Orange Loom you leave again,
conflating royal blue and red,
calm and warm like an old friend,
but you were grey once.
Your yellow lilt is surely just a show;
an ephemeral, vestigial truth.

Is that you, brooding on the horizon,
pausing for your latest audience?
Your powerful symphony flirts
with your stagnant players;
a panoply of mountains
-expounding their own soliloquies-
and trees as straw-roofed bungalows.
The ocean floods your eloquence,
like an impending harbinger speech.

Your tame light evokes an urge,
something Great, magnificent and pure,
but you will return in time again.
Some will wait but all will learn;
your author's notes, or are they burned?

I need a pen
- to finish with words
the perfect day
you gave to me -
like the fare we paid
in the taxi, where
you poured out your heart,
on July first.
Your currency was love.

In dried-out marsh where footsteps lie,
Tracing steps and feet before,
Broken fence and ragged wire,
Brook and grass and harmony.

A field across the orange blaze,
Faithful cracks, surrendered branch,
Dimly grained and bowed in green,
Earth and hooves, informal dance.

A gallop halts in open air,
Squared, and chest apparent,
Perfect as my counted steps,
Alone he stands in distant stare.

A moment still I hold my breath,
Fixed and strong, he’s caught my track,
Hazel backed and scars to bare,
Solemn in a fragile glow.

Content in wayward solitude,
He does not trust my path,
Dark brown eyes and pointed pride,
Yearning for the evergreen.

In greying tips he stands his ground,
Loyal to the days gone by,
Speckled spots of brown and black,
A primal thud of cloven foot.

Stooped and still I hold his gaze,
Eagle-eyed he grants me time,
He listens fair with velvet edge,
And sees my flaws through dusty light.

A broken twig- he’s on his way-
Prancing through the deadened leaves,
Muscled buck and arrow flow,
Fluent as the river ebb.

My lens will capture sight and time,
But feeling, sounds and moments shared,
Something I would rather keep,
In mind and memory before I sleep.

The light fell through the window shades,
one sliver right between those amber eyes,
and it struck me how little I know of you.

How little I know of anyone.

Every day it feels like there is a new way to hide
from the world.  What are we all so scared of?
Intimate touches are minimized by the fear of
being left alone, and with no one taking leaps of faith
we've ended up with our feet weighted to the ground.
Cemented by our inability to push past indecision,
solidified by our lack of communication.

Your eyes may be bottomless, but that shouldn't
stop me from diving in. If I should drown in your
subconscious, I would revel in my lungs collapsing.

Is that your plan ? you move mountains and maraud daffodils, draped in purple and gold ironies.
forever splendid. roman roads dream of your feet. are you always this beautiful ? are you mad ?
how many butterflies would it take to hide your smile ? that radiant starvation made ebullience
and alabaster. is that your plan ? you're simply gonna waltz on sunshine, only to pirouette pining
one love ? are you sure about the halo with graffiti ? when i saw that, i was yours. do you even
remember a life i didn't Love You ? i didn't think so.

why so quiet ? don't you have something to say with your lilting voice ? i have stalled
your riotous beauty .I have your Crystal Silence. it feels like dying wealthy. was that
your plan ? are you always inevitable ? just because that would be great and you know
me. my schedule is wide open. but i just clocked in. was that your plan ? was all this
love yours ?

good plan.

(- This is originally a spoken word poem. Read aloud for maximum exposure.
-Asterisks indicate the necessity to pop your cheek with your thumb.
-Answer the two questions correctly and I will give you a hug.)

He fell asleep while traveling time
where a true name
becomes everything else.
So please give me a minute to explain myself
through the doorways
that I see champagne on a windowsill
walking across the room with blue
and fine china feet
saying again and again
drink me.
Until somehow
the words become a song
singing and swinging the bottle like a dinner bell for thirst.
A kind that we've settled to quench
with television
and somebody else's dream.
So don't pour my drink.
I'm trying to uncork it with my thumbs.

POP

It's flat
and I still have a tongue
so I will use it and I
I will dream of a time
where ******
becomes a baby.
Dr. King becomes a baby.
Until the left and the right and every dead genius in between
becomes
a baby.


Tiny feet trying not to crush the wet salad of the lawn
because it is green,
like my heart
that has learned
how to break fine china.
From experience,
let me tell you
it's a lot more tiresome than a blue dream
but he fell asleep on a boxcar crossing Germany
where mustard gas
drowns you in your own lungs
and he tries to breath between the joints in the track

the

click
...                         
click
...
    clack

as years
hurtle by.

Asking again and again,

"Who killed me?"
           &
"Who am I?",

until dinner was served without grace.
Until my head becomes stiff and bubble shaped
having been conditioned by
their
piles
&
piles
&      mounds

of
obfuscation.


So we should tell all the baby Hitlers,
that become children
that become us,
that a lie
is what you become
when abusing language to distort a reality.

And when you make a fist
you are handing worlds out at random on a silver tongue.
But I still have one
and I still have thumbs
so sorry to burst your bubble but,

POP.

Child,
I don't mean to put
barbed wire
between us.  
I know it hurts
to have something so precious as the world
taken away.
But walls hurt worse
and through them only muffled sounds are ever heard
until your world is made of mute prisoners
that have forgotten what silver
really sounds like.

Blessed be
for I also have ears
so give me second place
and I will throw the medal against your walls.
Ringing out,
the universe doesn't look like an ebony tub,
with knobs we can't ever see,
full of infinite shining marbles to everybody.
Your mind
is a library
so free will isn't a book written in just English.
And tourists,
those know nothing infants trying to travel,
belong
where
           ever they
are
                             going.

Belonging like this medal bouncing trying to sing
off your wall
and
falls

into


your world.

Where again it will ring,

we've all been runner up

and somehow
we still can become disappointments to ourselves
when another doesn't enter our library
instead of loving the stories on our shelves.


So,
let me say grace.
Let me set l o n g tables
with the gruel that's been given
served on b  r                     n.
                         o
                           k  
                                        e          
china,
spooned
with sterling silver.