it starts with you
sitting underneath the sun at dusk
the only noise you can focus on
is your languid breathing
while the scent of the hot wind
curls into your nostrils
in wicked streams

your slow and steady breaths
gives the beat for the rest of nature to imitate
her winds join in
offering a sweet and watery whisper
blending her breaths and your breaths in an airy duet
laying down the foundation for
the soft pitter-patter
of her plants and animals

her mischievous wind
knocks against the willow's branches
swinging her leaves.
their hollow ringing
is rhythmic and relentless

and then you hear it
the orchestral arrangement
that mother nature
has arranged for you
you become the conductor
of your movement
with your deliberate, languid winds

and when you take a pause in your rhythmic breaths
to savor the sweet scent of summer
as if it could be stamped on your mind
the kestrel's song plunges
into the orchestra
the shrill, sharp notes form a soloist in a flurry of feathers and beaks
completing the orchestra

as the moon rises, opening her pale eyes
as she sways to the rhythm of Earth's song

Are we really in complete, control of our heart?
What about natural selection?

True to its own necessities
its as inescapable as mica in marble
its influence uncoiling
throughout our everyday existence.

The emotional future decided by pheromones
by unconscious laws of pattern, form and complexity.
Decisions independent of what is fleeting and fashionable,
based on actions without social polish.

Natural selection in the age of lasers,
terrifying hierarchies of secret signals.
Layers of strangeness glinting and winking at us.
Chemical commands by tide of electrical impulse to warm the heart.

To end one love in favor of another.
The choosing of one heart over another,
as if, at my age, the situation demanded such sacrifice.
To refocus the heart like the skipping of a pebble
from one spot to another. Self inflicted sabotage.. dreadful gamble..

Crystal clear trickle of ice cold streams steams in the warm ray of the sun as it carves features round the bonsai green, things never seen places it shouldn't have been like the blood stream trying to keep clean,
to tamper is mean is it better to dream.

Lately I thought
The more I forced
A tug on my lips,
A glint in my eyes,
A light in my face
Like the flicker of flames
As they dance in the fire,
The easier it would be,
The more natural it would feel,
And maybe even some day
My mind would recall
How it felt to smile
And I would be able to
Do it for real.

Cast Iron comb held freedom between its teeth
Release me from these naps- it’s straightness I seek
Praying I don’t get burned and have to pay a price
Just to get someone to notice and say my hair looks nice
It’s blowing in the wind just as smooth as you please
Fingers don’t get stuck; they flow through with ease
Walking down the street I catch a few winks and stares
I’m flowing with my hot combed hair without a care
Thunder rolls and lightning strikes...cumulus clouds gather
Umbrella in the car😳, this is no laughing matter!
Minutes pass and strangers still smile as they stroll by
I couldn’t muster the energy to figure out why
My hair, no longer straight, must be ***** and knotted by now
I looked in the mirror and still gathered compliments but didn’t know how
I thought for a moment about how carefree I felt as the sun came into view
I realized I’d just been released from those sad old hot comb blues.
Shay

Out in the penetrating haze
Of the natural world
Weapons are used, not made.
No battle is a war
Out in natural light.
And weapons are used, not made.
Indifferent as she is,
Nature picks no side,
And so weapons are used, not made.
When something is born,
In natural light
It is born creature, helpless
So no weapon is born to be made.
Yet under lightbulb, in man's metal warehouse
In sanitary stink and entombed disembodiment,
Some weapons are bred to be played.