When life feels suspended by a delicate thread
Change is inevitable
I sometimes feel stifled
Tightly constricted
Like a chrysalis
Struggling against transformation
I oppose the transition
And need more time to adapt
Today
A butterfly tapped against my window
Like change asking to come in
If I can comply with Grace
Maybe I too can transcend
And withstand the butterfly effect

Another love poem? I ask myself.

She's a red streak
where the waves froth her feet white
a girl scouring the sands for shells
in the ageless haze the sea spews
bending and rising like the doubt
if time by some quirk has stopped
and the slanting beach is that warped space
where for long has homed
all the free souls of the world
love being their only name.

I walk up to her richer
by another love poem.

The Hempstock mice know all
all that is good
and all that is bad
and all that is too horrible to be known
they are the oldest of the old
they come from a place before
the place of nothing
and the time before
the beginning of the first time before
and if you believe the rumors
or if you don’t believe the rumors
they will be here long after
the last time of all

They have traveled the abyss
and set sail in and charted the void
they can gnaw through time and space
and reality is nothing
they cannot bend
or turn
or rearrange
or extinguish with just a thought

Let us be thankful
that they are animals of kindness
creatures of wisdom
spirits of love
and mice that believe in forgiveness

Their paws are hands that craft things
all things
from the first heart of the first star
to the black feathers
of the first raven and crow
they will craft the quill and the ink
that will write last word
of the last story to ever be told

They named the gods
that named your parents
that named you
and painted the names
of tomorrows children
in the heart of yesterdays dreams

They have seen the end
since before the beginning
and when nothing comes back
they will swallow

Time

and

Dream

and

Life

and keep them safe in their belly
and gnaw through to new beginnings
and their paws will be busy hands
crafting things
all things
and when they have made
the universe comfortable once more
they will let us fall
from the belly of their womb
and we will be the children of tomorrow
born from the heart of yesterday

Oldest of the old
wisest of the wise
kindest of the kind

Mice of all mice
mothers and fathers
of love and forgiveness

The Hempstock Mice

escape a blue speck
(life is) not what you expect
post-it® this isn’t real
Real is when two dots connect
when two lines intersect
3, 6, 9 interject
Real is two coils who convect
electromagnetism
Real is Life
That happened    how?
Nobody knows
          nobody here at least
answering these questions
i slip into darkenss (ice
can help with this)
i understand i don’t understand
a robot could understand better than i
but I’ve got a blue pen.

The boxes
which keep my blood clean
are stacked as tall as I,
a monument
in the spare room
to past battles.
Too many words,
too many thoughts
******* in the
hand-to-hand combat
with mortality.

No more.

What life I have
will not be defined
by an indeterminate end.

I live to write poems;
I will no longer die in them.

She had permanent grass stains on her shoulder blades
and the skin on her back always carried
the scent and salt of the earth
her hair danced like green fields in the wind
and had the subtle fragrance of lilacs
and though her flesh was tied to her bones
and her feet walked the ground beneath them
her heart was not bound by these same rules of gravity
and was often found swimming
in the space between the stars
and her eyes where painted with scenes
of the sky held up by oceans
and oceans held down by the sky

he could see himself in these reflections
broken and incomplete
and that somewhere in his life death would be there
and this would still not change in the end
and that no life lived is every complete
and last breaths are just interruptions
of what is that turn into what will be

he knew she had mysteries to be
and mysteries to discover
and questions to ask without speaking
and answers that couldn’t be put into words
she was perfectly herself inside
and outside of her human frailties
and she held a comfort
that could only be found
in being comfortable with your flaws

somewhere in the sound
of the syllables of her name
was a love open and free
that needed no redemption
gave no judgement
held no sin or shame
only the willing connection
to those seeking to find something more
than just the infinite stars
splattered across the endless universe
the something of wisdom hidden
in the heartbeat of not knowing
what is still to be found
and finding what can never be found
by anything other than the truth
of giving love freely
to the greatest fears of the unknown

bones of truth
rattle in the cupboard
and they make for
a most disconcerting
sound
like as if the conscience
of past foul deeds
are awakening
to be relived
again

they who hear the bones
being haunted throughout life
the rattling in the mind
that petrifying fife

no key keeps
them suppressed
ever they'll
wish to be heard
and the possession
of them
so unsettling
the beholders