wake yawn sigh look curse move go run slide sit wait think wander hear startle look blush speak hush nod see think stand walk climb sigh breathe look cross go wave look see recognize smile touch shiver blush flutter laugh hold

today leaves hold fast to your boots, my love
where have you wandered?

to you, my love, to you,
I cannot wander, my path leads to you.

today snow collects along your collar, my love
where have you wandered?

to you, my love, to you,
I cannot wander, my path leads to you.

today your cap is wet, my love
where have you wandered?

to you, my love, to you,
I cannot wander, my path leads to you.

today the sun has scorched your brow, my love
where have you wandered?

to you, my love, to you,
the path is changed each day I come.
yet I come each day, and I come for you.

mother
lily of the valley
I weave it with you
I fill it with you
I carry you and I carry with you
I carry myself in you

Your lemon slice smile
Already a 4
I feel the tremor
Like sitting on a washing machine
Its turning under me
But I barely move

I see the balloon of your scream deflate around the room
6.3
I spread my legs for a crack in the floor.

Tap. Choke. Slap. Stroke.
8.9
The sun falls and shatters
Shards of light cut my knees
I’m under the table of my consciousness

My heart beats in seismic waves

I love you
I smelled the lies on your breath and they gave me a bruise

The feathers of my words choke me until I let them out
they cry like vultures around the decaying room
they pluck the lemon from your lips

My feet are planted
but still I turn to face you.
Sunshine, I am yours.

These words, were written before pen kissed
paper, etched in my soul, a mediocre martyr.

My eyes are not celestial suns of light
But pools reflecting woods mossed green and brown.
The common lip not coral like by sight
But pale as mine, and pink-soft as a gown.
If ******* be white, no woman’s wheat compares.
And women who place roses in fair cheeks
Win heavenly false prize of golden hairs.
My breath, like all who path to heaven seek,
Resembles no scent floral nor my sound
An avian tune rather my words be sweet.
‘Tis true my feet do grace the common ground
Though none I know descended to our heat.
    I think my beauty worthy yet and rare
    To covet not mock by poets unfair.

Love is a recondite matter.
For Her love is an abysmal lake
Of tears and unrequited adulation.
His love was once a duck
that kissed the lake top,
that skimmed the adoring water with its capricious plumage,
that tended to the lake,
and nourished by feeding on the reeds at the waters edge.

Until season changed,
Crisp air blew ripples across the lakes surface.
Yet the lake remained deep and unchanged
And the duck flew south and away
to another, more shallow pond
Remained there.
Leaving Her in want.

She no longer belongs to Herself,
But desires to acquire her souls counterpoint in him.

Her eastern waters warm with each setting night
Her depths and hopes, endless
That one day he will dive among her waves
and this time,

stay.

She begs the wind to keep at bay.

Electricity to commence the lesson
Shall we start the heart of a selfish man?
For She is the flame that will spark the love of his heart
The match that will ignite the passion
Which already lies hidden within.

She longs to take his boreal love for the Moon
That bleak, frigid, misled, infatuation he deems love
And bring it to Her summery affection;
The southern ardor of Her passion.

Her heart beats a solo nocturnal anthem
to his fleeing step,
his narrowed eyes, and lashing tongue.
With hope of an aubade
to waken his affections with the dawn
Her heart sings on.

She covets the charm of the Moon
Whose commensurate beauty is looked upon by him
With more favor than a rose from eden
Or any part of Her own.

He thinks of the moon as he falls asleep
And each day he wakes,
Weeping to see another dimple upon the moon's teasing face.
Yet as he sleeps he dreams

And never recalls
Until the lightning shakes his house
And he wakes to thoughts of Her

A match strikes not for limbo
But for tepid coruscations to warm a soul.
By assumption she is not her own.

The quintessence of a life when received--
A curio to collect dust and fissure.

What will you do
with a heart that is not your own?

The footsteps of one voice, impressions made
Upon the crown of worlds we are and not
Familiar. A voice asphyxiated now
By God’s eternal rest, the steps scrubed,
All evidence of past existence void.
The algid night warmed by sunset’s palette.
Coastland is cast aside in the gloom and cold,
Of winters bite and scratch that seeps inside.
The sands of Time and Shore joined silent by
Invisible mortar, like by magnets choice.
Frost sways and rocks above the muted town,
Then turns descending swift as kites retreat.
The waves verbosely lap along the shore,
Companion’s creased hand pulses mine with life.
My poignant awareness of being paused,
By sight of the delicate form of a
Butterfly lying in the sand so still.
Beholding her, the small shell of one life,
Whose wings so perfect, eerie and intact.
My pulsing hand held the laconic frame
Of life whose soul had fled to greater heights.
So great its beauty and so great my awe,
That felt I a vivid urge to lift mine eyes
To sky so vast, to heaven far away.