it has been long, this voyage unintended;
one like a branch thrown into waters, into the currents of time
taken on, pushed on to unseen shores
from one continent across oceans to islands and continents
afloat always on the merciless drive and unfeeling, impassionate forces -
though sometimes the shores seemed clear, there seemed to be a destiny,
there seemed to be a will and things bent to it, and things shaped to a plan
it appeared one has arrived, one had arrived, the journey ended
one’s destination come –
but there was no announcement for passengers to disembark;
each clutches a valid ticket, but each ticket blank
the signs and boards all blank, all unmarked
and yet one was carried, one is falling, falling, one is afloat
in perpetual motion, seeming
like the leave that falls
like the sparrow that falls
like the maverick meteor that flies
and  I am so;
and I have given, I have received, I am done -
but is it done?
Are we there yet?
Are we home yet?
Oh it has been long, it has been exhaustive
But is my work done? Is it time?

What a cruel existence
to be one original artist
among millions

at what point is it redundant
to be unique,

and when will it be novel
to be ordinary?

when creativity became common
brilliance, typical

artistry achieved
at infancy,
and the minimum standard to be
a prodigy.

the least you can expect
is a breathtaking performance

and the most you can hope for
is a biography.

Brittle the dust flew winding it's way through the hollows
seagulls winging songs for love
Fog horns deep the darkening storm rolls on
splattering waves of day begin
Pebbles running down hill
gathering shells, my cup to fill
hurry home my frozen toes
thawing by the fire
counting shells
and embers

Her intense presence
does something tender,
to his heart;
that eludes words.

               When she speaks,
               in a soft soothing tone,
               the pain she suffers,
                submerges, goes missing.
                How much she endures,
                how long,
               he can't fathom.
A silent grief
binds them together;
he is the mirror
that faithfully reflects.
He feels now
the gentle spread of moisture
enveloping them both;
dried up skin
on his face comes to life again.
Lips, curled up dry leaves,
are pumped up with chlorophyll,
turn towards her, the sun.
                                     He dissolves,
                                     in the thought
                                     of her pain,
                                     becomes her  tear drops,
                                     roll down and fall
                                     one
                                     by
                                     one.

Do trees have itches they can't scratch
I mean
             The limbs that can't move against the wind
             The apple abortions each autumn
I save all of my apple cores
I see forbidden thoughts in them that no one sees in me

"And The Lord God said unto the serpent... upon thy belly shalt thou go, and dust shalt thou eat all the days of thy life..."

Do we look down on the trees like the overgrown lego people that we are
I mean
             Snapping their branches like dry spaghetti
             Devouring the fruits of their labor
             Their body
             Our choice

"Unto the woman he said... in sorrow thou shalt bring forth children..."

I save all of my apple cores
Wonder about the curses of their parents that don't apply to me
At the hands of man the trees fall
Through Autumn the leaves fall
And their children fall as well

"In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread."

And to the tree
God said nothing.