High above the fluttering breeze,
a whispering voice calls out to me;
It's gentle lilt a subtle force,
which stirs my heart to stay on course.

I've often wondered where to look,
inside my mind or in a book;
For answers to the questions of,
each human's search for purest love.

In flowers' vibrant bloom of Spring,
or in the melting mountain springs;
A precious child's engaging smile,
or meeting friends to chat awhile.

As fresh and lovely winds arose,
emotions pure are soon exposed;
And with them regions of the soul,
are bound in honor's sacred goal.

People only ever want to ask me about
the poetry -
those verses about
busted up noses in outer space;
about the pros working
way down passed
the corner of Broad and Main;
about fistfights and hard, hard drinking.
But I built a flowerbed this weekend...
Twenty two tastefully irregular stone blocks
in a crescent moon shape,
filled with the blackest of soils.
The sweat of toil.
The digging.
The planting.
Exotic grasses. Asian maybe?
Purple and yellow flowers.
Zinnias or some **** thing.
All covered in a thick blanket of brown mulch.
It's a fine thing to have dirt on your hands
instead of blood.
No one ever asks me about flowerbeds.

I used to write
My secrets in the sand,
Knowing they would never stay
Long enough to be told.

I used to just swim,
pulled my hair up and never
Really tasted the salt that foamed
After the crash.

I've ran in the sand,
Sure, but never have I
Ever let it smooth my
Skin into what it could be.

Before today, I've never
Let the current take me
Under and feel what it's like
To always come back to something.

The sea is resting now
after a long day
gnawing at the edge
churning in deep hollows
ever so slowly eroding
this peaceful coast

Sand is the issue
of this marriage
sea and sky
combining to
make the land large
in its retreat

A handful of sand
to the winds
my life
to these tides

He did what he should
He was just a kid,
That what he learned,
That’s what he did,
Because it was “right”,
It must be good,
A black and white childhood,
But sometimes thing are not that way,
Black and white does blur to gray
That can never be annulled,
Points are lost when the tips get dull
And now he engages every man’s fight,
To do as he should,
Or to do what is right
©BL Costello 2018

her ring sits on the mantlepiece
worn thin on one side
that dull warm yellow
that gold sometimes takes on

i remember it cutting into my hand
as she held it tightly as we shopped
it was bright and shiny then

she used to wear it on her  longest finger
after dad left us, she left it off for awhile
and then wore it on the other hand

it was tight on her workworn hands then
she took it off again before she went into
this last home, but kept it locked in a security draw

now it sits on the mantlepiece, waiting
for me to find a safe place for it
for it is the little bit of my mother's spirit
that will one day be part of my son's  wedding ring,