All the wallflowers
Picking up the sun
Slowly walking towards
The madness
Moving statues
Entwined at the
Fingertips
You can find your
Picture on my wall
Walking on two legs
Facing the sound
Of empty eyes

I can only carry these thoughts
as far as the wind will blow
Even when I lay me down
they’ll dictate where I go
Beside a tree I find my rest
only to rise when they’d say so
Beneath its branch I sow a thought
like leaves I watch it grow

By a river I make my bed
where my thinking freely flows
like rushing water, runs my head
my thoughts ebb and flow
Near the fire I watch the flames
I light my thoughts aglow
they’ll burn tomorrow new desires
I have no strength to say ‘no’

i enter the river
later the woods
tour natures suicide spots
snub them for a man made bridge
snub the bridge
    because i find life pretty today
    too pretty to bend deaths ear
                             and suspend

obscure and abstract
memories of love so soft
i just walk to you

My walk to freedom;
There is no tomorrow.
Yesterday is gone.
There is only here, now.
Let the forest speak:
The mountains and the water,
Hear their voices, they become
pathways to wholeness, giving you
Freedom in thought.

I finally got to walk alone in nature once again,
And experienced that longed for peace and stillness,
And space between my ears,
Other than tinnitus’ static,
And tinged with sadness and grief of course,
And short lived till my brain kicked back in.
But for awhile it was bliss.
I heard the birds sing,
The waves reverberate against the pebbly beach,
I felt the wind gently caressing my cheek, and
The warmth of the sun just before it dipped below the cliff,
And saw the rise of the near full moon shining out like a beacon
To lost travellers the world over.
Not even the sound of voices in the distance disturbed my stillness
In that moment.

I often wonder how my walk would be in another's shoes.
Would it be smoother, faster, and with the path clearly laid?
Or would it be like walking in eggshells, or a tightrope perhaps?
Crossing mountains of daggers with my tattered footwear.

Would I be burning bridges after I traverse them?
Or walking a plank to a dastardly end?
Would I be walking the talk, as I speak dreams of wonder?
A walk with thousands following my footsteps.

Would I get lost in my walks to memory lane?
Dwelling on the thought of trekking the paths less travelled.
Is it a walk where I hold someone's hand, as theirs hold mine?
Or a bitter cold one where my feet gets frostbitten?

I wonder and keep wondering these walks of life.
That I only noticed, there's only a few steps in mine.
The path is not clearly laid, but I know my direction.
The goal is in the horizon, but I really must take a step.

So I gathered my musings and put them in my pocket.
And I... walk.

clipping a trail
  through the un-mown grasses of prehistory
i am reduced and nuded 
  by the buoyant vat   of sky baby blue

the grasses seed the heels of my work clogs
spiking sensory jabs through my socks
      a shy petting of pain

with the prow of my stride
  tiny residents vault scut and flutter
neatly evading   un panicked

radiating wet heat raises to my waist
i stop my destructive wading
i am slit, vulnerable and fed
i am primitive and free
i have membership
my uniform   banished

i take in a humid breath

about face
       and the illusions are switched
the buildings icon dominates
       and draws my responsibility
i can smile at the wash of life
       and reinstate myself in paid labour