Let us write
up waves of
Drink us up
In the wind
Let us write
clear winding streams
divide wandering dreams
cool forests filled with evergreens
down twisted trail at deadfalls cross
I took rest upon soft bed of moss
in chorus with ever dimming skies
hear lone coyote's distant cries
fading echoes on the wind
his search and mine
will never end
All of these joys, snacks and sights
Carefree meets, or sudden, thick fights
The brisk feeling of freedom to speak
A treasure to those even not so meek
Bless you those who meet my eyes
Only a few more glances, a couple more tries
Gentle waves may yet shape the cliffs
Understanding would be the best of gifts
I welcome what you several have done
With this band come the rays of sun
I take it as a sign, somewhat bizarre
You make me long to learn guitar
To hit the five-chord with such power
It lights candles and topples a tower
Excuse my constant, wandering mind
My thoughts are forever engraved, entwined
I’m not sure if I’ll ever want to see
What I dreamt last night, chasing me
At times I’m locked inside this dome
I mean, I barely finished this poem
But you’re quite sharp, true and clever
Pick your poison, now or never
i scraped my knees in the
realms of time
i don't know where to hide
under the willow tree
to find and harvest
the new moon
a cracked ceiling blinks
with long lashes
my long lost friend is
still ice cold
it is not yet spring
greet my reflection if
i go too long
a transparent person
it looks a lot like
They like to keep me up night--
creeping around, haunting sounds, and pale figures in doorways I can barely make out.
They like to keep me on my toes--
Small phrases that make it sounds like they care and then they turn around and stab in me the back.
They try to remind me how to move forward--
but all they do is hold me back and keep me trapped between getting out and staying there.
These ghosts aren't the ones who haunt my hallways at night.
They are not the ones you can banish with some spell or some pretty knick knack you find at the store.
No, these are the ghosts of my mind.
They are the ones who remind me everyday I am in the same place.
They are the people who forgot me.
They are the loves I have lost.
The ghosts I cannot hide from.
I've travelled not really far and wide
watched the mundane
some strange, some incredible
but the nightmares unchanging
city after city
I've laid awake at nights
finding solace in shadows
clinging to me as if desperate orphans
I will stand again
under the blazing sun
or dark skies
another strange land
shattered dreams in out-stretched palms
let me be the requiem of your pain
while your footsteps echo into tomorrow
on the sidewalk I'll be-- waiting for home.
I heard my own voice
In the music of Esma Redsepova,
"Queen of the Gypsies".
We put on our backpacks here in Denver,
But we don't know where we're going?
If I am a European,
I am also among
The lavender is sleeping tonight
The lilacs are keening
and the aster is listening—
What is the secret
that only the dewdrops
seem to know?
I stare out the dusty car window
and try to question
the grass blades
so different here than leaves.
I don’t want to be rude
in my gawking
at the chubby bees and busy beetles,
my eyes trying to take my mind over
and learn their teachings
lost to me.
In the gray morning traffic
I wish to be small
to slip through some crack,
out the door,
down the street
and drink the dewdrops.
Sublime rain children
I would be full
in my miniatureness
of the secrets and songs
of the underfoot
the unseen who are still visible.
I would admire grandeur again,
fear the breeze and the rain,
revel in their power.
I would be unable
to type on a keyboard
to speak by phone,
to turn the steering wheel.
I would tame the franticness
and duel mosquitoes
with willow twigs
I would smell each tiniest
smell and forget the manufactured.
I would be whole
moving with beautiful infinitesimalness
in my affair with the Earth.
“Thirteen hours to Amsterdam”
Loud speakers shatter the glistening night sky
Meandering my way, a stream of pedestrians, seen and unseen
Everyone here is a black sheep from somewhere else
Nomads with homes, borne away by wanderlust
And I decide that we’re all searching for the same thing
I carefully shelve my journal in the slender pocket of my satchel
And heave the bag’s weight over my shoulder
Thirteen hours to Amsterdam.
Do you ever feel
By the people
Closest to you
In your life,
You go out on the Streets
Looking for love
From people who are hungry.......
From people who are fearful......
From people who are in a rush.......
From a Society
Where we're all taught
How to build walls and barriers
Rather than bridges and avenues