Mediocracy...
these words I write
governed by a
standstill, at-war democracy
that's got me medio-crazy,
executively lazy
judgmentally hazy,
and lawfully spacey,
running on as their own prisoner-of-war escapees
in search of freedom from the ordinary
and overly, extraordinarily
conservative binds
that constrict the construction
of these hardly courtly,
yet ordered lines.

Summer picnic under maple trees
thru brunette wisps
blew the summer breeze

At the table up the hill sat the family
talking of what life was like
to be free

Ran by the lake in a summer dress
never having to stop
never having to rest

Stood at the shore dressed in yellow;
could feel the sand
between delicate toes

Sore eyes looked down at her and saw two
there, at her side
but no one there knew

Gently touched the girl’s hand
so she would come to understand
there would come a time for her too
there would come a time when she grew

There would come a time for the sunrise
and the summer skies too,
but too quick for sore eyes,
too soon

Now she reflects and remembers
what it was like
to be younger

And she wishes
she could feel the summer breeze once more
at that family picnic, down by the shore

Your Surface caresses – the face –
Warm when the Sun is high,
When the Storm brews – you’re like a Whip –
How the Stars and Moon weigh,

Affecting your Tide upon us
Your Voice – is convincing –
Your Whispers – like Salt – on our wounds,
Though, through castles – slicing –

Built towards the Sky – by guided hands –
Curling over, crashing
Onto – raw – from tears shed – your Storms –
Born from Vengeance – washing –

Tainting what is held at – the heart –
Walls – swallowed – by shallow
Bitterness forced – our way – footprints
Swept – yet – we will follow

Walking in place,
each step, an embrace:
my toes, to the floor,
then heel; once more.
Not forward nor back,
extension, contract:
changing position,
persistent, the stiction.
The weight of the floor,
a shiftable platform
below me, it mocks;
consistent, the clock.
Keeping time, keeping beat,
never complete.
Inside me, the race,
quicker than pace.
Inside me, the surge,
more to discourage:
pumping, through, and again
like steps, now and then.
Forward, though same,
it is here i remain.

In the panes of her window,
reflecting, resting on her elbow,
she wonders if there's meaning
in that circumstantial meeting...
A faltering, so fleeting,
as the caress of their eyes
unveiled in each a soft disguise:
tiny blue planets, blanketed by sky,
graceless in their natural orbit,
revolving her every plane, looking to explore it...
Decelerating in search of her balanceable center,
clumsily gravitating almost against her,
a pair of unsettled, timid satellites
passing both slow, and at the speed of light...
Two beautiful, flickering, twinkling stars,
both six feet close, and light years far...
Her own tiny brown comets in a dusty trail descent,
averting, avoiding the light, reflected and bent.
She, aligned in that momentary eclipse...
a time and a space she chose to dismiss.