I’ve got five minutes
Then I must leave my verdant patch
On the skirt of a wind-rustled lake
hidden behind Logan's Roadhouse

Five minutes
to mentally finger with the fetal position
In which I awoke this morning,
there as the sun drew long shadows,

I, a diminutive daub of nautilus,
On a California King,
rippled plane of sand,
Sporadic shivers, beneath a chenille blanket

I, the town crier of dawn as
My own dreams ran screaming through the silence
Pointing a finger at
my sanctuary… “Here is your pearl thief!”

Men in hats, briefcases, heel-toe black clicky and shiny shoes
on leashes lugged,
Yanked by noisy hounds passing by
stop, sniff, snarl-toothed *******…

then one caught my scent,
“Five minutes more sleep,” I implored
"Find another dreaming fleshy mess of bones!"
And leave me to my pearl.

But it’s a universe that simply will not wait
And suffer fools for sleepers,
not a moment more
Yet for my many sleepless minutes after,

Dusk till dawn, and still beyond,
it’s always,
                  five
         minutes
more

Can the city girl escape the city?
Can the gorgeous not be pretty?
Can the sarcastic not be witty?  

Can they undo what's been done?
Can the adventure not be fun?
Can the hunter sell his gun?

...... No.
They take it everywhere they go.

Constant wanderer am I
      a cloud, it's heart  questing for truth,
hovering above the extending landscape,
       scanning it for beauty,
raining in joy, to make beauty
               turn her eyes towards me with love.
this is just one fleeting life in a cycle,
      that turns on for ever and ever and ever.
wait for me here, there or anywhere, my love,
           even if it's beyond the limits of universe.

The lion in the mist,
in the morning sun,
lurking.
His eyes see you
more than flesh,
and without sound.
He SEES you.
your soul and...
your intention.
And he sits
and he waits
and he waves his tail,
as you wander
through
his realm.
He knows the lost,
the feel,
the cry.
He had once been
the wanderer
just like you.

Dust-covered two-lane highways
Catch the footfalls of my meanderings.
Meadowlarks and Phoebe-birds
Sing backup to my tuneless whistles.
Clouds illuminated by God-rays
Paint the sky above my head
And the Man in the Moon
Smiles as I bed neath a willow for the night.

I am a wanderer, a vagabond, a ***.
The iron wrought train tracks
I secretly ride pass through the fields,
The forests, the mountains and valleys,
The cities and suburbs, the small towns too,
Home to so many who choose there to dwell.
But my home is the open countryside,
The fields of wildflowers and bushes,
The occasional oak or poplar for shelter,
With a stone for my pillow
Anywhere I wish to rest.

I am a wanderer, a vagabond, a ***.
I am the outsider.

I believe
I believe I'm hesitant to believe in anything because
Life is always changing, sometimes faster than you can bat an eye
I believe that you can never be alone because your thoughts will always be with you
I try to believe that good will overcome evil but it is a concept I can't wrap my mind around
I believe that the world will never stop spinning and I will never stop dancing to the subtle sway of Earth's forces
I believe that the sun still rises even on cloudy days
That after the worst storms, rainbows linger
I believe that everything is indefinite
And I believe that words have more power than actions do
I believe that I will always be looking for something else because I am a searcher
A wanderer
A creator
But not quite a believer