"There's a ring around the moon,"
I said,
"It's so beautiful."
He stood next to me,
his eyes fixed on the same sky above.
"That means the weather is going to change.
It's a big phenomenon; I never really understood
it.
It is beautiful, isn't it?"
These moments,
Although just moments,
Sew patterns of time into my body.
That way when I grow old and lean,
I can look at these fascinating patterns
And remember
My father.
And his ways
Even though this moment can't tell much,
it can tell everything.
For he is
My flower swaying to the tune of the
rock-and-roll breeze.
My star in the library sky.
Each star a book, I mean.
My father is a book in the sky.
He tells his own story.
He's a wonder.
An amazing individual
who I just so luckily
am able to call 'Dad'.

I was sitting on a train with my pad and a pen, trying to write a poem. I had no title, but I had written down the first line

...I was sitting on a train with my pad...

A man sat opposite me.
After a minute or so of scanning his paper and throwing cursory looks in my direction
he enquiried "What are you writing?"

"I'm trying to write a poem about a man trying to write a poem on a train
who gets asked by a stranger 'what are you writing'.

"Can I be in it?", asked the stranger opposite.

"You already are", I replied.

The train pulled out of the station.

She  was one who dreamed of dragons
Of towers
Of tyrants
Of kings
The angel whose only plea was for you not to clip her wings
And days
And page
And magical mage
Would go and their stories would ring
Until a whole world was made just for a girl
In the stories of dragon, damsels, and kings

Dust filled air and air filled lungs
Desert all around
I walk aimlessly as I am pushed
By walls of words, of sound
Buzzards flying overhead
Ready to swoop down
But here I am
Alive

Sun filled sky and sky filled eyes
Squinting as I look
The heat that beats down on me now
Feeling my skin cook
And words echo in my head
Buzzards over, sand and soot
And here I am
Wandering

Sand under feet and feet trudging sand
Legs longing to give way
Survive, survive, words tell me to
As my body, heavy, sways
And the buzzards tell me to ignore
To give up to the day
Yet still I stand and walk
Alive

Ages ago I asked a dreamer
(A feeler and a magician, as well) 
What love looked like on the inside
When those who are in it cannot tell

If it's tough enough, strong enough, red enough
(And of course, to be honest, is it true)
So that, if possible, we can avoid any pain
And the mistakes and the whatifs, too.

He told me:
It appears like a rainforest drizzle,
Somewhat expected, though still a blessing,
And its term is always indiscernible
Though in its haze, we still dance and sing.

And I said:
And what of the broken hearts,
Those who thought what they held was good:
They felt true things, they saw true light,
But they lost it all in the woods. 

He said: 
What they had was worthy and fine,
Though it seemed to bring nothing but pain, 
For a shower can bring both cleansing and fire:
And we call it acid rain.

So I say:
Why question the love you are given?
Trying to name it, excuse it, or worse-
Instead, let it pass over you like a rainstorm,
Whether it floods, or if it's your first.

Breathe in the scent and inebriation,
Drown yourself in petrichor.
For when love hits you, it hits you hard,
And when it rains, it pours.

passages and pathways proliferate the minds
of young men and women wondering too big.
it is strange how there are hidden rooms within the fabric of a brain,
how the web weaves itself wondrously among all the fibers and frequencies
of thought.
though subtle might the message be,
brave in thought and clear in word,
harder it might be to see
with vision that always blurs.
it is certainly strange how
the brain builds itself over time
and becomes the face and
the object pantomimed.
act well,
act loudly,
act brilliantly brash,
even though we all will perish
and we all will turn to
ash.
it is just so very strange how
some words are far too similar
even though the meaning may not be so.
and I wonder how it is to wander
in the wonderings of a wandering mind;
we are wondering far too big
for such small,
squishy minds.
don't be frightened, but,
we might be out of time.