While she was reciting her poem
she wrote just minutes ago,
she spilled a great
piece of wisdom,

purely accidental of course,
as they are from those
who seem to conjure wisdom
from the air they breathe,
or from mere daily observation.

She poured it onto the whole electric scene
like hot cocoa in a child's winter dream.

Some gulped it, some were aware of it,
some glossed over it, some picked it up
and set it back free again,
some took it in their hands and stomped on it,
vaguely afraid of it.

But most just stared right back
at this wisdom.
No doubt,
the one passed down,
from the great minds
before her,

This invisible line
threaded together
trying to weave itself
back into human synapse
every hundred years,
shouting to be recognized
once more,
but stuck  
chained to the
shelves of history
and soft breathe,

that is until someone
plucks it from the
great landscape of silence,
another entry point,
from which she had
undoubtedly  
terrained.

let out your darlings gently
and remember them as
quiet ammo you silently  
tucked into your gun
lonely and tired
in the thick brush of
your musket room,

remain silent silent silent
and hear the metal clang
against the barrel wall,
until your finger becomes
too heavy with its exotic ache
and you fire it off
into the distance

and watch the white smoke rising,
heralding the new pope
within you,

let out your darlings gently

It came to my attention
just the other day
there are very few poems
written about Worcestershire sauce.

Maybe it's the way we uniformly
can't spell the **** word,
as it walks onto the golden scene
like a stumbling child unable
to put one foot in front of the other.

That's how it feels as it rolls off my tongue,
and I find myself lowering my voice
to a desperate hugh to mask my unknowingness.

Worcestershire sauce is plagued with good looks.  
She is mountainous on paper,
like a range over the Alps,
that I want to climb barefoot in spring.

Or a rare type of dog
you find gallivanting next to it's
owner at the Ohio state dog show,
conditioned hair glowing in the light.

But lets not forget how she
compliments a stew,
or a lackluster dish
like a sailor to a maiden:
how you season my day!

Would Mary's be ****** without her droppings?
I'll save that answer for the day I can pronounce her.

So often you vanish in the dark,
          my fair weathered friend.

Although it is there where I require you the most,
          my reminder of a silhouette existence.

I will become my own shadow,
          no difference between me and lightlessness.

I expand like a riddle in your thoughtless mind.

It is the army of children
who wake me from sleep
          each morning,
as they march towards
the neighborhood park
with their declarations
of freedom, their words
turned to song like
a carefree lark.

I thought I was them
as I awoke from my rest,
but my pasture of purpose
has changed from
      slide to desk.

I thought I was them
as I longed for
thrushes of green,
and the dirt lying in between.

I thought I was them
as I slipped into my vest
instead of my rugged
hand me down dress.

I thought I was them
as they laid out their quest
to plunder the deep seas
atop their sturdy jungle gym.

I thought I was them.
I could be one of them.
After all, I had a compass
and a map, longer limbs
to steer a mast.

I thought I was them
until I heard a cry like no other
from a select sailor
after an unfortunate
fall from the starboard side,

and my thoughts recoiled,
and I swam back ashore
to the serene silence of
my morning rituals.

There are lots of ways to
watch the babbling brook,

eyes closed fishing for
memories in a nook.

There are lots of ways to
walk along park trees,

a deep awareness of green
and the sound of autumn's breeze.

There are lots of ways to
name the sturdy rose,

white petal pearls  
and her iceberg clothes.

But today is for nature
and her in-between silence,

like a grey stone
tucked between dirt
we look to for guidance.