Biding my time
As the midnight mockingbird
With wrought songs of anguish heard throughout the night
Twas he who declined audience to partake of his sorrows
With singularity disguised as melody
Passion pure* ...

I was once a pedestrian on Fayetteville
Highway , on a midnight jaunt down a dark
byway
With the North Star to reconnoiter my
trail
Struggling to get home fast
Destined to catch hell
Puppy love reared the head of Medusa
as the band played My Sharona
My date made it hard to think -
as I primped in front of the sink
The weight of a psychotic heart was a heavy load so I made a break for the open road
Wet grass doused my white jeans , my silk shirt reflected
moon beams , a killdeer chuckled at my quandary
Yet better to be alone than sorry*...

A piece of the world made to
contemplate creation
A place to absorb the ****** light
of the heavens without reservation
Where Cherokee tears flow freely
from pink flower encrusted observations
To catch the breath of Pine bidding warm
salutation* ...

Nightfall interrupted by lightning
The call of nocturnal songsters
drowned in a sudden squall
The drummers that march into
quiet country from the west
Symbolic crash of cymbal ,
flam upon drum , tapping of the bells
The euphony of triangle pings and  
pan flutes
The boisterous return of a watchful poet's twilight muse* ...

I am a vehicle shackled to land yearning for the journey home
Through times open doors
Before windows of curiosity
At the base of galactic mountains
Within lights brilliant disclosure of love* ...

When the whispering demons of the morning come calling
When silly , robotic thespians deliver their scripted theatrics with slow motion , foggy angles of the world as rivers of window condensation and sorrow are falling                                                          ­                                                                 ­    Be watchful for songbirds are connected with the mill pond , see the dove at peace with bobwhite songs
Be assured that the wind , the rain and the hardwoods
share pain while celebrating the whim of a cold , methodical yet temporary Earth

I want to help others,
but first I need to learn,
how to stop myself from breaking,
at the slightest twist and turn,
I need to control the emotion,
that turns my smile,
into pain and steals the light,
that once gave me sight,
I’m blinded by the cuts that cover my waist,
hidden by clothes,
that hide my insecurities,
make sure none of my hurt shows,
so I can protect the people I love most,
from catching on,
to my broken soul

Where does my heart lie?
    In a church,
        On a stage?
    In a book,
        On a page?

How does my heart lie?
    On its side?
        On its face?
     In a pile,
        In some place?

Why does my heart lie?
    To my friends,
       Old and new?
    To my family,
        My own heart too?