1680

Sometimes with the Heart
Seldom with the Soul
Scarcer once with the Might
Few—love at all.

wanting to reach out-
but Don't want to know
how will we love
after the first stone's throw?

am I really real,
if I want you to see?

by your soul tell me,
am I as shallow as the sea?

I sit up and try them-
the names, all the parts of me

to find them longing
to be run over, pilfered considerately

by a discerning eye
wise, auspicious hands

oh tell me, please tell me!
who am I? what is this land?
how may I save my heart?
Do you- do you understand?

as children we learn to write,
learn to read
things important,
things we need
but sometimes
in the thick of it all
we cry and chatter
crumble and crawl
lose sight of how do
we best through it all -
no, straightened with grace
noise crackles through
darkened halls
to we learn to write to speak our thoughts?
do we learn to read for dear knowledge sought?
It's important, we should ought
ourselves forget others eyes and
seek the beauty our hearts call for inside
we have hands and eyes and ears
time to learn, time is near
burning questions, waters clear
Oh God, let us have the patience to seek the truth, the dear.

Longing and losing
lost in the sacred hours
I wonder if I sleep
my dreams screeching will scatter

sleep, the world cries
beyond that divide
a dreary fireside
ever increasing, eating alive

like a summer sprout
dancing in the wind
daring these ends
to unroot again

the times are tumultuous
if you rest in the day
the sun's searing rays
can pick you to flay

the moon a guiding light
searching through the dark
for people falling into
it's reliable ark

a foot, a step
the ground is solid somewhere
don't give up yet,
sleep
for the day carries light
you can sometimes just see it clearer by night

sleep because it's real
for a reason
it's real so dream,
dream so you can wake up
in the morning's glorious squeeze

he was a painter once-
in the sense of a duck, waddling
augustly chin up mild fingers
engraved with acrylic rice paddy
mosaics

his deft strokes, steady against
barn yard hum dry ruby in
watery crevices, between the skullcap
and cerebellum, between ages of semantics

his cast net he stirs
the mud-clodded ponds and
rasps, cane cracking leather,
I clasp on the waterlogged eyes out the window
airborne for some lost jungle to
salvage some sliver of a canvas

he turns to me on the wooden planks
and hand in hand we plummet into an abyss of
our own creation