All I know is:
I get bored when I can breathe,
the grass I lay on itches, but I lay anyways,
and when I was standing at the top of the
Eiffel Tower,
I still wanted to die.

I am
strolling
gently and easily
across a riverside park,
my sports-shoe clad feet
pressing down and rebounding on soft lush green grass
with each gentle easy step;

I see
the wide blue river
alongside the park and
I gaze at
white yachts anchored and
I smell
the refreshing pungent scent of salt-water and
I look up at
the mid-blue sky with white fluffy clouds floating across and
I feel
walking-through-a-park-Happy.

There is something about him
that I couldn’t take in
like the water swirling half-empty
in a wineglass,
my hold shaking as I made my way
to the dusty jaws
of our old paradise.
Love.
I close my eyes
and remember the moment I felt his cold fingers
slowly slipping away—
the wineglass shatters in the grass.

The water comes for
the prettier flowers.

Wild ducks and grasses mingle so deeply this morn
I saw them beneath the blackish red sunny dawn
The sun rises behind the clouds, to cover it's face
And cry dip dip dip, now and then - this time anytime
Aroma has blown on the air, the message is floating
Everywhere: Night-birds --street-girls, drunk Romeos go back home
O old beggar mom, don't depart your dome and Starve today,
Let your breast-feeding baby quite in fasting by red eyes,
Pray rain, rain, rain, and raining today day and night
Drops on things anywhere, on wild geese, and on grass

Tonight, I sit down to write
Just like many nights before.
This time, however, I saw something different on the other side of the door.
I saw hope.
I saw it when I saw the grass again.
I saw the sun melt the snow away.
And I knew that snow would turn
Back to water which would bring
The flowers back someday.

We live on the dark street at night,
Rows of old houses huddled in the cold.
Only one small door has a hesitant light
Glowing yellow against wooden gold.

Flowers and weeds are crushed and dry,
Wreathing withered, brown, grass yards.
Frozen blades crack as feet walk by,
Only wild things cross the hay-like swards.

Old people huddle near the wood stove
Or bake bread and pies in the oven.
Their little dogs are let out for a minute’s rove.
Even they shy away from a world so frozen.

The world of black and white
Dims sight and stultifies the senses
It dulls imagination.
So one goes to sleep and waits.

Waits for morning and
The first ray of sun
Reminding one of spring
And the light, warming the street.

December 2020

Clouded Eyes

With a skip, a jump, a dance and a glide
I reach my hands up at the sky
My eyes full of clouds
And my chest light and free
My throat warm and raw from the songs that began and finished
With my phone in hand
And my feet bare
I feel as though my heart will flee
My cheeks burn and sting but I barely notice
Joy does weird things to me
But I don’t mind, even as it blinds me  
A.J.Busse

Still, I rise from the ashes
And pieces unknown.
Moments and memories,
Dreams and mourns.
Still, I rise like a plant
That first pushes away the dirt
Growing towards the sun
In joy and mirth.
And for the grass to seem greener,
It has to constantly rain.
And while it may seem duller,
It washes away my pain.
And I’ll rise from my remains
Like a Phoenix from its ashes,
A winner born out of
Broken dreams, hopes, and wishes.

shevaun stonem