by day their light is hidden
by night they dance about
brilliant, constellated move-
ment; choreographed magic
within a holding firmament,
wider than a galaxy unfurling
small as a palm-held device

When I was fifteen, there were only three more years
until I could leave.
I numbered the days like some people count calories
or steps
or breaths
onetwothreefourfivesix
counting until there was no air left.
Out of breath, out of step, out of line,
one more time;
try a little harder,
push a little faster,
be a little better, a little stronger,
smarter
sweeter
tougher.
Braver.

I'd spin in circles until I was dizzy,
around and around andaroundaroundaround
before starting all over.
Out of control, too fast to ever really stop.
And then back to the beginning again
where I first began,
reduced to less than nothing,
just a slip of the person I'd hoped to become.

When I was fifteen, life was a game
where there were winners and losers
and then people who didn't ever quite make it.
Neither a winner, nor a loser,
neither a hero nor an enemy,
just nothing at all.

I ran around, afraid of everything,
hoping if I ran fast enough, whatever was lurking in the shadows might never catch me
consume me.
I ran until one day, I slipped and fell down the rabbit hole,
past where anyone could see
or hear
or reach.
I fell through the cracks I sidled around everyday walking home from school,
books in one hand,
memories in the other,
clinging to both for dear life.

I was just a sprig with dead leaves and a damaged stem,
no petals or blooms,
flowerless,
my roots growing in the wrong direction, defying gravity.
Empty hands reaching up into the air,
grasping for something to pull me back to earth,
push me forward into the world.
Desperately searching for something to believe I was enough,
believe I was worthy.
Believe I wasn't a mistake,
a surviving **** in a blossoming garden.
Hoping.

When I was fifteen, there were only days
weeks
months
Every minute accounted for
yet all forever lost in one sleepless dream,
in one fell swoop.
Time lost, standing still, forgotten,
my watch the only thing keeping each day from running into the next.

I am not fifteen, anymore.
I have found my roots,
my time,
my place,
It's safe, it's home.
There's hope.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Six.
Time is not forever,
but neither is this.

It'll be okay.
You'll be okay.

Up North, by the Russian border,
It gets so cold your breath
Freezes and floats to your
Feet in a fountain of
Sparkling microsmithereens.

Sibirians call it
Whispering Stars.
I swear on my name it's a
Sight beyond description, with

Northern Lights coiling like
Mating snakes
On a sky so full of moon and
Stars it's almost alien

Above you.
Easiest peace.
The sound of Gods
Meditating.

Silence itself opens its
Quiet eyes and looks into yours
Like a living abyss you look down,  
Looking back.

The purest of Existence's
Everythings.
The now cry in
Snow Crystals.

Zen in

Frozen.

Call me 'the nonchalant' in Springs blue eyes
Her favored son come to partake
of sweet wine and honeycomb , of tenured
pine and hardwood laced in spanish moss ,
of willow ponds long since crossed
Tempered breath about my neck
Anoint these weathered feet in May oil and myrrh
A crown of 'suckle , **** grass between teeth ,
cascading pools beside her creekside beach* ...

He said I'm his muse
God knows he's mine
I drown in his words
His music, consumes my time
He said,"Cmere"
My only wish
For him, to be near
To feel his kiss
I think he's, well, all
Golden hair, music,
And ahhh, I fall
If I land on concrete,
Then, So be it
The fall,
Well, Was scenic....

why look upon the stars
when your eyes hold the same light?
i sail along glistening seas
until i'm lost, out of sight
look for the seventh wonder
through the day and through the night

years pass; i grow weak.

why listen to the sea
when i can hear you speak?
without warning, waves grow violent
shattering me, a deafening shriek

why try to brave the storm
when my heart's been tossed asunder?
it was only when you gazed at her
that i found the seventh wonder.

That eternal sleep is what I seek, I dream for a world and a life less bleak, there's truth in the poetry that I speak, for I dream of a life worth living

Was I your prize possession
A trophy on yer mantle
Or just a mule to be flogged
on occasion , an ornery animal to abuse an mishandle
The beaten do return to the whip
Sorry was a slip of the lip
No one knows where ya lie
No marker with religious overtones
No chronological award emblazoned in -
marble
No holiday flowers
Your a memory drowned in a whiskey sour