If I knew, maybe I’d say something,
Why I miss my cats more than my parents
Why I miss the teal walls of my room and the full sized bed
more than I miss my family.
Why I miss the green trees and ravine behind my house,
all I hear is a withering beeping outside my five story window.

This room is so small
and I have to bear it with another
and although she and I get along,
Alone is weighted with wondering when she’ll be back.

Home is more an empty house than a room full of family.
Home is less talk and more birdsong in the background.
Home is…

Not these tight corners and partying bellowing music down in room 809,
not the concrete walls painted white, or the lofted beds I can’t sit up straight.

Getting away from my family was easy,
and my friends hard.
Leaving was easy.
And wishing hard.

I feel, less independent,
there’s only so many places to walk.
No car to escape, nor a room either.

The closest I get is headphones and online friends.
And yet they are so far away.

Little king of sun toasting petal,
Cups the air with swirling wings
Flashes, flurries of wetted trials,
How you drink of nectar singing,

With invisible wings let whirring,
So robed in arc of rainbows' sky,
Even lofted mist of morn stirring,
All the shaped air, a moving eye.

Little king of sun toasting petal,
Cups the air with swirling wings
Flashes, flurries of wetted trials,
How you drink of nectar singing,

With invisible wings let whirring,
So robed in arc of rainbows' sky,
Even lofted mist of morn stirring,
All the shaped air, a moving eye.

I don't know much,
but I can tell you what "whole" looks like.
I've seen it stumble forward
with weary eyes and tired hands.
Come close,
I will hand you a mirror
and tell you to look carefully.
Can you not hear the galaxies
beneath your skin?
They paint in whispers
that even oceans cannot grasp.
I know it took a hurricane and two floods,
but there is soil in your ribcage;
your scars told me so.
Don't mind them though,
they're just reminders
that you love harder than anyone else.
I know you might feel hollow,
but there is a reason your heart
has lofted ceilings.
Never forget how you fought
for all that space.
Look carefully.
These gray skies inside your lungs
are simply a canvas,
and you rain so beautifully.
Oh darling,
you rain so beautifully.

Mother Earth has birthed billions of nymphets
knees that flirted with their socks so much it left prints
coquettes gyrating Bubble Yum
         on digits, her sunglasses’ stems,  a split end.

Mother Earth gave us nymphs so
bodies would not be loamless either, so we can be as
fertile as gorges far from any lofted stone wall.

Mother Earth, that she was never nubile
labored faunlets with pink gumwads upon their genitals

and frothed when one creation alit inside another.

Lofted over the Cedar murky
waters the color of coffee flow implacable
immutable towards the Southeast horizon
while Pleiades and Orion hunt above tenacious
juniper fingers driven into crags
boreal bonsai stands everlasting
in time
for me to fly this roost

.
Little king of sun toasting petal,
Cups the air with swirling wings
Flashes, flurries of wetted trials,
How you drink of nectar singing,

With invisible wings let whirring,
So robed in arc of rainbows' sky,
Even lofted mist of morn stirring,
All the shaped air, a moving eye.

The hills beneath him stretched out like the curves of women.  Bent
to the clouds he fell from the earth which geared him prickly as would
a range of *******, then soaring higher, he dived, topping valleys
reshaped downy now into ridges slowly writhed before catching
under toe his own dazzled stare on a water loch of milk and coal-
haired body strewn out to her lily'd bones and still falling, he dropped
to the break of morn dribbling wet sand from his eyes and woke
in the sparring light of his least favourite day.
        In a grainish and utter room, where hanged more than two
pictures of two people, he sank down to Sunday diminished in sighs
from the four tilting walls and blew dead inward unfolding a book.
As he reached for some volume, a baby finger nicked the hair string
of his guitar and for a moment was reminded of her voice in the bedded
vibrations.  Looking on her curves she felt the soft nape of her neck
with his eyes, then those same eyes unhanded her and she, his
dejected guitar, faced him unsung in the cornered glare of his boxed
in room.  He felt frost in throes all that morning and sideways out
of doors— the sun looked back on him even colder.  It would be hours
now until the end of days, so after lunch he went for a walk and a bird
sang nearly the whole way.

  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

It was much warmer than he had fared it to be outside and having wrestled
with this idea, that the day was somehow harder than his soft, flat room,
the mere remembering was rote by him to his pangs.  He turned, thinking
toward other things, like the void of driven streets or the mimicking cruelty
of shadows, until he saw a sullen field and left the road to dust.  He knew
that if lost, walking through the lofted hills, he would end up in the ocean
so he headed higher to the crest and over then saw a stand of trees.
        And facing the water that rilled on its way, in the tall grasses he saw
patches of red, flying with the black birds and his heart, in a boat of swells,
traveled like the red patches those birds carried.  Snowed on alder trees
brushed by him, but the wind was blowing in from the west and there
were beautiful things to behold.  A red-tailed hawk striped the ceiling
of his day by the sea and built an island to his eye and then his head sank
droning into a syndrome of birds as he joined in silence with them all
singing;
        'ta— hee— tae.'      
        Showers of poppies spilled to his heel and the keel-brew of rushes and rain
tasted purple on its way perning to the sky.  At one stop in the middle of his
path, he came upon a purfled coil, a briar snake, its body shaped in question,
unmoved and long.  The dark Orphic frieze, branding his way, it would not
listen, as if she had always been there, deaf to his song.  He felt the loss
of love by echoes from his room in the out of doors.  The drumming trunks,
the stringing leaves harping and the water that gurgled by stones into poems.
A Northerly blew begrudging the trunks, the leaves and the stones and by
the woods sinking taller he felt rushes of time running as breath through
gusty trees and felt chimes of things flying buttery like feathers to a bell.

    .  .  .  .  .  .  .

        But at the deeper woods opening he lost his way and became fearful,
not wanting to enter.  The tallest ones, red giants with faces of evergreen
canceled out the closing sky and so he changed his way back as before
to the rounded hills.  And weary from his climb he rested on the back of her
body in lands overlooking down from the brae he saw the ocean swelling
and the stars being born in wild flowers as the hills at dusk were dissolving.
        After two eternal moments in peace, he rose again in the Highlands,
to the braise and harvest smell of musted hay, cottage chalk and bleating
wool.  Now holding the girl draped in tartan, this time without caring he fell
into the black woods of her mien.  And the milk of her body dripped out into
his and slid back waveishly until she was all hair from black becoming straw
in their bed and feathers when the raven appeared.  And the flooding waned
when she flew through an opening unraveled in the thatching roof, shredded
above the funny moors.
        In seconds he was swiped clear, before the shy song lamenting when
the doors, by tidal weathers, blasted open into the mackerel sky, gathering
too like vapours with the dawn, he wafted up, swept away into the airs
on Highland shoals.  Now sailing above the speckled clouds in a darting
school of other drifters, he heard himself singing in heights of sways
throughout the tangle of wandering bark that stretched by branching coral
midway to the moon.  A great oak tree made of lime pierced the end of blue,
nadir to its zenith and into the heavens all starry.  And ringing its trunk was
a line drawn of which beneath lay the drowning world.  It was as if each layer
were one part oil, the other part water.  Looking down, way, way down
and down even farther, he saw the running seeds of striped minnows
who swam by up-streaming a wide river.  To catch up he dropped, again,
all dressed in the colours of rain, with those gladly miners.  But they swam
above the river between the rounded hills.  And the waters ran runny, now
unwrinkling as does the bowl that holds the Milky Way, when someone
dappled by in whisper saying,
        "Come with us twice the road is easy!"
"Where are we?" To himself he mused, as she blew away and by, like a long
dragon flying.  He let his body to sink with the weeds and sedges he saw,
to a beam held with barely a nail hanging, the age old sign set, spiriting him
back again to his place.  Back to the point that draws itself, as does the wind
that winds through the rushing reeds, back to the sun rising note after moon
underwater and from such still sounds was he a reel, just when the post
that was always sheering spoke out and said;
"Welcome!  .  .  .  "
        "Welcome to Minerva."

The hills beneath him stretched out like the curves of women.  Bent
to the clouds he fell from the earth which geared him prickly as would
a range of *******, then soaring higher, he dived, topping valleys
reshaped downy now into ridges slowly writhed before catching
under toe his own dazzled stare on a water loch of milk and coal-
haired body strewn out to her lily'd bones and still falling, he dropped
to the break of morn dribbling wet sand from his eyes and woke
in the sparring light of his least favourite day.
        In a grainish and utter room, where hanged more than two
pictures of two people, he sank down to Sunday diminished in sighs
from the four tilting walls and blew dead inward unfolding a book.
As he reached for some volume, a baby finger nicked the hair string
of his guitar and for a moment was reminded of her voice in the bedded
vibrations.  Looking on her curves she felt the soft nape of her neck
with his eyes, then those same eyes unhanded her and she, his
dejected guitar, faced him unsung in the cornered glare of his boxed
in room.  He felt frost in throes all that morning and sideways out
of doors— the sun looked back on him even colder.  It would be hours
now until the end of days, so after lunch he went for a walk and a bird
sang nearly the whole way.

  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

It was much warmer than he had fared it to be outside and having wrestled
with this idea, that the day was somehow harder than his soft, flat room,
the mere remembering was rote by him to his pangs.  He turned, thinking
toward other things, like the void of driven streets or the mimicking cruelty
of shadows, until he saw a sullen field and left the road to dust.  He knew
that if lost, walking through the lofted hills, he would end up in the ocean
so he headed higher to the crest and over then saw a stand of trees.
        And facing the water that rilled on its way, in the tall grasses he saw
patches of red, flying with the black birds and his heart, in a boat of swells,
traveled like the red patches those birds carried.  Snowed on alder trees
brushed by him, but the wind was blowing in from the west and there
were beautiful things to behold.  A red-tailed hawk striped the ceiling
of his day by the sea and built an island to his eye and then his head sank
droning into a syndrome of birds as he joined in silence with them all
singing;
        'ta— hee— tae.'      
        Showers of poppies spilled to his heel and the keel-brew of rushes and rain
tasted purple on its way perning to the sky.  At one stop in the middle of his
path, he came upon a purfled coil, a briar snake, its body shaped in question,
unmoved and long.  The dark Orphic frieze, branding his way, it would not
listen, as if she had always been there, deaf to his song.  He felt the loss
of love by echoes from his room in the out of doors.  The drumming trunks,
the stringing leaves harping and the water that gurgled by stones into poems.
A Northerly blew begrudging the trunks, the leaves and the stones and by
the woods sinking taller he felt rushes of time running as breath through
trees and felt chimes of things flying buttery like feathers to a bell.

The hills beneath him stretched out like the curves of women.  Bent
to the clouds he fell from the earth which geared him prickly as would
a range of *******, then soaring higher, he dived, topping valleys
reshaped downy now into ridges slowly writhed before catching
under toe his own dazzled stare on a water loch of milk and coal-
haired body strewn out to her lily'd bones and still falling, he dropped
to the break of morn dribbling wet sand from his eyes and woke
in the sparring light of his least favourite day.
        In a grainish and utter room, where hanged more than two
pictures of two people, he sank down to Sunday diminished in sighs
from the four tilting walls and blew dead inward unfolding a book.
As he reached for some volume, a baby finger nicked the hair string
of his guitar and for a moment was reminded of her voice in the bedded
vibrations.  Looking on her curves he felt the soft nape of her neck
with his eyes, then those same eyes unhanded her and she, his
dejected guitar, faced him unsung in the cornered glare of his boxed
in room.  He felt frost in throes all that morning and sideways out
of doors— the sun looked back on him even colder.  It would be hours
now until the end of days, so after lunch he went for a walk and a bird
sang nearly the whole way.

  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

It was much warmer than he had fared it to be outside and having wrestled
with this idea, that the day was somehow harder than his soft, flat room,
the mere remembering was rote by him to his pangs.  He turned, thinking
toward other things, like the void of driven streets or the mimicking cruelty
of shadows, until he saw a sullen field and left the road to dust.  He knew
that if lost, walking through the lofted hills, he would end up in the ocean
so he headed higher to the crest and over then saw a stand of trees.
        And facing the water that rilled on its way, in the tall grasses he saw
patches of red, flying with the black birds and his heart, in a boat of swells,
traveled like the red patches those birds carried.  Snowed on alder trees
brushed by him, but the wind was blowing in from the west and there
were beautiful things to behold.  A red-tailed hawk striped the ceiling
of his day by the sea and built an island to his eye and then his head sank
droning into a syndrome of birds as he joined in silence with them all
singing;
        'ta— hee— tae.'      
        Showers of poppies spilled to his heel and the keel-brew of rushes and
rain tasted purple on its way perning to the sky.  At one stop in the middle of his
path, he came upon a purfled coil, a briar snake, its body shaped in question,
unmoved and long.  The dark Orphic frieze, branding his way, it would not
listen, as if she had always been there, deaf to his song.  He felt the loss
of love by echoes from his room in the out of doors.  The drumming trunks,
the stringing leaves harping and the water that gurgled by stones into poems.
A Northerly blew begrudging the trunks, the leaves and the stones and by
the woods sinking taller he felt rushes of time running as breath through
gusty trees and felt chimes of things flying buttery like feathers to a bell.

    .  .  .  .  .  .  .

        But at the deeper woods opening he lost his way and became fearful,
not wanting to enter.  The tallest ones, red giants with faces of evergreen
canceled out the closing sky and so he changed his way back as before
to the rounded hills.  And weary from his climb he rested on the back of her
body in lands overlooking down from the brae he saw the ocean swelling
and the stars being born in wild flowers as the hills at dusk were dissolving.
        After two eternal moments in peace, he rose again in the Highlands,
to the braise and harvest smell of musted hay, cottage chalk and bleating
wool.  Now holding the girl draped in tartan, this time without caring he fell
into the black woods of her mien.  And the milk of her body dripped out into
his and slid back waveishly until she was all hair from black becoming straw
in their bed and feathers when the raven appeared.  And the flooding waned
when she flew through an opening unraveled in the thatching roof, shredded
above the funny moors.
        In seconds he was swiped clear, before the shy song lamenting when
the doors, by tidal weathers, blasted open into the mackerel sky, gathering
too like vapours with the dawn, he wafted up, swept away into the airs
on Highland shoals.  Now sailing above the speckled clouds in a darting
school of other drifters, he heard himself singing in heights of sways
throughout the tangle of wandering bark that stretched by branching coral
midway to the moon.  A great oak tree made of lime pierced the end of blue,
nadir to its zenith and into the heavens all starry.  And ringing its trunk was
a line drawn of which beneath lay the drowning world.  It was as if each layer
were one part oil, the other part water.  Looking down, way, way down
and down even farther, he saw the running seeds of striped minnows
who swam by up-streaming a wide river.  To catch up he dropped, again,
all dressed in the colours of rain, with those gladly miners.  But they swam
above the river between the rounded hills.  And the waters ran runny, now
unwrinkling as does the bowl that holds the Milky Way, when someone
dappled by in whisper saying,
        "Come with us twice the road is easy!"
"Where are we?" To himself he mused, as she blew away and by, like a long
dragon flying.  He let his body to sink with the weeds and sedges he saw,
to a beam held with barely a nail hanging, the age old sign set, spiriting him
back again to his place.  Back to the point that draws itself, as does the wind
that winds through the rushing reeds, back to the sun rising note after moon
underwater and from such still sounds was he a reel, just when the post
that was always sheering spoke out and said;
"Welcome!  .  .  .  "
        "Welcome to Minerva."

Trapped on my pedestal lofted up high, shrouded by darkness, dreaming of sky, let me dance for you're enjoyment, let me pirouette and spin, release me from my prison it's you're jewelry box I'm in.

I am lost again
beyond the hills
where we made love

under the South Dakota
sun in the wide, wide
open as the wheat

lofted toward the bluest
of June skies and we
rolled and rolled

into an indifferent
world forever,
forever.

The hills beneath him stretched out like the curves of women.  Bent
to the clouds he fell from the earth which geared him prickly as would
a range of *******, then soaring higher, he dived, topping valleys
reshaped downy now into ridges slowly writhed before catching
under toe his own dazzled stare on a water loch of milk and coal-
haired body strewn out to her lily'd bones and still falling, he dropped
to the break of morn dribbling wet sand from his eyes and woke
in the sparring light of his least favourite day.
        In a grainish and utter room, where hanged more than two
pictures of two people, he sank down to Sunday diminished in sighs
from the four tilting walls and blew dead inward unfolding a book.
As he reached for some volume, a baby finger nicked the hair string
of his guitar and for a moment was reminded of her voice in the bedded
vibrations.  Looking on her curves she felt the soft nape of her neck
with his eyes, then those same eyes unhanded her and she, his
dejected guitar, faced him unsung in the cornered glare of his boxed
in room.  He felt frost in throes all that morning and sideways out
of doors— the sun looked back on him even colder.  It would be hours
now until the end of days, so after lunch he went for a walk and a bird
sang nearly the whole way.

  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

It was much warmer than he had fared it to be outside and having wrestled
with this idea, that the day was somehow harder than his soft, flat room,
the mere remembering was rote by him to his pangs.  He turned, thinking
toward other things, like the void of driven streets or the mimicking cruelty
of shadows, until he saw a sullen field and left the road to dust.  He knew
that if lost, walking through the lofted hills, he would end up in the ocean
so he headed higher to the crest and over then saw a stand of trees.
        And facing the water that rilled on its way, in the tall grasses he saw
patches of red, flying with the black birds and his heart, in a boat of swells,
traveled like the red patches those birds carried.  Snowed on alder trees
brushed by him, but the wind was blowing in from the west and there
were beautiful things to behold.  A red-tailed hawk striped the ceiling
of his day by the sea and built an island to his eye and then his head sank
droning into a syndrome of birds as he joined in silence with them all
singing;
        'ta— hee— tae.'      
        Showers of poppies spilled to his heel and the keel-brew of rushes and rain
tasted purple on its way perning to the sky.  At one stop in the middle of his
path, he came upon a purfled coil, a briar snake, its body shaped in question,
unmoved and long.  The dark Orphic frieze, branding his way, it would not
listen, as if she had always been there, deaf to his song.  He felt the loss
of love by echoes from his room in the out of doors.  The drumming trunks,
the stringing leaves harping and the water that gurgled by stones into poems.
A Northerly blew begrudging the trunks, the leaves and the stones and by
the woods sinking taller he felt rushes of time running as breath through
gusty trees and felt chimes of things flying buttery like feathers to a bell.

  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

Powder erupted around the wheels of
the careening steel.  Many questions
remained added to the enigma,

the empty wreck.

Glances over the deployed air bag
indicated that the zeppelin would not
fly, wrinkled, as it was, by the impact
of the road.  Limits implied, in advance,
that the wheel could be expected
to break off of the parked vehicle, not

as often as a blue moon.  This warning
did not reach the pilot deeply immersed
in an adventurous dream.  A tree
arrived to confront the day without

troubles, and, from the leaves, a mistake
was coaxed into being through the use
of incredibly attractive and accented
meanings always intended to provoke an
event, the stormy scene which exploded

in a shower of sparks from the clattering

steel.  A long wait resulted in a deluge of
water across the green strands of hair that
were floating implicated by the color and
the formal presence lofted so easily into
the sky.  In this fashion, they were able to
send passengers far out into the universe,

entering the deep space, where cats became
stable creatures, and the long neck of the
new dinosaur was reaching through the door
of the hay loft asking to be allowed this
journey into the green rivers, which painted
hair, wherever they could be found.  The

stare of the eye, in this storm,

had a memory of endless days spent
manipulating aggravated spirits to create
trivial, game points.  Although winning did not
matter, discovery was losing.  It could not be

escaped with a simple misdirection.  The
crisis was in the middle between departure and
arrival.  The bewildered animals discussed this,
thoroughly, before deciding not to participate.
They were lucky when allowed to watch

quietly from a nearby star system.

Balanced on two wheels, the bell chimed
periodic lengths to extend the race sleeping in
chests in the hall.  It all related to experiences
floundering in relation to news events and
plans to engage in safe travel, indefinitely.

Come, silver moon, alight on troubled clouds,
Gift them thy saintly glow lifting the gloom
Levied below, with flowery haloed buds
Springing forth like the lamb from mother's womb,

Light up anew hedgerows and quilted fields
Where cattle sleep in clusters like faint stars,
Constellations huddled upon the wolds,
Breath nebulous as fogging stale cigars;

Ill omens thrive to drift in darkest times
From cloud to stony cloud above the night,
Watching for victims from high lofted climes,
Raining full pent up fury of their might:

Come, silver moon, gift troubled clouds thy lining,
Hope lives in thee as long as thou art shining!

The teenagers smile through their misery
as they learn to love the taste of beer.
I learned from then on that no actions of ease
are ever sincere; that we all struggle to keep pace
with all that is expected - a grade-mark percentage,
an overtime enthusiast; a steady-state consumer
who is always bright, bright, bright and on time;
who is never bleak and twisted, or overcast and out of mind.

I see the couple's silent feud
as they hold hands across the road;
I see the womanizer pop a zit in a wing mirror
on his way to the latest *******.

The sales assistant yawns through the breathing spaces
of professional enthusiasm, scouring the pages
of the company magazine, whilst the radio sweats
in the corner of the room. Last night's words
are on her mind as she signs the papers
with today's date; today's place in time
amongst all of the others that dominate her life,
whilst leaving scars and no memories,
punching the clock and throwing the fight.

I see the hang-man wince in empathy
after his dog had died last week;
I see the expert in the hotel mirror,
feeling sorry about his ****.

The Beautiful People are walking the ugly track
back home, amongst the rubble of Snapchats
and bad scratch-cards; the cardiac nurse
meditates in the restaurant corridor
before going to meet a woman.
I learned from my lofted position
on top of all the walls I have built,
that no matter how vivid the flower in sunlight,
in the darkness, it will always come to wilt.

Well the dogs begin to bark, disembodied
on the cemetery hill. Gravestones are silhouettes,
furniture in the night. From here you can see the housing estate,
constellations of halogen bulbs and bicycle reflectors.
All is still but my mind and the sound of the dogs in the distance.

A lofted branch, a hanging thread:
when did the rope-swing become a noose?
We came down from the trees
to burn them to the ground.
A thousand signals pass overhead. Unintelligible.
Unseen. The homeless leave ****-bottles of cheap cider
and backwater in the flower bins

but no one has seen them do it.
A chapel reflects the distant street-lights, unmoving,
so that only the trees share my discourse with living.
The dogs have shut up. The signals continue.
I lost my way again on the cemetery hill.
Scars have become medals.
My heart refuses to still.

…
Some birds are blue
Carry the sky
Earthwards

Ground birds nest
In bushes
Bursting like sun

Water birds
Swim to what is there
Always reaching

An eagle is like wind
Never chasing
Simply lofted

Crows are busy
So like tribulations
Spots of wind

A swan knows
Water will carry
As water in cloud

Some birds are dressed
Forthright on earth
The wren, the robin or quail

Each bird is dream
Miracles for us to see
Feathers fall from heaven

I feel like taking a tab of acid
and disappearing
to town in my worn suit.

Buskers bathe in the eternal winter,
clamouring sounds at passers-by
until Jericho falls in on itself,
money spilling out of its sides
like a fast food waiter
on his cigarette break.

Trawling through the record shops,
I feel as if I've travelled through time;
each bootleg, a manuscript,
each seven-inch, a sonnet.
Pulling fingers through Venetian sounds,
I have found my place
in the library of New Alexandria.

The pigeons are swollen at the ankles.
Like humans, they are losing height
at the promise of another meal,
at another chance to rifle through the crumb.

School kids are waiting for the bus
as I go walking past.
They're unaware of the ease of tread
they have over land,
unaware of how quickly it can fall
and the scathing jealousy
I feel for each of them.

In eyes wet and wide, I turn to go home,
I walk in the rain, before settling for the bus
and returning to that familiar, lofted view
of the world passing by through a maniac's eyes.

It is only then that the world shifts in focus
and lotus flowers crop up through the carpet,
the world outside has grown far too unreal,
to the point hallucinating makes sense of it all.

His heavy soiled worn
work boots, are set aside on
the woven mat in the corner of the room,
behind him.

Picking up the violin and bow,  with rosin
sticking, tuning as he moves across the open, lofted
space
in preparation of play.  And by playing,
the chatter and noise of his work day far and away,
from this private space were no longer a distraction.  They were behind him,
now he had completed a new song, knew it by heart,
as it was from his…
with the sounds and notes soaring above the vaulted
ceiling rafters, he was getting that feeling that comes
with his play.

He began to dance for his audience of One.
the music was his, but with it he asked for forgiveness,
for his thoughtless ways on those days when he cared not for,
any other living soul than his own. Then a heaviness in
the flow, the rhythm, lead him to a place where he knew he
was forgiven now and forever from before he or this song,
were ever birthed.

He dreams Celtic.

Arms moving as he played, feet lifting and placed,
jumping from note to note, to land and lift again. And again.

Lightly.

He dreams Celtic.

He paused, so did his music as did his play
and he stared his work boots down.
Then he quickly he began again fingers dancing over
the strings,
as feet danced across the floor, he knew
that in playing his music there was joy,
in his past there was a history,
that told a story every-time
he played
because he dreams Celtic.

Though the day may tax him,
it was able to be tamed, for
his dreams of music are reality
and he dreams Celtic.


DWE 2013-04-21

Molten glass crunching loudly underfoot,
She makes her way slowly over his terrace,
His glistening eyes blinding her under the moonlight,
The crackling of ashen logs falling in the furnace,
The scent of his cologne lofted through the dewy air,
And caressed her senses so gently, she fell away,
The silk of the bedspread caught her and held her close,
Until her lover knelt down to quietly say,

I need you now.

The winds of the west blow
from hallowed undying lands
to lands east,over the oceans flow
into mortal realms where darkness lies
They stem from His thoughts,who dwells on his lofted throne
and transcends the realms of every age
giving life to that gentle breeze,
that has the power to assuage,ills
begotten when the girdle was built
sundering one and one from the other
even so the west wind fills,the chasm so deep
that was bourn out of the wrath,that once was
but now gently sleeps,in the west
from where the wind blows.
They breathe life into shrivelling palms
hope into tired arms,and strength when all else fails
For the winds alone remain,in union with the sea,of those
who of yore roamed in fellowship where man was found
in the deeps of the elder days,before the ships were set to sail
by the same wind,that still returns,for it has neither forgotten
not forsaken those who it left,on shores hidden from light
that does not burn,yet smoulders still in the hearts
of those who looked upon it,when the world was young.
So the west winds blow,but also return to lands where
they were birthed,carrying tidings of all things
that come to be,dark or fair,to the lords
who set it to wandering go,beyond,where no duty calls
and so does it also bring,the weary fallen,
to return home and grandly dine, in the halls
where their fathers are,in the west
from where the winds blow.

She danced today
A debut in this instance, nix any sign of delay
Flight of sound and light and flow
Dramatically distant, conventions that she used to know
She danced today

Let her flow from the underbelly
Like it could never be
Lofted in comfort and empyrean robe
One down, seven to go
Never were there rules
Not like it mattered anyway
No corset could ever restrict the first time in a little bit

She's her today
It won't be the last time, infinite painted decay
A cold squall of calamity cools a hot head of fury
Simply a flurry
She bellows and bellows and bellows and bellows and bellows

we slept all
bundled up in
beds too tiny
meant for
one


limbed and
twiny under
breathy blanket
quilted by
your mom

​
in pokey dorm rooms
loud and
clambersome
​

we slept all
upside down
in princess bed
of brass ornate
and painted
ceramic of
flowers pink
and dainty

​
pulled and
rubbled out
from rummage
sale in
somebody's
front yard

​
enclosed by walls
of wood
a-seep with
rugged deep
grotesque koala
gnarl

​
we slept all
pulled out long
on foamy
futon
​

slats a-stick
in ribs and
jutting out
​

to wailing
whooping
siren sounds
and tv screams
and chopper
chops
and others'
midnight
lovers' fights


a-pound and
hot and grimy


we slept all
lofted up
and alcoved
cozy
high in castle
attic


nunnery
monastic


circled round
by clouds
and crows and
osprey


wings a-soar
wings a-flap
dizzying up our
weathered dreams


with
cat a-curled and
purring at
our tender feet


and farback
memories
swirling sweet


of bygone nights

​
of bygone plights


of sleeps
slept other
places


© 2017 Adelaide Heathfield

They're hysterical in the streets as the power goes out,
whilst we peel through the volumes of our love.

They're twitching in their sleep with caffeine on the blood,
whilst we twist through the veil of our thoughts.

Some call to the Lord for the all-promised cleansing,
others poison themselves just to get by.

Some forget old friends in the luxury of living,
others see ghosts out in the marble hall.

Laura is waking to the lofted smell of coffee;
Jack is *******, late for work again.

Laura is nursing back her life to take it slowly;
Jack is shooting up all of his tomorrows.

They're selling bags beside the old abandoned temple,
whilst we sit inside looking at the rain.

They're feigning love and gaining innovative profit,
whilst we pick at the scars of yesterday.

Some pin string on maps to plot out their escape route,
others settle for feeling far away.

Some build up their biceps to bring about beauty,
others waste in chairs, hoping for reprieve.

Mary pacified want through the ohm of the river;
Joseph touched wood to keep his mind at peace.

Mary paraded in her soft and fragile spirit;
Joseph ruled the land with an iron fist.

You are the one I turn to in all eventual outcomes;
I have turned to a preacher at your door.

You are the limitless fuel for this vital ache;
I have turned to a shadow of before.

I have wrapped the coast of Miston, walking from The Haunted Plains to the old church, Once More, once again, never stopping, except for a cool drink and the gentle repose of shade.

I have walked a pale road towards Golgotha, where our Lord, our saviour, Jesus Christ, was crowned by thorns and lofted in pain.

I have walked into old Seabridge town, all the way to where the water runs and where the snow rests on frozen days.

However, there are still many souls to be found in these towns, if only— and I pray— my feet stay supple and take the strain of my long, wandering days.