Come take my hand,
and we’ll fly away.
To better times,
of yesterday.

We’ll search for places,
that are thin between.
We’ll find the tears,
and slip in unseen.

In between to nothing,
that exists there.
Where we can be alone,
without these cares.

Or we can travel through,
to the next world beyond.
Find the next in between,
and truly be gone.

We can find a place,
where we don’t exist.
Or we can choose to fall,
into the abyss.

Just be brave now,
and take my hand,
and let’s fly away,
to Neverland.

I rise from my writing chair
Shake off my poet's robes
And step outside into a
       kaleidoscope of fallen leaves
        and hints of chimney smoke;
Dusky sky slung so low
The tall poplars scrape against it --

Summer's last cicadas are rasping out
        a catchy tune of life in the woods
And a crush of juncos has gathered
        closeby for seeds and conversation;
They know the crispy bite of
        near-winter nights is ever closer --

It strikes me
I am bound to this place with clipped
        wings, yet I feel a wanderlust
        I cannot deny.
Oh that I could fly south like
The little gray wrens mobbing my feeder.

How I aspire to be like them:
They must be so brave
        to gladly live in this world --

Lighthouse watcher
And stargazer
Share common lust
For distant wander

One place at time
For flesh and soul
Split one another
In dimensions

If their souls once get together
Will they still search for faraway?

Maybe you find your center
On a couch beside a divided highway,
Where asphalt ribbons melt together
In the beautiful mess of the day's last fire,
Where light falls on upholstery
In a manufactured Southwest pattern,
Best suited to drier air but somehow
At home on a Wisconsin shoulder,
Watching the world go by
In metallic paint and autoglass reflections,
Moving too fast to catch all the names
Of almost-forgotten rivers crossed:
Rib River,
Rat River,
Jump River,
And any number of State Name Rivers.
Or maybe you find your center
On the other side of a plume of red granite dust,
Where the asphalt ends and the rivers
Are more than almost-forgotten signs
Beside a divided highway.

The sun hides his face behind gray morning clouds,
Like a tot playing hide and seek.
And at times from around those silver-lined borders,
His beaming face will peek.
He spies me there as I wander below him,
Lilting along my way,
And at once tucks his face out from sight again,
It’s a little game we play.
The westward wind is at once cheerful and lithe,
He tosses my hair to the sky,
Strumming the treetops like a God-made kazoo,
With notes that are cool and light.
The trees all awake to the sound of his tune,
Tossing gracefully to and fro.
Maiden dyads and naiads waltz gracefully on,
Swinging in time with their boughs.
The gravel laughs heartily beneath my worn feet,
In a voice that is deep and merry,
He tells the sweet tails of his long-forgotten trails,
And the travelers they have carried.
He can outline the best and the worst of mankind,
All the forks which have marked their paths,
Of the men who showed courage ‘gainst nature and foe,
And of the burdens on their backs.

I have been waiting for that bus that will take me rides away, from this town drenched in all the depressing shades of blue. Maybe I can reach the point where I’ll look at the rearview mirror, and no longer feel sorry for my younger self and all the hurting she did alone. Maybe I can finally disentangle myself from all forms of sadness I slept with. Maybe I can take the trip with the longest ride and make it out of here.

But I’m still stuck in the same old station, along with other runaways. And it’s getting late. It’s getting late.

It’s the wanderlust souls who escaped from the tedious bodies,
they inhabited.
Only to spread its wings and fly along the sky’s terrain.
Whom who hears the birds chirping at 3 am are shedding its human skin,
As a reptile would before it enters a new realm of existence.
It feels different.
It’s soothing. It’s calming.
It’s the feeling of earl grey tea submerging the taste buds on the white blanket lying on the tongue in the morning.
Who hears the birds chirping at 3 am?
Is it the wanderlust souls whose restless eyeballs glistens in the night or the lonely stoner who finds serenity in the hugs of the ghosts he is hiding?

under a gold sun you dream about the future
there's a road before you that continues after the horizon blurs it's path
you wonder if you made the right choice, if you were supposed to come this way
but you couldn't turn around if you wanted to
the paths you left behind wouldn't be there any more

there's a map that's meant only for you to fill
and you fill it with all it's dead ends and sharp turns and broken bridges
you wonder if there was an easier way as the unforgiving sun beats down upon you
you wonder if there was a path that was filled with trees and flowers

under an endless sky you find  your footing
there's a cracked earth beneath your feet but you see the weeds coming through
you begin to see their likeness in your self, your roots are deep and your will to live deeper
and so you grit your teeth and though your shoes are worn, you feel lighter in step

there's an ocean at the end of the road that's more beautiful than you'd ever seen
maybe it's blue and maybe it's not, but you bury your hands in the sand as the waves reach out to greet you, beckon you to follow
there's salt in the air and you know if you drink the water you'll drown
so you sit back and let your aching feet heal in the coolness of it's embrace

when you open your eyes it's to a gentle rain
in the distance there's a storm just off the horizon but the wind is carrying it far away
there's a desert behind you and a different kind of desert before you, but here you're safe
here you've found the end of the road that you'd begun years before
map gently folded beside you filled with anecdotes of the stories that led you here

there's a boat tie to the shore by a single pier with only a small sail and a life preserver to offer
but it whispers to you in your sleep that it's ready for adventure
you look to the stars and see the next map in it's constellations, the next course you need to take
but your feet have healed under the cool embrace of the maybe blue sea and there's hesitation in your heart as you feel the presence of that long distant storm past the waters before you

the next time you open your eyes it's maybe blue surrounding you
there's wind in your hair and a blank canvas before you
you look at the stars and remember that golden sun you looked at when dreaming of the future
with pen in  your hand, you dip your hand into that maybe blue and drink from the sea that saved you once
the rumble of the storm is distant but you know you'll be able to face it when it comes
you drink from the sea, but you do not drown