I went on a walk with Aristotle,
And we pondered, as we wandered.
I quizzed him about the necessity of friendship,
Or if they were just an excuse to dawdle.
He looked at me and stroked his chin,
And questioned why I questioned him,
I responded with a simple plea,
“I’m in desperate need of guidance.
I had a group,
That flew the coop,
While I could do,
Nothing but watch.
The scales were removed,
I learned soon after,
That letting down your guard spells doom,
And leaves you in tatters.”

He listened to my story,
I wiped my damp eyes,
He patted my shoulder,
To my surprise.
He smiled softly,
Took my hand and spoke gently.
“You’ve been hurt and now you’re scared,
And scarred; you think you’re beyond repair,
And the world might tell you so.
What you witnessed wasn’t friendship,
Not in the purest sense,
But more like a fleeting sparrow,
Leaping from nest to nest.
Some feel deeply, much as yourself,
So you assume, naturally, that’s the same as everyone else,
But some are superficial and see you as a means to an end,
Those artificial peons aren’t true friends.
True philia isn’t fragile, and it rarely decays,
To the slightest change in breeze,
Or a joke uttered in the wrong way,
But it stands firm, like this oak,
Though occasionally, it may sway.”

We sat down under the tree,
An apple fell into my lap.
I took a bite, heard the crunch,
The sweetness reminding me of what I lost.
Like honeysuckle, a short reprieve,
From the pain I held within.
Was it my lack of connection,
That sealed the fate for my friends?
As I was lost deep in thought,
Aristotle retrieved a bottle,
Of wine for him, and juice for me,
He smiled again, continuing.
“True friendship is rare, like fine wine,
It’s crafted and molded by time.
Sometimes you drink, and the taste is sour,
Grapes harvested past their ripe hour.
Don’t distress about the mess,
The fish are plentiful in the ocean.
However, without the willingness to cast,
How can one hope to be loved?
You say a lowered guard spells doom,
You may think that rings true,
But a lonely monarch on his throne,
Has no one to count on but his own,
And will inevitably lose.
Friendship, like love, is filled with pain,
It’s a gambit covered with messy blame.
For those who don’t dare to play,
Are destined to be destitute of fame,
And overcompensated by shame.”

“How does one forget the wounds they’ve been dealt?”
I asked, hoping for an answer I knew didn’t exist.
“You cannot; that pain will be a constant, always felt.”
He glanced over, noticing my resistance.
“Don’t be afraid to feel, if feeling is who you are,
But don’t let the fleeting tear you apart.”
I shed a tear, which turned to two,
As double hurricanes clouded my view.
Aristotle dropped his bottle,
And embraced me, understanding me,
More than my friends ever had.
A simple conversation,
A few words spoken,
More meaningful than years of emotional investment.
He stood and smiled once more,
Leaving me with this final encore.
“Those who think are often tormented by,
What fears and pains they hide on the inside.
Don’t forget to spread your wings and fly,
With true feathered friends, not crows who lie.”

Aristotle disappeared, leaving me with many thoughts.
I stood up and brushed my weary self off.
I closed the book I had been reading,
Dried my eyes from their weeping,
Smiled, and finished the apple I had been eating.
For I could always read the book from beginning to end,
If I wished to walk with Aristotle again.

That night felt like a dream,
The memories are sparse,
I remember the walk back through the dark.

You held me close,
Our steps intertwined;
Clinging to the path
We almost couldn’t find.
I remember the walk back through the dark.

And even when the world
Felt like it would shatter;
You and I shared a laugh
Like nothing was the matter.
I remember the walk back through the dark.

And when we were back,
To the safety of the fire
We shared one last kiss
Under the ire of the moon.
I remember the walk back through the dark.

The water flows along the creek
The fish swim upstream
I see some horses running
Birds flying
The nature's healing

Are we getting there this time
I'm getting tired of the walking
The time it took me to get here
Seems not to be worth it

I look at the horizon
The sun is only half down
The day is getting darker
I should be going inside

A random cabin in the woods
Inside there's a old guitar
The walls have a song written
Who even lives here

listen to the carefully made sounds,
crafted by southwestern winds,
full in birdsong woven
through the forest's top,
the rattle of seed in pod
and cone falling
upon the damp earth we tread.

this way is old and legend says,
it was the way of others,
keepers of these woods
before it was turned
stone and branch,
before it was deeded and sold
given one generation to the next.

the deed will continue only so long
until deep fertility reclaims
and renews, a marriage
of god and time, as
the wild grape, honeysuckle
and thorn over comes our paths,
a lover within whose body receives the seed.

and always the sounds linger
a broader scripture,
a bridesmaid singing in praise and love
and slight jealousy that the feast should be
for her and if not,
then for her whom she loves.

as this place is for us now in this moment
and soon for those whom the earth's
current will flow through,
it moves here now,
like it moved here then.

I think of falling, of the ground dropping away--- revealing
The thrashing waters from the storm ahead
I think of holding a breath that doesn't belong to me
Holding arms as tears silences screaming voices;
Until words themselves are lost in the soft skies
and trembling mountains

She is aware of her foolishness.
That kind of girl who can't even say it out loud yet has a lot in mind.
She wishes you could understand more, but you are you.
At times, she also struggled to understand herself.
They are both doomed, trying at different paces.
Leaving a permanent mark to remember.

I woke early and walked
as if by advancing
with my back to the sun
I might outpace
what was to come.

As if my futures may
for a while, be kept at bay
As if I might yet sojourn this day
and elude the shadows
of what was to come

I walked until today was spent
and empty-handed,
I entered my advent

Once again we walk

by the sea, as yet looking --


so expectantly.

When the spring winds fell into my lap
and my stride began to fatigue
and the taste of new days
often soaked in reminiscence
became too difficult to stomach
I tied the skyline around my soul
and made curtains from the sun
to shade the windows from the grey
of afternoon storms
when all the speeding and whirling
thoughts fall into my lap
they intertwine with a breeze
drifting from place to place