These sounds of silence
Rumble and roar
I’m in a constant state of questioning
Asking what love is,
Filling in the gaps between all my questions
With the things we saved for March
Relishing in the idea of spring
And what it means to bloom
Peeling away at citrus,
Reaching for the plums and nectarines
In the icebox, scarfing down cooled melon
Picking at peonies and daffodils
Thinking about tea but hating its taste
I was never a morning person
But the sun these days is so new

But it’s when the winter creeps back
And I awake to a morning frost
Bits of past, pieces of December
Pine trees and heating cars
I remember the worth of remembering
And the reality of how time moves
And how all these questions
Sprinkle down with snow, rain,
sun rays, or leaves
never leaving, never eased
only knowing that I don’t know
and that seasons don’t return; they just pass

make me wish i could write
in the way i hardly understand
what my words mean at all

like those poets who manage to place
every word, every detail of it
in the most perfect cadence

speaking in a language of only those few
who feel or have been through the same thing could understand
with their deeper and wittier sense
at catching things in the right way

feelings successfully delivered across
like it's the first thing you'll read
in the envelope

and though i still lack the capability of doing so
i'd still stretch any words i have in me
to attempt creating something—
anything less than what the heart feels

you
make me try to utter things
that i’d rather leave unsaid
if it’s about
  anyone but

Fluid time, fluid stone, fluid light
all right, solid nothing,
nothing at all, a solid wall,

with a clustering of curious curio types,

messengers messaging between
whole and part, paid tuition
ars intuitus
rare anachronists insist, words evolve.

Words expand, as children into sage
or wastrel conformed and conditioned
expanding the idea of wedom,
breathing, statistically half in, as half out
breathe,
what manner of man am I, wombed or un?

Were there ever men such as we, who can
share context across history, at earth level.
----------------------

Considering the ant is no childish passtime,
Fulfilling aristocratic duty to learn then teach,
Considered here, linearly, on a thread

one thought wide, picked from circumstance,
to consider sidereally distant, sent from Mars,

between three and twenty minutes of time away,
on an arc affected by cohesive force, eh

grave-definite down, down, down
to the core of our communication organs,

signaling scents accepted as thought projected,
kindly lines, minds attuned as thought accepted.
--------------------

Consider ever, from your vastest sense,
of the gravity bubble we exist within,

you and I, my hearing, seeing, knowing
me and you, my guardian guiding will,

to which I choose to submit, under no threat.

General Common Sense, beauty recognition,

test to tell if the word lord means any true -ing,

Greek men, pure, indeed, wisdoming wedom

mob minds and freedom do not mix,
oil and water, sure as Hell.

Freedom from all forms of tyranny, what holds
our we shape, in our minds? Common sense,

under all the stories contained within this
Goldilocks zone of unintended circumstances,
working out, fine, just iusta think
fine…
is no real answer, it is a code, a social norm set
said, fine, I'll say it, as a code for so small
we'd need ants eyes to see it…

and, lo', we have those,
we have predictable macroscopic images,
graven deep into our idle time drifting state

watching art mock life, and learn life laughs.
--------------------

(Is there an emotion for mystical? I suppose it would be to be mystified. Perhaps awe is the word I am looking for.  I was in awe at the sight of him! I was beyond mystified!)

It started in the Yellow Wastelands.  Where life went to die.  As life dies there, they become a part of the Yellow Wasteland adding to his spread and growth becoming a sort of crystalline lattice.  All go willingly to the crystalline whisper. The whisper in recent theory emanates from the shining yellow crystals that grow among the Yellow Wasteland like blue bonnets in the Texas spring.  Once the Whisper is heard the victim willingly partakes in what we call The March. The March is a mindless saunter to The Yellow Wasteland where upon arrival they lay in the yellow dirt and slowly begin crystalizing. We have tried stopping The March. But have been unsuccessful for many years.  During the state of the march the victim gains a strange, extraordinary ability to control others as they see fit. If one or a group of people, try and prevent the march they will be controlled by the whisper to put the victim back on track.  The final equation that we cannot solve is why one hears the whisper.  There seems to be no pattern whatsoever.

On this day my daughter heard the whisper. We walked with her for hours on end.  My wife and son followed shortly behind whilst I walked beside her talking about memories and music.  My son then caught up and started to play his lute. He played song after song and sang beautiful lyrics that they wrote together.  My wife would then catch up to fix our daughters hair and clean her face as we walked and walked toward The Yellow Wasteland.  There were times where we would walk all together in a line and pray and pray.  

Over the Wolf's crossing trail was a hill. The hill was now called.
" The Last Ascend."    The Yellow Wasteland can be seen below.  We started the ascend up the last ascend.  Tears flooded all our eyes as we were powerless to stop The March.

Snow falls heavy on head of Earth
Weight added as this mighty rock spins
Might be spring according to the calendar
Icy powder covers the dancing tree limbs
March choreographing slow routine
Time taken to feel sun's warm glow
Movements meticulously placed
We patiently wait for greenery to grow
Each morning rises giving way to new roots
Relying on heat that stays out of sight
Looking forward to the colorful weeks ahead
Good weather to melt the frozen cloak of white

Bloomed from a Rainy past.

We’re 8 years apart.
Born in entirely different centuries
Born in different seasons and on different days.
Yet we’re exactly alike.
Yet so contradictory

Our hair, our face, our expressions.
Our jobs, our mannerisms, our perspectives.

You don’t see what you’ve done to me Kristoph.

You’ve planted this seed in my head. That I should always listen to you, that what you said was true and gospel.

You nourished that seed in my head while raining down on me like a hailstorm.

You had my strings in your hands. Cherry picking what I thought and what I should know.

You make sure that seed was planted deep inside of me.

But I broke free of your storms.

I became my own flower.

So when I bloomed it wasn’t what you wanted. You tried to prune me. So I built a fence to protect myself.

You gave me the seed but I became my own garden. I flourished while you wilted. Your visions became stationary.

That’s when I realized it.

You aren’t a flower at all.

You’re a ****.

And when you can’t infect one garden you move on.

So you took him.

Now it’s my job to free him of your thorns as well.

And together the two of us will


Bloom.

Don’t always march to another’s drumbeat,
Nor always dance to another person’s tune,
But march in time to your own heartbeat and
Dance and dance, till you reach the moon …