going home isn’t always
returning to a place.
sometimes
it is returning to yourself.

Obsidian wind chimes
welcome the crashing waves
as another day exits, slowly
sinking beneath the bay.

Cool waters drenched in
an almost amethyst hue
offer mental reverberations
as I ponder what I am next to do.

Though the sea is but a tide
that ebbs & flows-
repletes & recedes-
her words of wisdom forgo
past the banks of her beaches
& spread a breeze to every corner
of night.

She beckons me within myself;
her deep abyss but a mirror.
Her waters shine in a glimmering splendor
as she makes the path ever clearer.

To leave this shore that raised me
is not a sign of disrespect, but a show
of honor. My broken levees have her
to thank & for that, I call her mother.

In a world with
pain sorrow suffering
grief corruption mourning
angst yearning loving fighting,
where are the poets who bring us
joy through their delightful writings?

unscrambled brains look nothing like they should

soon it will be christmas and homeless will be found
sleeping in the cold on the concrete ground
miles away from home with no where they can stay
no presents or no turkey for there christmas day.

living in the wind in the rain and snow
in a cardboard box no where they can go
just a lonely christmas is what they have to face
and the world to them is such a lonely place.