I didn't expect it then,
there, but not, no, not then.
Small, and many times,
unaccustomed to my home a yet;
Positively I peered forward, waiting on lights
until a clutter of voice and hello,
alerted me,
to a presence.

And it was her presence.
I knew, recognized,
and clanged that empty
cold bell into
a singing steeple.

Hit from the side, I
puttered to my feet and
struggled into hellos and
the long-awaited, paltry,
embrace.

mywordsrolledout
anddownthefrontofmyshirt
ontotheground
for others to walk
unwittingly across

She, usurping pauses,
whispered speech out in a harbored
dammed-up way,
but like sounds
of birds bathing
in streams.

Our modesty admired and shown
its countenance onto our not-so-betraying
pleasantries.

She sat.
I sat. small. and
many times unaccustomed to here.

I peered positively forward awaiting lights
to rest easy and with grace on the presence
- to whom - the blades of grass beneath
bowed.

Sinking into me, a spring, pure, of two souls
whom, are admired
because they pretend
not to know;
they curtain themselves from each other
just because of what they aren't ready
to show.

Its not the trains, cars
and planes.
Those are 'time earned' receipts.
And are only fit for odors of the feet,
and wearying,
as a whole.

Leaving home tears, every time;
waving at the those I precede, as they
station behind.

My back stays sweaty,
my pockets: empty.

Confused by an unaffixed passage of hours,
I often wonder, Who's my mind?
and where did the 'I', I know, go?

My heights look down on
the clouds!
but the depths grab listless by the hand and
take a stroll.

I don't recognize the crowds.
the Hellos or Goodbyes.
My clothes seem not to match,
and to my shoes Use, has been most unkind.

The befriended hat, discolors,
loved by sun and dirt.
My handkerchief a blithe display
just visible from under my shirt.

Then, with tiresome aches,
a new land introduces me
to its beloved scribes, writers,
poets and someones,
and we shake hands.

Inspired,
beatified,
within;
I am recalled to clarity,
and why I have traveled
so far.

As a boat atop a glittering,
fragile sea, I am.

Storms frequent the waters,
and threaten me to capsize.

Ensnared in a titanic battle;
the meeting of the infinite heavens
and the untamable deep.

I shout to Thee in a full desperation, and Behold!
- my ropes become taught, the helm is retaken,
and I endure on the grand Stallion.

In the beginnings of the ceased wind I praise and laud and sing.

But aught the wind stop...
the sun, the flat, and the ease overtake
my vigilant spirit.

And how my tongue goes stale,
my muscles as a sleeping giant.
I thirst, but until the brink of Death...
I see it not.

You find me there, pondering the drink of Salt,
which becomes of a man Deliriousness and Violence.

Just as I yield to jump,
and swim that endless swim,

                          Your Right Hand catches me,
                          on all but a whim.

Fortitude regained, and rid of shame;
With a visage of stone, and straight before;
I unfurl my sail, and proceed,
back into the gail.

Glassy floors, alone
Sky leaks all down the windows
Still no plane docking

The trueness of a friend,
or a friend of trueness,
sits in a room unnoticed,
but altogether understood.

The buildings as masts,
perched in clear window views of;
Just Sailing Through

With an extended hand,
I reach for the the drizzle
I can't see.

It falls and searches
all of the city,
and its busy musings
below.

To hear the echoes
of its stress and fumes and clocks
is quite enough, from this balcony.

Many vaunt in the Sun,
but few dance with the Moon.
Some say, Look how I run,
Others, with the stars do I swoon.

Consoled and condemned by the affirms of their peers,
many burn and burn and burn out,
                                                               for years.

In the like, the rare, due in part
to the antiquity of their soul,
during the nightly watches of the earth,
will their hearts extoll.

And of what caliber do you yourself find?
...when you exact a look, you find your merit of what kind?
Is it of them who amass bricks, ash and dust;
or to the skies do your hands ******?
Are your objects the vacuum of temporal things?
Or an allowance for thought and speech to sprout wings?

May I offer one word of request
to those who find their eyes to the ground, closest;
Look up, Look up! And see what you might behold,
by gazing past the highest heavens untold.

How firmly the words cry their message:

The Hands and Feet of man may Walk,
and his Mouth, Talk.
       Unless he useth his heart
       to guide them with,

...all his Piety and Rectitude, be naught but myth.