Strange place, strange ways, each stay away!
Then why are there two roads to take?

The maps and paths, and followed tracks.
And Google, Waze, we trust their facts.
Turn left, turn right we let it steer.
To miss a turn, we start to fear.

Across to tolls, collect control.
Like little soldiers, do as told.
Planned flights and crowds, comfort in traps.
Are we confined in our skin wraps?

Some lost, pretend to just be found.
Some found, act lost, pretty profound.
To take that step, the unprotected.
To turn towards, the unexpected.
A wasteful plan, we must forget it.
Insane repeat, and do we test it?

Misdirection, to find us love.
Misdirection, to find us trends.
Misdirection, finds ideas.
Misdirection, to find us friends.
Misdirection to free in stress.
Misdirection leaves no regrets.

Let one misdirection find you.
Let one misdirection guide you.
Let one misdirection define
And be the reason, you are you.

This summer I saw mountains
   Thrusting out of the sea,
   And mountains mellowed with age,
   Rounded, softer, quietly returning to the sea.

I saw Redwoods: massive
   Majestic, alive,
   And marveled as I held seeds
   From which they thrive.

I wondered at hands that could be so old
   As those that carved the living stone
  In rocks by the sea;

I stood in awe hundreds of feet
   Beneath blankets of branches
   Of ancient trees.

I listened as mountainous streams
   Sang songs of the sources
   Of life-giving waters.

I saw flowers too many to name
   Running up and down grassy hillsides,
   In and out of pine-scented forests,
   Along rivers,
   Through meadows,
   Etc.
   Etc.
   Etc.*

But why am I telling you this?
   Because, of course,
   I must prove I am free,
   That I can see beauty
   all around me.
But it seems
   The less I feel free,
   The less beauty I see, and
   The louder I shout, “I am free, I am free”,
   The more I scream, “I see, I see”.
It’s all a game,
   You see;
   you see.

I just try to follow the rules.

                                                        ­        August 1, 1970
                                                            ­  *(edited 10/11/2014)

it's not that
i still love you,
it's just that
i don't yet know
how to be
around you without
reaching out
for your
hand

Wine comes in at the mouth
And love comes in at the eye;
That's all we shall know for truth
Before we grow old and die.
I lift the glass to my mouth,
I look at you, and I sigh.

what makes me so unappealing?
is it the way my thighs briefly touch then curve
only to meet again?
my crooked smile?
tired eyes?
the way my hair curls and winds?
my attaching heart?
my small, needy hands?
my glistening blue eyes?
the wishes in the fallen eyelashes that I neglect
to brush from my cheeks?
my age that doesn't reflect my maturity?
the gaps in my brain that can never be filled?
my skeptic heart?
my pulsing wrists perhaps?
my slender neck that curves too late?
the crevices from mountains on my cheeks?
how have I become something I promised not be be?
why do I lack what other girls have?
where have I gone wrong?

We all have a past,
We all hide it well;
We all forget that
We all hurt inside.

I cannot hold you
like I do my alcohol,
but I can let go
like the smoke escaping your lips.

you are just ash
drowning in a sea of regret
with no place to call home.

*t.m.v