Plummeting and rising
flowing and blazing through,
the fireflies dance into the night;
I watch, enchanted in a trance
giggling at their little dance.

I hop across the lily pads,
follow the majestic frogs,
learning to croak with the toads;
Joining with the Emerald Symphony.
Red spouting in its beautiful tones from where I sit
as I squeeze to the dragonflies wings
and keep steady, watching my home below,
frolicking through the morning fog.

A snap, a splash, a thud, a scatter.
Suddenly silence envelops it all.
It's vines of treachery wrapping around
and around and around,
the stillness grows louder.
I'm picked from the sky with my dragonfly,
squeezed whole within its grip.

Grey covers my sobs, a rumble commences
I whimper in its grasp, defenseless,
against the incoming blow. The upcoming howl;
I can hear it clear as day in the back
of my mind even in the dead of night.
The strike that leaves permanent scars.
The crash that leaves open wounds.
The splash that leaves me breathless.
The hit that knocks me out cold.

Nothing.
The brightness stings my eyes,
the chirping hurts my head
the ground feels soft, unsure,
and yet I stand just where I stood.
Toads croaking, dragonflies whizzing,
birds chirping, willow weeping...
no, that's just the wind.

Even the clouds were never here,
and yet they felt so real, every moment
where I stood, they were above,
mumbling, gargling, grunting,
as if they were gonna fall and
Crush me.

I crawl to my little space
underneath the Willow tree
blushing from comfort;
It's leaves wrapping around me
like a soft blanket;
Nothing can scare me here, I'm home.

The Ukulele string snaps
a small stream of blood from your ring finger,
but it's not gloom or sorrow
but contorted contentment...
When you fill your cup
up to the brim with cream
and it doesn't go over
the edge.
When you peek around
the corner and see your
favorite store open,
with that one book inside
you've been waiting to grab
for years now, but you never did.
When you walk through the woods
when the scenery secludes you
from civilization;
the temptation to give into
the nightingale's melody which
slices the silence with its melancholy tune.
You breathe in the air
on top of the dune; sandcastles, sandhills
childish screams as you yell 'seek!'
giggles and yelps of excitement.
A newborn baby cradled closely,
the warmth spreads through your body
like when you finish a book, not a series;
a novel of great adventure;
the sigh of great relief.
On a cold autumn night,
when you wrap the blanket around you,
trinkets on your nightstand,
the pleasure of closeness' embrace,
the comfort of a lovers touch,
intertwined between each seam of your covers.
As the rain paints your windows crystal
your watercolors touch the canvas,
your jewel, Cupid's arrow through your heart
but it's not love, as defined in dictionaries, legends, or myths.
The breeze moves the window drapes
paint drips on your jeans and you laugh;
why not paint the walls crimson or azure!
Why not travel the world in a broke-down Van,
stopping every thirty miles for another can
of gas or root beer or what have you?
Why not get seven cats and name each one
after your favorite deserts?
What if you paint the sky orange?
What if you grew fins and sprung into the blue ocean?
What if trees were purple not green?
What if the Library of Alexandria was still here?
Swinging round and round;
the melody from the record player
grabs your arms and makes you fly
to the moon and back,
your laughs heard around the world...

Life in solitude, emptiness surrounds
Silent mist rising in the serene woods

The birds seldom sing their songs
Satins, sapphire, and soul

The stream slithers in slender streaks
Squeezing past senile saplings

Squirming into the smooth sky,
Set clouds slink upon the heavens

Brush speechless under solemn gaze
Tranquility seduces scruffs of leaves

From past autumn, someday stalling
Another year, or another two

And life keeps skidding, sliding
Around the slow line of time

No stopping, no pause
Sanctified continuum.

The chandelier still hangs high
above the wooden ballroom floor;
Its rusting branches,
even though they're made of gold,
wrap around the orange coils
which lie dead amidst the night.
The clock strikes midnight,
yet no bells are to be heard;
The carpet leading up the staircase
to the podium in the room.
Crimson, velvet, and scarlet
covered with a thin layer of dust;
even if unused, it's seen an eternity of lives.
The broken windows lend themselves
to silver strings of moonlight,
which slither through them;
venomous beasts waiting to strike.
Falling in straight rays,
the delta of light's rivers
crystalize the concrete walls,
with a tapestry of the finest silk,
intertwined with threads of
fake gold.
The stillness grows thick,
Fog of dawn refuses to leave,
lingering to see the spectacle unfold.
A figure at the top of the staircase,
the spotlight of moonshine
leaking through the dome atop the room,
caresses its curves, swims into crevasses
highlights the bold edges,
paints the skin silver, the gown royal red.
In one hand, bare, slim, and pale white,
fingers tighten slightly into a fist.
In the other, a shard of broken glass
one arm held up to the sky,
to the heavens, reaching out to God
Yet God had stopped listening millennia ago.
The other hand, stretched out slowly making its way down
Driving the glass through the layers of skin
slowly, rhythmically, decisively.
A slow, small stream of red
slithers down the arm,
grows larger with every inch it moves;
and the stream never stops.
The stream grows to a river,
The river to a sea,
reaching the elbow below,
now spewing red liquid
faster and faster onto the marble floor.
Another hand to the sky,
now this one bare in all its beauty.
Another blade driven through the artery,
Another stream flows down the forearm.
The figure in silence drops the shard
folds its hands in front,
and stands facing out
to the world it will depart.
The floor now a lake;
the thick liquid doesn't stop,
The figure caresses its chin,
Slips the gown down to its hips
Bathing in the moonlight one last time
Before it closes its eyes
Stares into the red Ballroom
Now red of its own accord.

What does it matter,
When I sit stiff in the dark
Music pricking through my eardrums;
Every single little strum
of guitar string
or a piano note;
Swimming along through the bass clef lines
The bassist, often undiscovered
No person hearing his low, warm notes.
His name is not on any
Cover
Not even in the 'artists' thoughts.
But his every strum gets through
Accompanied by a yelp
from my throat
The swirling snail in my ear
Curls up tighter as the waves near,
Fear. Paralyzed.
in fear.
The surge. Surge of thought
No time to breathe No time to stop
No time to think No time to drop
No single remaining train of thought
To listen to the bassists' notes.
Instead, it's the dreaded screech;
Singers voice racing through
my head is too loud
But my vocal cords never loud
enough to make a pleasing sound
A belching hound.

One more shot!
A scorching heat radiates
from her forehead
The last of raspy wheezes,
rusty coughs and gasps
leave the lungs, abandoned towns
lined with rows of empty drugstores.
Her grandkids watch from
behind a thick sheet of glass
through a dense fog,
asking -mommy how long will grandma
be asleep for?-

One more shot!
On Tuesday she was at work.
On Wednesday she got a slight cough.
On Thursday her heartbeat was slow.
On Friday the line hit the flat note.
On Saturday the back of her coffin
married the worms in the dirt just below.

One more shot!
Wiping the sweat off his forehead,
is it his mum or the coal; that ****** black is his skin tone?
A coughing fit, seizing his consciousness
gasping for air; as if he was dying
of laughter,
watching his daughter dance like a ballerina
across their living room into his arms.
Those weren't tears of joy,
when she was dragged away by masked security guards
from the room where her father plummeted into
The swan lake.

One more shot!
The pen quivers in his hand
as he finishes up his English exam.
Finally, all this work done,
the last of the bunch was long gone!
Until he sneezed on the paper.
His portrait wasn't lit as well as his mother hoped
when he received his post-mortem degree,
Honor roll.

One more shot!
They yell as she chugs the bottle,
jubilation ensues!
Shattering glass all over the floor.
Her foot starts bleeding,
She wails and sets for the hospital door.
The doctor takes tweezers
carefully to her sole
as from the corridor comes a loud moan;
her mother on the hospital bed
rides past her door.
The last shot she had at seeing her alive.
But she never looked up.

Glistening snow-white tips
Polished, sanded, draped with
the finest of tapestry silks.
Blessed with splendor, splendid splits
Crevasses, curves both shallow and steep
deep slopes stretching from mountain peaks.

Lustrous caves lurking, smirking as black crows write their prose
nose-deep in the blinding snow, with their ***** little paws.
Puffin, stay wary of blizzards and storms
deafening. Creaking floorboards of ice sheets
slip from beneath its tiny red toes
no edge to cling to, nor air to latch onto with its wings
a red stain left at the bottom of the pit.

Blizzards' lay a new layer of fresh snow
covering the deep scars of warmth
carved into the mounds of ice
splashed with red paint
Stained for millennia to come
Melancholy; the artist behind the painting.

Hollow breaks in serial layers of ice
Seeping black, oozing onto the ocean floor
Not floating, bloating, or staying,
Drowning.

Inside,
etched into the lining, a thousand silent words
Melting with each new sunrise,
in which ray's they bathe
Wash from meaning
drop.
by.

drop.