I work in a field all day
To repair garden beds
And to grow new plants
With the destiny to be harvested
Whenever “our hearts desire”.

I work in a field all day
To repair a physical burden
And to grow new dreams
With the destiny to be reached
Whenever “our hearts are able”.

I work in a field all day
To mend a broken soul
And to grow new connections
With the destiny to be healed
Whenever “our hearts become stable”.

I work in a field all day
With the exception of a distraction
Then I look up to the clouds
And get lost in the wonder
Of when “I will find you”.

I work in a field all day
Yet find myself disoriented
Because my eyes have wandered
All over the sky
Making up for “lost time”.

I work in a field all day
Looking forward to heal
Hoping I’ll hear from you today
Knowing the sky is infinite
Just like “the space behind your eyes”.

I work in a field all day
I catch myself staring into the horizon
Remembering the time I saw your eyes
And how indefinite the ending was
Even though “the line seems so close”.

We all want our poems to trend and get views.
But when that is your focus, you're the one who will lose.

Striving for popularity can cause you to lose clarity.
Pulling you down a hole of insularity.

Instead, look ahead!
There are new horizons to be tread!
New poems to bloom happily in your garden bed,
no matter whether they are noticed...or even read!

She lost every reason she had to smile
Shoes worn out from walking the same sad sidewalks
That careless city holds eternally gray horizons
She dreams of a day the clouds will float away
She dreams of a day when she can feel... anything

☯
Are you humble
to the very walls and windows
of your drifting soul?

I found religion at the bottom of a cereal box
and ended up saving it in my pocket for awhile, spending my sundays
beside spiritual cannibals speaking of the Supergalactic
and eating on the good word while waiting for the Hand of god
or so-called Miracles; only recently have I discovered
the sacrosanctity of the seed, the egg, the space between matryoshka dolls,
the amoeba before it splits or the amoeba afterwards, baby teeth
and graduates, letters stuffed in pen tips in hands of poets
kneeling with the armless, contrapposto women waiting
inside blocks of marble and boiling pots of Hellenic brass worshiping
in the house of the hesitant spring crawling from the earth’s core
on stolen time;

I say a heretic’s “Amen” to the parting of lips,
the movement of breath, all werewolves on the half-moon and
the moon before the harvest, bless the ant hills full of false gods
that band together in the symphony of the subatomic and glory be
to the Truth! the only truth, that just as all things die in the end, so too
are all things born at the beginning, a fact lost on all those preaching
sacred scriptures in the dead language
of the Impossibly Huge.