I feel the call from the oceans,
the voices whisper from its breeze.
Snow and satire can't label the mindfulness of
memories slowly coming back to me.
My mountains have missed you so much,
my legs miss the warmth of your thermos,
I miss your gentleness and subtlety.

Priority one. If you don't think you will make it by Tuesday,
I'll travel back in time before we were forty degrees,
you can read the seraphs on my signature
if I can lay in your sheets for a week.

Chrysanthemums all over the hallways, Irises in azurean hues.
The charter won't take us all the way to the break wall,
I'm at the airport trying to reach you by phone.
I'd take the flavor of your spirit,
over the sweet coolness of truth,
Slide my fingers into the holes in the jeans you always wear for me when I come home.

The only thing I write off are pages,
Tables marked with the ends of so many words.
Who are you to know what you can do without
The more I've learned, I realize I'm happier with the less I know.

We have stood ship backed
Against the wind, and the rain
Our roots delve deep in the Devon soil.
Moss, and bird song protect us
We watch, we breath as the sun turns.
Our branches hold a thousand lives
Earthbound we know our songs.
Spinning endlessly under the ancient stars

The concrete jungle.
Home of the dreaded concrete beasts
Who lie in plain sight for the world to see

Crouched in marble ledges, twisted in metal beams
Wrapped around handrails, perched in their cemented trees
They laugh at those who cannot perceive
Because they don’t believe.

And who am I,
Yes possibly me
To find my identity
In removing my wooden sword from its sheath

Placing it beneath my two shuffled feet
To answer the alluring call of the beasts beckoning
To my hero’s heart, for my eyes to blink
To suddenly see them as they were meant to be.

In a world between
Real and imaginary.

For it is I,
Yes I believe it to be
Chosen to find my destiny
In a single push

That propels me
Into the path of the snarling beasts
Approaching their stairs and rails, ledges and beams
Gaps and bumps and ramps with speed

And as they stare at me hungrily
Opening their mouths expecting me
I will stand strong on my wooden sword
As the wheels of fire erupt beneath

And the scenery blurs in the flash of the rapidity
I bend my knees and grit my teeth
My eyes narrow and the drum in my chest crescendos its beat
A shout explodes from my chest, a primal scream

As I press on
In the concrete jungle.

Home of the dreaded concrete beasts
Who quiver in plain sight for the world to see
And whimper at the sight of who they now perceive
Because I do believe.

And it is I,
Yes undoubtedly me
Who will find my destiny
Conquering the concrete jungles of the world unseen

Surfing the concrete waves of the world between
With my loyal vessel being the wooden sword from the sheath,
That remains steady in the face of danger beneath my feet.

I am alive
In the concrete jungle.

Yellow horizon
Sunflower fields gently sway
just beyond the crest.

The rain exploded from the sky,
water soaking the trees,
reds, oranges, and yellows
bleeding from beneath the leaves,
branches bending and swaying,
puppet-like under the great strength
of the storm.

I sat in silence for half an hour,
maybe longer,
mesmerized by the catastrophic dance,
the matinée performance unfolding outside
my living room window.
A brutal ballet,
trunks of trees moving ever so slightly
as the wind did its best to
pirouette and sweep the landscape
up in its rhythmic mastery.
Claps of thunder, whistle of wind,
a chorus climbing to its crescendo,
as I remained planted to my seat
when, at last, the raindrop feet
dulled to a stop,
only an occasional pitter patter
as the dancers made
their way off stage.

When the trees grow old
And the wind begins to blow
The branches sway back and forth
And the leaves begin to fall.
The bark starts to peel,
And the roots grow weaker and weaker.

But if we climb that tree,
If we reach the very top,
We notice the clouds in a clear sky
And how they sway to the left,
Sway to the right,
Listening to what the wind tells them to do.

So if we jump to the clouds
We can look down and see
Everything going on
From a different perspective.
Our point of view sways one way
Or another because of what we want to see.

We can see it all for miles,
We can see the world from here.
We can see young ladies swaying their hips,
We can see the ocean’s waves crash.
We can see each spec of waste
We can see whatever we please to find.

But this is unnerving
And this is not how we want to discover
So we hop back to the swaying branches.
We sit and ponder our visions,
We can imagine all of the possibilities
That we have just encountered.

We can see that our tree
Is just as strong,
Is just as gorgeous
As that young woman swaying her hips,
As the ocean’s waves.
The peeling bark uncovers fresh sap
And the tree’s roots regenerate strong.

When the trees grow old and the wind begins to blow,
We sit on the branches, and sway our feet
Hundreds of feet above, and write poetry to our imagination.

You’re the painter
and
I am the canvas

You mix blues
and purples
into my skin

Your brushes
are the fists
of a flawed
childhood

I am the pale canvas
of
love

I am patient
as your anger
swells

I wait for
your artwork
to form along
my skin

This is sick
I know
But all I can
say is

“Paint me
and
Make me beautiful” -DDF

She wore mountains round her neck

           (“No, lower.”)

Peaked with scented minarets

           (Softer and sweeter than strawberries,
           grander than a psalm.)

In the gulch between words
I offered you a prayer
and you wounded me with a poem.

I watched you  move
like a summer night
to disrobe the cover
of your collected works
           -a landscape of fire and blood
            that beats a wardrum
            deep in my hungry river.

Your petals pressed against my lips
           to drown , to drown
                      gladly.

She wore mountains round her neck,
and I wore her ankles with a smile.

The uneven bridge stretches on
As calming waves sing a song
My mind floats on ocean sounds
While I rest in metal bounds

The car gallops a gentle hop
The waves crash a muted pop
The window frames a silent view
At my side the people bustle like a crew

The view painted a gentle landscape
The sun kisses the water at its nape
I sight this show from a stage
The bridge never flips the quiet page

And as I approach the bridges end
What awaits a rather sharp bend
The journey only a minute long
Entranced me with its calming song