~

A crescent moon now overhead
As I come rising from my bed
Remembering the words I said
A few short hours ago
~
Like linens hanging on the line
The clouds a comfort for my eyes
In secrets whispered on the skies
Along with breezes flow
~
I wonder of this time apart
As longings cling so tight my heart
In gilded frame like precious art
The sun comes into view
~
When then my open eyes can see
The man that I can surely be
If only you would come to me
Whatever I must do
~
With endless trees and hills to climb
My aches, my pains on borrowed time
The distant church bells set to chime
The miles in between
~
I follow on in destined task
Is it too much for me to ask
Within your arms I long to bask
If you know what I mean
~
To stumble on the crooked path
And weep these tears of aftermath
For comes the heat of summer wrath
In everything so new
~
I wander here and wander there
In hopes to show you that I care
With you my dreams I long to share
Until my days are through

~

Choices



Shadows move on sheet rock barriers
framed in time of late
Spaces filled with unknown visions
dance about with feet of clay
Gowns of nightmare carpetbaggers
thunder on the floor
Drippings in a mist of nervous breath
blanket my safe haven
and the sounds scream
in voices of past mishaps
Lost in lonely corridors,
wailing on aching skylights
permitting barely a moon glow psalm
to echo of their meaning
in songs from a distance,
of pleading skeletal desire

“I fear for I have no choice”

Doorways yawn in weary ovations
Slanted photos dot the landscape
Windows prove little relief from the cold
as heat pierces my cavities
Gaping wounds of frail memories
clutch at my last ounce,
measuring the words I am reading
Taking a breath, sweet, stagnant
Clawing for an exit only to find
it has stood before me all along
Baby steps, I have been told
Find that trust, slowly…make sure,
reach out for the hand
offered on a dreamscape message

“I fear for I have no choice?”

Eyes, so tired, weeping pools
out of focus since that day, open
(As if sunflowers float on silken wings
and glorious becomes an understood word)
slowly and tentatively,
blinking sorrow’s pathway free
to lead me to you
The imprint of that butterfly
marks my palm in red lines of love,
mapping my skin with a long awaited
smile, dry lips curve as I take your hand
trusting, for the very first time
realizing the feeling
which hath finally…set me free

“I no longer fear, for I have a choice”

Please don't tell me I'm
Everything
That I deserve happiness because
That's all I've given
You

You tell me you are
Nothing
And if everything in my
Heart is every bit of
You

Then I am nothing too.

If I was a mountain

That soared towards the sky,

With craggy snow caps

And stormy grey eyes-



Then you'd be the clouds

That swaddled my peak,

That silenced my thunder

When I tried to speak.



If I was the earth

The desert, in fact:

With arid dry soil

And mud, baked and cracked-



You'd be the rain

The downpour that soothed;

The balm to my bruises,

Relief to my wounds.



If I was the Moon

In the indigo night,

With stars as my blanket

And silver; my light-



Well you'd be the Sun

Just always behind

That lent me your glow

And caused me to shine.

With cigarette stained lips
And smoke rings in her eyes
She cried her numb tears from the marrow of her bones
Something she didn't know she could do anymore
And as the salt stained earth of her skin rippled in rapture
Her throat sang gospels of ash and devils
The pink in her hair grew red as her wrists
The night fed her euphoria and shadows in her tear drops
The last of them spilling on the blue grass fields beneath her bed
And they bloomed into trees of white sand and salt
She grew devils under her sheets as she lay restless
Stray dogs howled to the nothing in particular of her song
As the gospels wore thin
And the house began to wheeze with fright
Its old creaking beams wrapped around her as she lay alone
In a bath tub
In the bedroom
In the kitchen
Alone

Poet, be not afraid.
There are far worse things than
Bad poetry.

Keep writing; like a child keeps
Drawing with the purest of
Disregards to likeness.

The more stones you turn, the more
Gems you produce.

The more ink you rain,
The more gracious your written
Children grow.

All flexing builds muscle.

Rough bricks form castles.

Even Dalì carved canvases to shreds
And started anew
Not caring too much.
Not caring

Too much
To keep painting.