Silver streaks of starlight
come racing through the sky
causing tender tears to fall
briefly from my eyes.

Tiny drops of water
paint the cement walk
a darker shade,
as me and my grandpa
watch the chalk circles
that he made
become another color.

Warm wrinkled hands
hold me up to tickle
instead of accepting a hug,
yet still remind me I am loved.

A soldier’s flag
and five-rifle salute
sees someone I love
disappear permanently
from my view.

The shooting star
is gone before
I knew how much
I would miss it.

I seek peace
in observing
all things
that flourish
around me.

There are greens
and deeper greens
galvanized
by daylight
to a shimmering effect.

But every drop
of coolant,
or subtle variation of sound,
every unexpected vibration
makes me anxious,
because I am hyper aware
that my safety will disappear
because it is an illusion.

The earth beneath my feet
has been dried and bleached
to the lightest brown possible.

I am still seeking stillness
but my roommate’s presence
is a jagged intrusion,
with irregular outburst
of unpredictable rage.

There is the sound of birds
whistling all around me
unperturbed
by the train I heard
in the distance.

I make it to work,
in time to observe
smiling stranger’s
who want to converse
with me,
and despite all distraction
there is a certain satisfaction
to that human interaction.
It is a peaceful moment.

The practical pianist
played for perfection’s sake
not for pleasure
and that
was her mistake.

He’s been on the road
coming home
from
Arizona flagstaff
wearing his
jury rigged knapsack
with plastic
and cloth bags
strapped together
by an orange cord.

Sixty something,
tan skinned,
and missing teeth,
I find him
on the off ramp
as I head out
to work.

Sign says Springfield
but he is trying to
get back to
Chicago.
I almost pass him by,
but I remember
a younger guy,
the good man
I used to be.
He asks me to be
kind again.

I tell him
I’ll drop him
halfway there,
but he offers
a traveler’s perspective
and excellent conversation
so, I take him as far as I am going.

We roll in
just in time
for him to miss
the storm coming,
and part with
a handshake
and goodwill,
I forgot how good
that feels.

I project my heart
out into a universe
that does not reciprocate
said empathy.

Twilight falls, and I can see
stars twinkling in infinity.
Atomic explosions
push out plumes
of nuclear energy
but they don’t give
a **** for me.

The sun that shines
does not mind
if I live or die.
The buds that bloom
from the thin brown branch
will not be bothered
if I fall victim
to some horrible accident.

The massive mountain
with snowcapped tops
will not be moved
or stopped by the loss
of little old me

I am less than a flee
in the monsoon reality

I never liked the mud,
but I loved
the smoky mist
that was stirred up
when I crumbled dirt
into a dusty substance,

when the light would catch
the passing particles
and I would try to
hold my breath
as the mist moved in a
strangle swirl,
as if the earth
was smoking itself.

I enjoyed making
little smoke bombs
from handfuls of dirt.
I would toss them
on the ground
and disappear
like ninjas did.
Even though
everyone I knew
could see through
my trick dirt
to my dust covered jeans.

I like knowing
that if allowed,
if I’m not put in
some sable box
but left to rot
I will become
that silly dust stuff.

My life is a cup
that needs something in it,
a glass chalice
ready to crack
unless I fill it up.
If I’m not careful
I’ll have to throw it out
even though it is the only one
that I have.