance
from the passive shore
will keep me from
wanting more

there is a sculpture
she claims unsketchable
of a woman in a mangled
frozen pose

the people flock to kiss
her pale lifeless feet
and gaze up in such proximity
to the angelic, unravelled woman
who becomes something more
in their gazes

but we sit from afar
and she marvelled at those wings
at the bends and swerves of that limestone
or marble
at the spine and the cracks

the prose of anonymity in beauty without a face,
a fetish,
just awe in raw skill