I have no regard for the late hour; I wake him up.
Our hearts pull us down the stairs.
We read of her experience
And our once exuberant hearts
Now sit broken in the
Bottom of our souls.
We ponder words to send
Across the globe.
How can we comfort
Such an afflicted heart?
We cannot.
Only He can.
We type Scripture.
It is our only solace.

My family begins at the end of a puppet's string
Hanging from giant hands.
Controlled movements make for misconceptions
And dangerous contemplations.
The puppeteer's whimsical remedies
Play on the years we've spent standing in quick sand.

My family begins at the bottom of the ocean,
Fed potions by mystical sea creatures.
This show features fallacies lost in forgotten tragedies.

My family ends in the Earth's atmosphere,
Gearing up for outer space we begin to face our worst fears.
Growing older, we've either put the show on hold or
It's weighing on our shoulders like heavy boulders.
The Earth quakes as we take off to places with no names.
And yet... we're still attached at the hands and feet with puppet strings.

(Written 6/10)

I opened my eyes
And looked up at the rain,
And it dripped in my head
And flowed into my brain,
And all that I hear as I lie in my bed
Is the slishity-slosh of the rain in my head.

I step very softly,
I walk very slow,
I can't do a handstand--
I might overflow,
So pardon the wild crazy thing I just said--
I'm just not the same since there's rain in my head.

The winter air
surrounds me
chilling my bones,
making me shiver
down to the core.
Sitting on this hill
covered in snow.
I cant help but think
how beautiful the world
can be.
Peaceful,
no noise from civilization.
Just the swaying
of branches in
the wind.
The sun is falling,
the snow is glistening
silver streaks
across the hill
from small children
sledding down
the hill in the distance.
I started to hear
the faint echo
of laughter.
As it started to snow,
snowflakes hit my body.
Turning my dark clothing white,
and my nose red.
I stared up at the sky,
catching the snowflakes
on my tounge.
I layed down,
spread my arms outwide,
and my legs copied.
As the snow angel was
coming alive.
So was I.
Feeling like a child
once more,
embrassing the moment.
I will never experience this again.
Stoping mid angel,
still looking towards the sky.
I close my eyes and wonder,
Why is this snow different
than the snow from my past?
I never cared for it, always cold
and slippery.
But the sense I get from it now,
is beauty and peacefulness.
Soon the snow will melt,
though this feeling will stay
frozen in my heart.
I will always remember this day,
about how this
cold breeze kept my heart warm.

Where the slow river
meets the tide,
a red swan lifts red wings
and darker beak,
and underneath the purple down
of his soft breast
uncurls his coral feet.

Through the deep purple
of the dying heat
of sun and mist,
the level ray of sun-beam
has caressed
the lily with dark breast,
and flecked with richer gold
its golden crest.

Where the slow lifting
of the tide,
floats into the river
and slowly drifts
among the reeds,
and lifts the yellow flags,
he floats
where tide and river meet.

Ah kingly kiss --
no more regret
nor old deep memories
to mar the bliss;
where the low sedge is thick,
the gold day-lily
outspreads and rests
beneath soft fluttering
of red swan wings
and the warm quivering
of the red swan's breast.

I fear for myself at thirty, forty for these walls of life’s Gloom
Are closing fast on the cubicle of my Young existence
Like a tepidly-loved first job that becomes your Life’s Work
And with each head-rushing spin of that ageing Despair, your Life’s Blood ebbs
Slowly, painfully; I am an old woman beneath this taut flesh, beneath these soft lips.
I am as withered as Summer’s first raspberry
Whose Juice has fully been Drunk.