An instance of
certainty in wrath, or hate
for that matter, is to live
a lifetime perpetually
in hindsight's
headlights.

You feel this upon
lonely reminiscent sessions;
You shiver, cringe,
then force-flood your mind
with nonsense to forget.
That is regret.

You show me your world,
catchy pop rhythms,
smiles and childish laughter;
I long for something more,
something different,
something that cannot be described
in words or song.
I know from the beginning
that this cannot be.

I show you my world;
you catch a glimpse through
the twilight gloom,
amongst distant thunderheads.
You can see, in the distance,
a vast, colorless landscape.
Mountains that disappear into the heavens,
endless plains outstretched into oblivion;
this is my world, you see?
This is me.

Your sweetness can be topped,
somewhat, with a cherry;
an ice cream sundae dripping with
warm fudge and decadent condiments.
But this is not me, you see?
This cannot be.

Rocks don't like to be kicked and moved from one place to the other.
Also it is not their favorite to be under ground.
Feel free to skip them on soft water, skipping is enjoyed.

But alas when the rock screams.
Even the loudest screams fall so very far from the target.
And through beating pulse felt throughout its being-
The rock breathes, bleeds, sleeps and cries.

For it must be heard: although there are none to hear.
So in silence and at the flimsy whim of the elements.
The rock just perseveres -
It knows not: what else to do.

beautiful blackbirds
ebony adorned from head to foot
camouflaged for stealth
in shadows and night time sky
sleek sateenic sheen
iridescence of well oiled machine
efficient avian predators
ruthless in their call
attacking nested eggs and fledglings
with never ending caw
boldly bantering by day
foraging in parks, parking lots, streets and alleys
searching for food with eerie, ethereal, slow motion hops
seemingly phasing, at will, out of sync with time
ancient spirit travelers to another plane
they watch the world with weary eyes
spying and recording the day’s events
atop skies, trees and telephone lines
then whispering into the ears
of gods and poets and cornfields

Heaving seas of uneven times
Misty misting mist in all the air that you see
Decades gone and come, how Dylan had it pegged
From here, where is it that we go

To the mountains, no thats been done before
Swim the canals from which we were born
Burrow in the ground to sleep the winter long
Trickle in space or fade brightly like the diamond star

After here, it aint all that you see
Cast aside your dreams for sleep
Begin to end or bend to win the prize
Stand on the shore feel the rising tides.

Be strong like a sun floating in her womb
Thick screaming vines hang from a crack in the moon
Thirsty leaves grow on stones before they crumble into earth
While lean green moments fall like rain on grains of sand

Old grey skies tell tales of the once living dead
Then breathe like bleeding wounds on hard red wood
Go cry like the boulder, having no valley in which to roll
Or stumble home like the warrior that has no place to go

Midwest winter mornings
are about stillness that looks you straight in the eye.
Nothing fancy—
that belongs to Florida, or to the spring.

Winter is just plain stillness—
a gray branch with four drops of water suspended along its length,
a willow with leaves as pale as hay,
slight and stirring.

Look, they say, look:
This is what it is like to wait.