i write poetry in fifty seconds or less
sometimes the words taste like salt
and sometimes like maraschino cherries

i wonder if my blood is red or if it's purple
because pain no longer feels like the color red,
it feels like numbness, cold unsaturated color.
red is diamond and fire and volcano
and it doesn't seem fair to call myself eruption.
it would be more accurate to say that i'm sand dune
and flood
and hurricane,
something that doesn't burn painfully
but slowly sinks into your skin
like water
until you breathe in what you thought was air,
but really it's not oxygen anymore,
it's me.

this one tasted like salt.

*(a.m.c.)

Okay Brdies
Flap your wings and repeat after me:

I pledge to never leave a Brd behind:

♥ if you need a shoulder
♥ if you need an ear
♥ if you need to vent
♥ in times of fear
♥ if you need understanding
♥ if you need a friend
♥ if you think you need advice +
♥ if you're on the mend
♥ if there's any trouble
♥ if you're in a bind
♥ if you've gone all cuckoo and lost your mind
♥ if your soul needs healing
♥ if you're a moody mess ++
♥ if you need SHOPPING to heal your stress
♥ if you feel alone
♥ if you're out of sorts
♥ if you need a laugh we're all good sports
♥ if you have writer's block
♥ if you need distracting
♥ if you need a break we'll escape through crafting+++

Now we Brds are bound in honor
With a heart of a poet to guide our flights
Never again in isolation
The Flock is here with great delight :)

when young I walked the golden path with my father into

our talking place. Leaves were green buds were growing seeds were
sown trees bowed down. Birds had their nests ready for their young.
Robins fluttered in their tender loves, Blue Jays coyed and cooed to their ones.
Squirrels  played among the dense greenness, jumping like acrobats,
impressing me and the young girl squirrels.

I was thirteen,  I was grown, Oh, did I think!

My father so wise, said "All is life is beautiful. All has a season. Trees have a name as do squirrrels. You have mine. I am proud"

That was all he said.

ever is where?
I am at it
      I never have seen
a ridge where night
touches the dew- or
     sunlight glows
on both the day and you.

There I sat upon
   a ledge teetering
fearing heights
              and the depths of darkness
     below. Tottered
down upon spoiled grounds.

Ever is where-  over a hill?
    may we ever see
sun glints-
      on green
      eyes
strong trees,
          sowing seeds
in sunlights.

If tears are wires tying  eyes to nose
if sobs are sinew
if night is dark
and day be light
and death be  long
I tie me up with tears and sobs and night in death.

I grant the chances I came across to
see me as I was, earthly, desires
another bare ground.

Heaven scents I breathe,
of you and me. I see
tears, sinew, eyes red, light,
as living with death and
chances met. I take
my ever in my hand and cast it to the winds;
never will I be
tied down.

drips fell from the inky sky and splashed the sea into a crinkled sheet

rain again

there's something different about the rain at night
something a whole lot more sinister

in the drizzle we shiver and throw stones through the watery mist
each one smashes the surface
like enormous raindrops which
crash into the black water

how can something so violent feel so peaceful?
don't try to define it
just at this moment it feels perfect

the waves break onto the stones
and with each one we throw
the stones break back onto the waves