Caricature of a truth.
I lay down my wheat and fire iron.
In smoky mirrors, I spread my tail feathers
Alongside the peacock.

When will time be fated to wrist restraints;
When will the Milky Way dance?

If we pick the leaves of the blueberry bush,
Should we ask how she feels of it?
I will dress her in new garb
Before the rooster crows,
If she so wishes.

Why must we play riddles with the unknown?
We poke fun at the things we should practice.
We don’t know the invisible barricade
Unless we paint it.
If we paint it.
Will we paint it?

And when eyes fall,
Of royal silk red,
And swords collide,
Will all be sought?
Have we learned already as people?
Have we forgotten?

Sharpened knife,
And quarterstaff.
The dermis artist before you,
Decorticating all who disobey.
All who fall astray,
Or choose a better tree to climb.
How do we not see?
How do we not see that we are blind?

And when will we learn?
When will we be taught?
Will we ever know,
Will we ever know of what is true and right?
Will we ever know,
The things that we should change,
The things that we should fight,
The things that don’t belong?

The rooster crows.
The rooster’s song is sad,
Because the rooster knows what’s wrong.

Friend.
Until clouds part and world’s end.
I know this.
I know you.
Friend.

Pick-pocket.
And you pick the troubles you pocket.
You thieve me.
You thieve you.
Pick-pocket.

The stench of struggle smells nice to low standards,
But I lack those,
So I take it through the nose
While I wait for a lightbulb moment.
Because a block is a block is a block.
But what lies beneath the rock?

What do you do when the door is locked?
You get in another way.

But if you yell,
And you smash,
And you cry,
And you wail.
And you blame,
And you shame,
And you dread,
And you bail,
The other way doesn’t come.

When you stop,
And you listen,
And you breathe,
And you wait.
When you gather,
And you solve,
And you trust
In your fate,
That’s when the other way comes.

And sometimes through this stillness, through the wait,
The locked door clicks, unlocks and swings open,
And we realize we don’t want to walk through.
Because a door is a door is a door,
But what lies beyond the shore?

"What is beautiful about a woman?"
I asked history.
And he said:
Juno Lucina
The miracle of birth.

"What is beautiful about a woman?"
I asked language.
And he said:
Mami, Morsa,
White flower, white dress.

"What is beautiful about a woman?"
I asked society.
And he said:
She is the good little mother
That I ask her to be.

When they say beauty is on the inside,
Did they mean in the ovaries?
Why is there beauty where babies are made,
But not in the woman that made them?
If she behaves like the perfect, practiced wife
The world cheers along.
But what about her,
Is she beauty alone?

"What is beautiful about a woman?"
I asked art.
"She is beauty,
She is beauty,
She is beauty", she said.

I do not wish to speak for the trees.
I wish for them to speak through me.
If you listen,
Nature’s voice crashes upon the shore,
She whispers at dusk,
And moans through the murky cattails.
How dare we silence such art.
At times,
We paint her playful green a mucky black.
And we expect her whimsical warbling to wash away our worries.
Why do we extort her this way?
Does mother really owe us such things?
Let us lay in the mud and play,
Let us gather her stories, and sway as she sings.
By sitting, waiting, watching.
Holding, pausing.
We will put ourselves aside while she grows.
We will stay long past the sunset glow.
For when dark follows light,
The show does not end.
The show never ends, nor begins.
And we can only know the meaning of life,
When we finally join in.

Your ebullience — my elixir.
Your structure — my realm.
My charmer,
My frolick-footed, arm-in-arm,
My wintertide warmer.
My bicycle bell,
My penny well of unwary wishes.
You capsize my worries,
Choke the vexed fires,
And anchor my fleeting desires.

I love loving you,
And lick kisses that glue giggles and memory moments to the palm of my hand,
Where I hold your leash
On long walks on the beach.
But my mind of wishing wells and wishful thinking,
It ponders the day that we part,
And my eyes and my heart sink,
The thought of the shortness of your life,
And the longness of mine,
And I ask the world, “why?”
But I think more.
And the world answers.
One day I will lose you,
I will go to put on my shoes
And no excitable, fluffy leaping pup
Will wait for her coat and her rope
To tag along, and sing songs
In her mom’s car,
And bark at the bustling city walkers
On windy sidewalks.
One day,
I will go to lay my head on my pillow,
And no wiggly warm lump will plop in the
Crevice of my bent legs,
Dreaming dreams of treat begging,
And taking walks at sunset.
Yes, one day I will lose you
But I will bravely hold that burden,
If it means,
That you’ll never lose me.
Until the day you must go,
I’ll spoil you in every way,
And love you endlessly,
And protect your tiny, padded feet
From hot pavements and salty streets
And keep your smiles and tail wags
In tip top shape.
Until the day you must go,
I’ll cherish the minutes and seconds,
And the second thoughts of why-nots
When we take risks and cross bridges,
Together as doggy and mom.
I’ll strengthen the bond,
Until my hands tire,
The same hands that belly rub
And hold water for your panting tongue,
And grip your leash when we run.
You’ll never know the sadness
Of my leave,
Or grieve at my wooden box,
Or wonder if you’ve heard my last step in the hallway,
While you lay alone.
No,
That is my fate to bare,
And I will be there,
The day you must go,
And I will feel the stab of sad and the long-lasting sting of goodbye,
But I will bravely hold that burden
Til the day it comes true,
If it means that you’ll never have to.