what cross do you bear?
whisper to me the pains you've repressed,
the regrets that consume you,
divulge to me your darkest sins,
and lend utterance to your woes.

how do you build the ark,
that exists in your mind?
rocking in the arms,
of the slow, swinging seas,
whilst quixotic dreamers,
dance across the sky,
lost in the clouds.

solace in tears,
premonitions in fears,
let me cradle your soul,
and mend,
piece by piece,
plastered poultices,
and golden lacquer scars,
sealing all that ran deep.
let me shoulder your burdens,
so that one day, you may learn
and live alongside them.

so long as molten rock,
anoints our heads,
and flickering flame,
sears our feet,
we shall traverse
the crucible that is life.

each bearing a cross,
and a crown of thorns,
we are beautifully broken,
the faceted protagonists
of faded film noir.

we will prevail.

The Glimpse©

As he rode down the escalator
Eyes upon the next step
Caution on his mind
The throng of people
Surrounding him like a fence
Something told him to look up
Was it an inkling
Was it intuition
Was it a premonition
Was it fate
But look up he did
And in that moment their eyes met
It was a mere seconds of a lifetime
But they were both transfixed
He going down
She coming up
A passing of two strangers
Eyes locked
Was this a flight of fancy
Or the real thing
He would never know
For she was gone around the corner
And he was on his way to work
Destiny would have to prevail
Someday but not today

Andreas Simic©

My capricious mind
Where have you wandered today?
Who have you offended?
What retribution awaits?

I let you out to absorb the Sun’s rays
And you amble off to seek shade
Your stubbornness has no limits
As you fail to return at the appointed time

My unsympathetic mind
Why have you turned your back on your friends?
Do they not attend to your ego?
Like flies on carrion, their interest is symbiotic

This morning I had a premonition
It was perplexing and brought consternation
There was a rabbit that crossed my path
So many bad things happen to rabbits

I walk in this dense realm, with shattered memory's of my past life.
The gods are afraid to come down into the dense wilderness.
Its grown Hard to escape this plain.
what are the memories trying to tell me!
This time I will come back with my horsemen, frequency's aligned.
Shifting into the next degree of time.
Is it impending doom or is it  just rebirth?
a next stage of evolution on this earth.
breaking walls, yet they took over the surface world.
The true nature of the world surfaces.
What is this vision trying to show me.
Should I climb the tree of life for answers?

It was the kind of day
to visit a fortune teller.

Your faint smile remains a mystery,
because you preserve yourself
more than anything.
You prophesy at will and turn wheels.
That is what you do best.
Candle wax dare not scald you.
Strings are woven long.

The day I cut my hair was a cool summer,
two weeks before my birthday.
I left town never to come back.
Your daughters laughed so hard
at the money you threw their way they
probably had spit coming out of their eyes.
That was what they wanted.
It was simple, clean.

The child is young,
he won't know the difference,
convinced yourself thus,
but young 'uns do. They know more
than you ever let on, and they remember,
not the glaring presents or permission to speak moments,
it's the little things, the lilt in your voice
the brush aside look, the pursed lips,
the endless drone of the television
and ipad volume turned up max.

Allow me to demonstrate.*
The sky before and after a thunderstorm is the same shade,
but the land changes,
and the air that breathes in it.
The slight rustle in the trees could mean anything.

Indian spirits once danced around the flames
summoning blessings and visions
that may never come.
Yet, in my dreams were two apples --
green and red, both eaten by worms.
They grew voracious in my hands.

I bathe in heated waters and scrub
lavender and chamomile.
The stew left in the pressure cooker was soft and fell apart,
little droplets of oil cling to me,
I am scented thus.

On a footbridge, I see
the once pristine ground muddied and stars
replaced by fireworks.
Couples hold hands
and smile for any reason.
Taxis come and go, foraging
the next big opportunity.

My flipflops are fine
but my feet are freezing.
I can order coffee
with what I have left
but don't.

I love your hands. I know it's a strange thing to say, but I really do. You were leaning back, drumming your fingers on the stage and I caught myself thinking how perfectly made they were, how every line was so important, so lovely and smooth. Long fingers, and surprisingly graceful in their movements, at odds with the rest of you at times. They are hands I could picture cupping clear water from a pure stream, holding that kind of liquid light in a very natural way. I could picture them parting velvety soil to coax young green sprouts from it, lines and creases made more bold by the clinging love the earth would show you. I could picture them, too, gliding along piano keys, although I know you don't play. I think you could. I think those keys would love your fingertips. They'd sing for you. In the safety of my mind, I sometimes long to hold them, turn them over and learn the valleys of your palms like braille, follow the paths the years have carved in them. Not in a covetous way, but in a soft, gentle way. Those are the thoughts that make me blush, that make me keep my distance.