wrestlemania

traveled cross country,
wrestling with extended
celebration and an
unexpected death;
the body maladjusts,
only to be disrupted
when time zones reset,
hard a-heels upon return,
packing up again for a
sacred pilgrimage
to a summer place
of sheltering, where poems
grow and dangle like participles
from local fruit farms, one
need only pluck and taste,
attach your moniker
and then feed them to the
joggers & walkers running past

send them all on their voyages,
hopefully protected from
travel disorientation and the
cycle of rebirth

with luck, bits and pieces of me
will accompany said word whispers,
them shreds and shards
requiring healing,
or just pruning,  
exiting old words,
fresh fruit berries,
roadside acquisitions  to b
carry me stained & strained
& happy new travels o‘er
this fruited plain

From malleable clay,
with his own hands
the potter made a bowl,

Only one day the bowl broke.

What would you do
if you were the potter?

Would you consider repairing it?

Would you throw it away?

Would you repair it,
but also elevate it to a
whole new level of appreciation?

The mountain grows much slower than your perception of the mountain growing taller, as the dynamics of the sea, which sculpts the earth beneath your feet, speaks—summoning the breeze: isn't it surreal, living on God's pottery wheel?

Eventually,
It all comes down to pieces,
Bits of people pottery
Left behind in flowerbeds
And dug up
When rough fingers
Work the soil.
Pastly and willowed
Water and war marked
How did you come to break?
What rough egdes met
To wear you to point the blame
Cut and quick to judge,
Vessel that filled with hate
And quickly spent its uselessness
Upon the slabs.

Or did aged shakes
Dislodge you from
Weakened fingers
And bitter tears wash you away
With all the memories
Centuries from the sky?

Perhaps, playfully
You were pinched
Sticky fingers
Stealing childish treaures
Carried from domestic shores
To mystic lands
Of imagination.
Were you blamefully broken
Innocence ending
For the journey back
Indoors?
Press ear to shard
And I can still hear the call

Eventually it all
Comes down to pieces.

wheel thrown pottery
coils of clay willingly yield-
master potter's touch

I witnessed your unraveling
as she tore you to bits.
Eating at your very core until
things seemed irreversible.

I saw how things changed
when I picked you up piece by piece.
You weren't the same but

It was like looking at shattered pottery
put back together, gleaming with gold
at the cracks.
The same, yet new at the same time.
Renewed.

Then I saw how you went back to her

I can feel your heart ache under your soft, warm skin as I glide my fingers along your gold-mended pottery fractures. Skating on the glaze you've let me peer beneath to reveal your raw materials. We used to use air and clay and water to speak, now we communicate in a wordless language, born of naked otherworldly splendor.  — and  that planet, your body, I long to explore.