in dishes made for food
in cups made to drink
***** hands will hold them up to block the sun

like people forced to work
to soften clanks against their plate

a stair rail forced to break
sits kindly beside it’s well
exactly almost where it’s meant to be

like mom starts her shift
beneath her wheels will turn
and turn and turn

a worn down walking cane
pushed through door handles
assigned to keep it shut against the wind

a woman limps across
with all her weight she leans
between the handles, against the creaking crane
exactly almost where it’s meant to be

like when i go to work
the pull of chatting with a friend
you feel the forming group
exactly almost where i’m meant to be
exactly almost
exactly almost where I’m meant to be

right, left, right, left, right, left
as i put one foot in front of the other,
the other must be left behind.
if only for a moment,
to leave one foot behind
is to let the other move you forward.
this is the only way.

I may be young,
But I'm not stupid,
I'm not unscarred.
Who gave you the authority,
To tell me how I should use art,
For if it wasn't for this outlet,
I don't think I would be here today.
So can't we shake hands,
And understand,
Not everyone walks for the same reasons.

Want to walk around, like right now?

Well of course!
I know I shouldn't,
But I will still,
If I say no,
It's me my heart will ****.

Windy winter day,
You walk alone in the white and gray.

I walk four paces far from you,
A ghost in the snow's fair ballet.

A bitter breeze blows from the west,
Interrupted by my wispy form.

Graces your rosy cheek,
And you turn to where the winds came from.

Squinting through the blinding snow,
You stare right at me.

And for a moment I think you know,
That I am here, a winter's ghost.

Morning beach
flat calm but bright
sips with ice the winter light
glass reflected rockpool puddles
fill with tangled seaweed muddles

I waited for hours in an office lobby,
Just for them to tell me there was no cure for what I was suffering.
I walked a mile,
In another man’s shoes.
So I walked to  another,
To the next doctor,
Just to be told again, that there was no cure.

Wendy; My shadow is too heavy, can you fix it?
Doctor; Shadows don’t weigh anything.
Wendy; Mine does.
And it’s getting bigger.

I waited again,
Yet still the answer was the same.
That there was no cure,
For the sad music I hear in my ear,
That makes me age hundreds of years.
It makes it seem like my mind is run by rusted gears,
It must be from storing the salt for my tears.

Mother; I thought you were sleeping.
Wendy: I was being sad.
…
Wendy; I’m not always sad.

I didn’t go to another office,
I ran out of ones to walk to.
Running is a concept I never understood,
Why are you always running from, or to?
Why can’t I just run,
Away from nothing, for I have nothing to run from.
To nothing, because I have no more things to run to.

Detective; Can you fly?
Wendy; I could,
I don’t think I can anymore.
Detective; That sounds dangerous.
Wendy; It is.
Was
Detective; What can you tell me about him?

Why can’t they make a medicine,
That makes you forget?
I don’t mean alcohol,
I just asked to forget, not to destroy the place in my mind where the memory was.
Why can’t they make a syrup,
It could taste like peppermint.
That you take at night,
And wake up and forget.

Wendy; I asked you to stay.
Peter; Did you?

I’m listening to a song,
that’s captured my mood.
What’s the singer saying?
If it knew, I’d sing along.
but the slurry words elude.
It’s an artistic choice, I suppose,
and I don’t require deeper meanings.

A squirrel stands defiantly in the middle of the path,
A tiny, furry-tailed, usurper - quite out of the routine.
“Hello fluffy rodent,” I baby-sing, as it watches me,
“What an odd meeting, are you hoping for a feeding?”
I try to pass but it jittery-scampers and cuts me off.
"I have a test, get out of the way, you crazy nut-thief”
I glance at my watch; l might really be late to lab.

So, I leave the path to the possibly rabid rat.
if it comes at me, on-God, I swear I’ll kick it,
launch it ballistically into the evergreen thicket.
How I long for a coffee, hot and sweet,
or a sandwich and salty chips - that would be nice -
but then I would be late for class. I sigh in defeat.
It started to drizzle. This afternoon will be miserable.
.
.
*Songs for this:
Out of Myself by Bebo Best & The Super Lounge Orchestra
Jettin' by Digable Planets
.
Oh, and a Christmas playlist because—it’s December!
https://daweb.us/xmas/Christmas_15.mp3

Sometimes we are walking down the road
Chatting and discussing the news of late
Minding ourselves when we meet a fellow
Who is traveling in the same direction
Clearly a visitor, he's so awfully out of date
But we walk and talk and bring Him up to speed
He talks to us in words both sacred and profane
Words that harken to our spirits' unity
And speak to our hearts individually
Our hearts burn deep within us
Like an age old song or ancient melody
Something foreign, but pleasantly familiar
What it is, I can't quite recall
Finally, we arrive at our destination
The sun is low and the day is growing old
Our companion makes to keep travelling
"Where are you going? It's late.
Please stay and join us at table".
During the meal He takes the bread
Blesses it and says a prayer
Our eyes are opened, but He isn't there
"That man had to have been our Jesus!
As He spoke, were not our hearts burning?
And when He sat at table, were not our souls yearning?
We clung to His words like dying men
And the awakening when He said Amen!"
But we had been blind to his presence before us
He was there while we were thinking "poor us"
Looking right at Him, still we could not see
Our friend who died upon the hill of Calvary
Open the eyes of our hearts and may we be of one accord
To recognize that, on the road, we were walking with the Lord