I am an artist,
an architect.
I sculpt my trash into art,
but every Tuesday I fail.
A big box on wheels takes my work
and puts it in a giant pale.
I wish I knew what his name was,
and if he's done anything creative in the past 6 days.
He'd probably take the credit for my work.

My sculptures are like life for some people:
Wasted and unnoticed.

Before you can feel the soft touch of poetry
and it can play a song for you,
look for the positive aspect in moonlit shadows.  
Stop and wonder
how a heart breaks then makes friends
who give of themselves
until they bleed out on the cold floors
of the world.

Do you find that time lays heavy on you
within dreams
where snow melts in pictures
of piercing eyes
that mail letters to the moon.
Or are you afraid to look out the window
and stop pretending
you are falling in love with being all alone
with just your heart and a slingshot?

What litters the path where your feet move
calling out to the sky
that there is no magic wish
staring at you
waiting for you to finish.
Does your breath catch in conversations
held with snowflakes
that spin and bow then fade away
leaving you to wonder
where you go
from here.

Has it come to the point
where you walk in the places
where white lies run through the stream of life?  
Does innocence struggle with colors
that make our eyes believe nothing is true
when something new becomes old
inside of winds that creep
and freeze like icicles.

Before you can feel the soft touch of poetry
and it can play a song for you,
you must have walked this path
I have described.  
Do not stand up and leave with your
thoughts racing,
climbing higher and higher,
lest you become one of those hearts
that bleed.

Time is a dictator
It takes the form of all the elements:
liquid- slipping out of your hands endlessly.
Each wrinkle is two years multiplied by five,
impossible to keep track of.

Havoc is all it causes,
hand in hand with subjugation,
As the pair of crystalline eyes
dart ruthlessly
in a futile attempt to tally the seconds.

Enlightenment
never came so easily
as that night we climbed the hill
marked with tombstones,
touched the trees, felt them speak,
and stared out over the valleys,
the cities, the roads,
the universe,
accepting our place
so effortlessly.

I want to love
Everything.

Each morning when I awake
with golden sunlight
breathing in bed beside me,
I want to step outside
get on my knees
and run my fingers through the grass,
Moaning.

I’ll roll in the grass
and cover myself in fallen leaves,
lie on my back with my jacket wide open
and let the sky take me.

I want to stand up and grab the trees
with my hands,
crying out with the aching sweetness
of my silent
Lovers.

I will have the same feelings
for each staircase I ascend,
my feet treading on the very spines
of these great fretted buildings,
I love them all.

This is the way to live.
With that great language of love,
in your eyes always.

Let go

and glide
down the happy
tunnel
of healing

forgive

The heavy coat

of care, weighs

down to the
cellular level,

exhausted.

It breaks down the
fibers of health

that holds
now folds
bending

from
carrying too many
burdens
ours
others.

Resistance leaves

and an open door
for a foreigner to enter
at the cellular level.

Let go

and glide
down the happy
tunnel
of healing

forgive the unforgivable

free them from the
prison state

healing at
the cellular level.

Allison Ashton©

go to the market
see what a quarter will buy
with no time to suffer
no time to cry
you have to imagine
just how a future will
taste
a little bitter, delicate and
fine, something
beautiful and true
on the night wind
blowing stars through
vast darkness
clean, across the sky
not the whole world,
just a small piece for you