Spiked ball, eyes lit up
Keen Quills tremble with courage
Sharp frame makes sharp mind

There's a breeze flowing through my hair, so strong that it has the power to knock me back a couple of months
Back to a time when you still loved me- I meet your eyes again for the first time in awhile. You're laughing, throwing your head back, and dancing around. Singing to me, you say "look at the stars, look how they shine for you"
There's a breeze flowing through your hair, and I try my hardest to hold on to this moment with you for as long as I possibly can
But too bad for me, much like our memories, the breeze always ends up slowly withering away to something I can't feel anymore

I sit by the window as I read,
For nature I need to see.
I stretch my arm to the sun's warm heat, Only for a cloud to make the warmth recede.

I look out to the trees,
Hoping to see some life.
It helps to see the trees,
But it hurts to see the towers which above them rise.

Nature I need to remain sane, For these man-made walls mock me. Without nature I am in pain, Within a building I am ashamed.

If only I made time to reconnect with it, That I might in overwhelming peace pray. Then, then I'd be able to omit,
The voice that says "You have to read today."

I dreamt of us walking
By the riverside
On those nights we were talking
'Bout nothing and everything

Will she stick around this time?
She's hesitant, but she might
I would die to read through
The closed Book of You

There was a star
Shining down on us
As we brushed but never touched
Treading forest trails
Telling endless tales
Of all that once was and all that could be

I can’t see you next to me
But I can feel you breathe
Come closer now, confide
All the things that you hide

Hurry now before it's too late
Dawn creeps up as we fade away
Only memories will remain
Of you and I
My love, bye bye
Bye bye

The sun rose sideways over
Trees so full of birds I'd thought they'd
Taken the place of any
Real branches. The song came quiet, 
Making conquest of our opened ears,
And ******, if it all wasn't gorgeous.

The Jazz in it hummed loudly,
Asking whence the shakes began.
She screamed in an ear to
Inquire about the fun she's having. 
Stuck staring in a rear view,
With hope they're unaware of
Locked doors. 

Green-garnished, gold-rimmed eyes, and a
Brandished black mask, blocking the brightness,
But also the bad intentions. 
Let 'em know where you come from,
And they'll use it against you. 
Let them see where you're going: then, 
They run for the hills. 

"What's a vice worth, if you
Don't nourish it?"                
                                                               ­               What's a number, but an
                                                              ­                Excuse, or a limit?
"See, there's a countable
Amount of stuff, in this universe, but we're
Still unsure of what we're
Doing in life."

Gasping at the light's 
Bounce off foreign plants. 
Recollections of strengthened bonds,
Pressing heavy, into wet dirt
Of a previous day's rain. Fearing 
Faith in what you can't understand. 
Working for the worst people in the world. 
But because, you must 
Help, to exist. 

But break the bubble, 
Roll back those shoulders, tuck those wings
                                                           ­                   Maybe get the **** out of the car?
"I'm getting there, ******."

I enjoy the way the pink spring breeze
grazes my rouged cheeks.
Though a little chilly,
a thrift store sweatshirt squeezes
back against my body,
shielding overwhelming brisk.

Jermaine's voice trickles between my eardrums,
but I pause a moment,
words of howdy, hello,
"Oh," I breathe, "yes, I couldn't
remain inside another minute!"
The hey's and hello's,
those are the chords of C, of G,
and, strange though,
how sometimes I prefer a flat or sharp.

Some chords though harsh at first taste,
they stew on the tongue,
relinquish sweet, succulent juice at last;
sweet reward,
satisfying relief.

I feel the grin stretch, slink
across my canvas,
the reverberations of a cackle,
boisterously beating against
my far-from-hollowed chest,
for full it feels,
full it is,
filled with filling full
of warmth, light, fulfilling fulfillment.

There is merely of tiny moments
a collection,
most prized,
as if I had begun many moons ago,
knowing did I do before I knew,
gathering each grain to
make a beach,
each blade of green,
making a lawn of bluegrass,
with a sprinkle of a flower or two;
deep within self,
collecting,
gathering
to now feel stillness,
& admire that treasure.

I gaze intently ahead,
streaks of magenta, a citrusy jaune,
(yellow of course),
juicy orange,
dripping into a soft
periwinkle,
reminding me of play dates,
chocolate chip cookies,
only the special, secret recipe
on special occasions,
today, could you be one,
every day, an occasion
to taste the secret recipe,
soft chocolatey, dangerously delicious,
melting into my tongue?
This sunset,
tranquil spring night,
oh how it tastes,
smells of the endless possibilities,
special occasions.

So wise, rich with knowledge,
how the recent past has left
me
saged with experience,
yet energy & zest,
of youthfulness,
I sigh outwards,
hard;
breathe in the wonder.

Family, friends, lovers,
neighbors, coworkers, classmates,
father, mother,
sister, brother;
the world uncoils, unfolds
like watching from the outside,
yet exploding within,
I burst outward.

My mind, oh does it race,
faster I am sure than
any body could carry.
It bends, twists,
molds, sinks, festers,
bubbles,
boom, pop, trickle,
it goes.

Creating art,
that is all we do.

I hear that sweet voice,
a melody of its own,
whispering secrets of past pain
and future plans;
I hold them all dearly, as
dearly can exist.

Strum my emotions,
pluck my thoughts,
slide down my dreams,
pick my desires,
bellow my fears,
harmonize my anguish,
release the echoing,
play the notes found
in the deepest chorus,
the sounds I can make
from the beating of my own heart,
the rhythm of heavy breathing,
giving birth to a story.

Still I am writing it,
but of course,
black pen smudges against
my tiny fingertips;
Mother always did tease,
for how I hold my utensil for
words, well, "That's just like me,"
she would giggle right now,
if she were to see,
that giggle just like the one
someone loves
coming from me.

A pen to a blank page,
again I go,
in due time the world will know,
and back to me will It boomerang.

Where there was once a sense of
apprehension,
the way this slow, meticulous wind smells,
tastes,
feels as it strokes my face,
all I may now ponder
is a simple, tasty desire;

The journey, how delightful it is.

There are tunes to play, sing;
oh how there are jigs to dance.

Mouths that can open wide & scream loud, but not shrill,
toward the heavens.

Smells to create with fresh baked goods,
peaches to burst open with teeth
hungry for its, their juices.

Flowers yet to bloom,
more in the tender April 'noons ahead.

Steps to stomp on a run in new kicks.
A soft pair of lips to kiss.

Jokes to be told.
Laughs to be shared.

Lines to cross.
Fast pulses to feel.

Claps of thunder to steal the blue sky.
Silent tears to slip down cheeks
worn from years.

Philosophies to analyze.
Friends to meet, greet, make, take; bonds to create.

Games to play.
Long, strung out giggles
from little ones,
innocence so pure & poetic.

Dreams to make realities.
Loves to have, but loves too to lose.

CIties to visit.
Language to speak, share,
stutter, misunderstand,
exchange,
accomplishing dialogues,
communicating in hushed
whispers,
sweet nothings nuzzled,
brushed
against my ear.

I've got some living to do;
living with me, but also
living with you.

In the fog
streetlight glow:
Will-o-the-Wisps

Embers wrapped in gauze
harsh yellow light
spills into grey monotony

The world has shrunk
confined
to the pools cast by floating lamps

All else
is a faded
grey blur

A stagnant breeze
stokes the down air
into writhing ethereal vines  

Vision clouded
permeated by whisper
mist caressing  

Everything is painted mute
a drear uneasy blanket
cast into the valley

I drift
strung along
by the luminous spectral splashes

Unseen
Unnoticed
a smudge in a world of vapor

Am I
anymore definite
than the intangible fog?

March today
despite being January
At least  a good day for a walk

Ice in sepia speckled with black
wilted under
the Water’s surface

Ridges and islands
           of white ice protrude
from the murk

Delicate ripples
roil from
inky black wells

Drab and tattered
the snow trodden grass
sways in the wind
Murk
Murk
The color of tea

steaming
Chai
In a floral mug

A warm up from
the chill
  walk

I drink down
to the dregs
satisfied  


It’s still March
as if January resigned early
and February forgot to come

Forty Degrees
clad in shorts
and sweatshirt, I walk  

Air perfumed by thawing soil
and melted pond pools
painted robin’s egg blue

Ice bent trees
bow towards the road
like children’s hands

Reaching towards
pothole puddles with trickles
trailing like balloon strings

Reflecting the sky
inverted vignettes
Caste in brown

Framing the trees
skeletal fractal fingers
reaching across the tableaux

Peering through the clouds
the Sun silhouettes
black bottle brush pines