Has feathers,
sleeps in the nook,
by a red rock,
and the title of this poem,
made you look
at my ****.

__
To see a photo of my ****:
http://beautyineverything.com/5048983478

70 miles per hour
The highway rushes by
Careless open window wind
Caught like a kite
Lifted to the sky
Open, it dances
Twirling and twisting
Swaying in slow motion
It's invisible smile, contagious
As it flies away free
So lovely as it makes it descent
Swirling in the breeze
Slowing as it realizes its fate
At journey's end it lays
Dusty and crumpled
Forgotten and used
Left by the side of the road
Unsightly, scorned
Torn and stabbed
As it journeys on
Lifted again just briefly
As it comes to rest
At the bottom of a bin

tell me silence
so I can know

burn me fire
and in your glow

the whispering wind
will let me show

endless nights
bring us close

but in the day
we will go

summers life
is at its end

autumns death
now here begins

so let us not
sleep through the cold

but work to live
keep close whats told

from mothers breast
and fathers hand

we’ve been given
to this land

coyotes yell
will tell us still

and eagles scream
hard and shrill

she is not ours
to keep or ****

but we are hers
with love to fill

The wave reached its peak. Curling,
it crashed upon The Black Stone.

We sat—legs dangling off walls edge—watching.

The whispering waves spoke their prophetic secrets,
and we saw ourselves reflected in the pool.
Clearer during high tide but ever-present nonetheless
when the sea was low, wet sand slightly exposed.

A dream.  
A passing thought.
             a flicker of an idea.
gone in an instant.
                                 or is it?

A subtle undertone.
(a subliminal message.)
locked into the brain.
                until a gentle remind brings it out.
How simply can one's thoughts be swayed.
             how easily can one's heart be played.
how easily can prejudices unknowingly be made.

incredible.
       impossible.
             inconceivable.
why does this make me jealous?

If you could write your life in pencil,
How much simpler things would be.
When it is turned upside-down,
the slate is wiped clean!

But then again..
writing in pen could be fulfilling too.
If the situation comes around again
a quick glance back will tell you what to do.

But what if your desire
is for your mark to appear darker?
Then might I suggest, my friend,
a big.
       fat.
           black.
                    sharpie marker?


Alas, these utensils have one piece in common.
and that piece is this:
    The output seeps from that which is within.
as does the humans mouth reflect the heart's desire;
reveals the power;the soul; what lights our fire!

       understand it, can you? can I?
can we unlock our own secrets?
                     can we even try?

but maybe then, if we do, and have anything left.
                we can say our words right.
and extend a helping hand, but with a heart contrite.
to assist others in comprehending their plight.
and then.

in the end.

maybe our words will be put into pen.
or pencil

or
big.
    fat.
       black.
                sharpie marker.

You hold it, have it,
but do not hang it
over me. You tuck it
away in a careful corner
of your heart, remember
that it's there
but hide it as one of
the many promises we
made to each other.

You keep it so I cannot touch it
cannot look at it
or feel its cold reminder.
You soften the sting,
hidden from the world-
myself even-

You saw my weeds
and you
gathered them,
bouqueted them,
owned them,
watched them bloom
and for that I will always
love you.