The mosquito was ******* my blood
and I let her.

My heart was breaking
and I let her.

Another robin hopped behind my window pane in light
He cocked his head and put his dread in my heart which pulled so tight
My poem of the past made robins seem quite grave and dim
His vengeance burned out from his breast and shrill it came from him

His size surprised his anger as it swept beyond his beak
He hopped up to the glass and watched me like a circus freak
His deep black eyes gave quick surmise to my suspicion of his hate
I closed the curtain and sat back, contented' till a later date.

The Robin called
And I looked out
From windows balmed
By a Summer January.
His little flushed chest
And my crimson vest
Went well together, so I thought.

He hopped along a twig
And dug for buds on the barren wood
Mourning that Winter long forgotten
In the cycle of death and movement.
He called out his call
And as the days fall
I try to speak to him, so I do.

The slow little bird isn't
Some prophet of the new dawn
But a straggler, slow with the weight
Of his heavy, fateful wings.
He flies to the sky
Follows my eye
To the sunlight I'm watching, so I am.

Sad to see, the true spirit of Spring
So misunderstood, so anticipated
Like the robin, Spring is not happy.
Spring is an epitaph of the lost days.
I wish he'd come back
And he will when the track
Of the year's memories lead him to me, mourning once more,
So they do.

I regret that the door was closed
To look outside the door must be open

Open it I did and I hear nothing
But I saw him among everything

The Robin was robbed of his life
By the globin that is Death

A creature of the sky
Now lays on the ground

I wish for him to be alive. For it to be a lie
But I know in sooth, this is the harsh truth

I closed the door and returned
Vowing to never leave

The clear piping of a robin rang above the quiet of the sleepy morning street
A distant conversation of neighbors drifted through the open door;
Faint voices, murmurs, tones, fell into repose.
Silence threw her cloak of repose through the trees and shrubs.
Small breezes whirled, the rushing air stirred up the silvery backs of maple leaves
Silence returned all to stillness.
Then again the robbing piped
As it had piped before
Long ago, when
In my bed as a youngster, the sweet smell of early morning hay
Drifting across the fields, freshly cut alfalfa melded into the dew.
The timeless songster sings yet to guide me to eternity.

The summer morning was broken by your song.
You called down the rain

My mentor was your friend
He spoke so animatedly of your passion and humor
You were the single light bulb in a closet of clutter
I wish I could've experienced your soul
I was told you were bright and kind like the morning sun
No one knew the dark cloud behind your golden rays
You were my father, though you never knew it
Showing me that father figures always had my best interest
Your shadow hasn't left us
We miss your smile, genuine or not
It hurts me knowing that I'll never get to make you smile back.

they say the saddest
are the most happy

how a comedian can
stand up on stage to
make himself the world’s fool
because he had never
heard of a joke like love

our lady of perpetual sorrow
grabs the fool from everyone
a leach of life that chooses
to choose a happiness like you
extracts all it can
like nectar to a bee
but it’s almost relieving when
it had no where else to be

i have begun to believe
life isn't about all the
joys to feel and
things to see
it's not about you and
it's definitely not about me
the illusion is that
greatness is up and
failure is down when  
true progression doesn’t
care for dimensions

remember the comedian
who hates it all
who makes it funny
because he recalls
if i can’t be happy
everyone can

Coming and going, like a lucid dream. Ebbing and flowing like a rolling stream. The good and the bad. All rolled into one. The happy and the sad. Give this life it's fun. It's hard I admit but its worth it. I swear. So grab your life by the horns and do what you dare.

-AJ