The leaves,
though they're dying
still believe they are flying
They soar
taste the wind, paint the ground, scent the air
The fall leaves abound
and I dance the season
among them for now
I dance for the voyage that this bright Earth has made
I dance for the Mother Sun, steadfast in her stay
I dance for the rhythm that this world can't mandate
I dance for the journey that I too must take
The dressed Autumn leaves
they play their lament
They make it a melody on their last descent
I can't sing along for I know not their song
But I'll dance til their melody ends. Yes,
I must dance til the melody ends.

We two sitting out upon the verandah
On a Sunday late may cooler afternoon
And you were knitting clicking away
As I sat enjoying a port when very soon

Two birds so high away up in the blue sky
I stopped and turned around looking at you
You looking over your glasses saying .. what
You waiting for my answer a puzzled true

I said  look at those two birds away up there
Side by side of how they together as one fly
Both in the very same direction perfectly
And they are only birds will be till they die

You and I can't agree on anything at all
Try to do so we do so every other single day
Since I married you down the street its true
We spend most of conversation arguing I say

They are only birds and always flying as one
Regardless of the weather come what may
And here we are a supposed inteligent species
Yet we argue over everything every single day

terrence michael sutton    
copyright  2018

Cold rush-
Wind gust,
He limps
Along
With an old
Wooden cane,
On a Bridge
By the Bay-
Talking in a low
Voice,
Singing
A song,
Of true
Folklore.

"It all washes
Up on the shore."

Tales
Of Fights
And Trouble,
Followed by
His love
Of long ago
When
Mermaids
Still
Came ashore.

Skin hangs
On him,
Aged and scarred,
But once
He was young
And spry.

He sings,
"I remember
The day the
Mermaids died."

I wonder what it's like
to be a tree in a storm.
To have settled roots,
that hold you steady.
To have grown so high,
and progressed so much.

I wonder what  it's like
to be a tree in a storm.
Having to bend and lean
with the comings of the wind.
Having to feel parts of you
leave.

I wonder what it's like
to be a tree in a storm.
Everything could be taken
with a single bolt of passion.
Or to have to be on edge
for the hurricane season.

I live the life
of a tree in the storm.
But, I must say, it's worth it all
just for the thrill of the fall.

The hike to the waterfall
          multiplied
                    my fear of falling by
my fear of passing out from exhaustion.

The hills climbed like
     terra cotta slices of cheesecake
          cut for giants.      To the south, hoodoos ringed
like wedding cake, encrusted with
               shimmering slices of Anjou Pear.

“She’s better at hiking
          than she used to be,” Mike said.
“She made it further
          than I expected,” Leilani said.
“She didn’t stop;
          she’s right behind us,” said Celine.

I missed
                    my dogs.  I missed
     the way they would tug at the leash to
propel me toward good smells.  I missed
               the way they would tug behind when they felt
     something looked dangerous or difficult.

Dwarfed by the stone cliffs, I felt
          like a gnat
     at the Marin Farmers’ Market.  The sky and stone
weighed heavy on my soul.

My mind clawed at
          purple seas armed with
                    chisels slashing at the landscape.

I walk into the mirror box again and it’s as if my life
really is just an extension of my own metaphors.
I’m caught in the mirror maze, searching for something
in the mirrors at angles, but all I can see is myself,
my sad, stupid self, stretching on and on forever
with the same boring face, the same boring feelings,
again and again until I stop being able to make out the details.
Am I looking back at myself or am I looking forwards to the future?
Will it always be the same or has it merely been
the same since forever? I stare into the mirror tunnel
at all these selves repeating themselves,
forcing the years, the weeks, the days into the same strict patterns,
merely following the self that came before them, merely mirroring
the feelings, only doing it worse and worse with each new rendition.
It’s just me, I think, in the mirror box, caught up in myself
because I am selfish and horrible. I’m selfish and horrible
and I want to turn my back on myself but
how can I possibly do that in the mirror box?
I meet myself over and over, and it’s just me,
in all this vast, repetitive vagueness, just me in
this long stretch of lonely unsettledness that surely doesn’t end.
I want to smash my own face in, so I close my eyes
and try to think, maybe, maybe, maybe, because I don’t
want to be this grey-cloud self forever. I can’t be, and so maybe,
just maybe, somewhere beyond all these selves
there’ll be a day when I’m down on the shore
and the sea will be calm and the sky will be
faded purple. Love will not sink down into nothingness
because in the cool evening air,  my heart will be full
instead of gaping and my mind will be at ease
instead dwelling on it’s own boringness
or entangling itself in own self-created sadness.
And maybe, I’ll have abandoned my book
and its pages will be dry because I won’t have been crying into it.
They’ll be no mirrors, just the ocean,
glinting like an amethyst cluster in the half light
and I’ll rest my head on the shoulder of the girlfriend
I'll meet someday and I’ll smile in this beautiful liminal moment
and nothing will be tainted by the dread of returning home.
We’ll kiss – on the shore – and rewrite it forever and
maybe the stars will fall out of the sky when I shake it and
all my trains will run on time and all the wounds
in the world will heal simultaneously.
It’s a moment surely stolen from someone else’s poetry,
but I’ve got to cling to something to avoid becoming
lost entirely in all this dark, intangible vagueness.
There’s got to be at least one imaginary moment
that isn’t just me, reflected over and over.
There’s got to be one moment that doesn’t stare
back at me from inside the mirror box.

do i believe in god?
i’m afraid i do not have an answer to that,
it’s hard to believe when all you see is this world’s cruelty.
but if they have seen the things i’ve seen
and experienced what in this world has been,
then god’s eyes must be just as tired,
just as sad,
just as done as me.

— what do you believe?