As poets
we listen for the songs
of the singing trees,
There is no road map as to where to go,
Our GPS, it doesn't know,
Goggle maps hasn't gotten there yet,
The internet will tell you what it knows -
Some rehab
some restaurant
some business selling shoes.

It's not on Facebook,
My phone may be smart
but it doesn't know a thing
about the songs of the singing trees.

My Twitter account was attacked by a cat,
I swear I tried to rescue it,
But it tweeted away
as it got jumped over the fence.
The t.v. drones on and on,
HD pictures explode.

Our eyes, tho, are far away from all this,
Our voices, they long to harmonize
with the songs of the eons,
The songs of the singing trees.

You and me and Thoreau
sitting by the pond, the river, the ocean,
All day long
in this solitude we know,
Watching the light dissolve,
The moon, it rises too,
While we
together
me and you,
Thoreau too,
Listening so carefully
for the lilting epics
of
the songs of the singing trees.

why is it that no matter who
my heart comes to love,

i can only think of you when my pen
hits the page?

the young girl,
who's tears stained her cheeks
every night for half a decade,
and is haunted by ghosts of false-hope
and another person's greed,
is turning seventeen.
she has grown,
so much that the scars  have begun to fade,
and looking around, she realized life
is bad, but she can make it worth
living.

so, instead of letting the hauntings
take her under at night,
at seventeen she got a camera,
and decided that
i will keep moments that make me realize
life doesnt ****
*and take them to my grave

truly, all i want is to sit down under the dark sky and replay

every word,
every touch,
every moment

you and i ever shared
over and over again
until dusk cuts the silence.

then maybe, i may be able
to gather myself
as the light kisses my face
and i shall finally walk away from
the idea of you