When
you are sitting in a bedroom
of a beach house
on a sandy colored rug
and the light outside the glasses,
the jars, the window
is more vivid than any memory
as if you have blossomed from mud,
this is how you are alive.
Again
Morning
A little bit of motivation
I know I have potential for something,
because some slowly bubbling mush inside my chest
fills with sun,
The ray slows my heartbeat heard in my ears
and fills me inexplicably full;
With more worthwhile breath
than I think possible.
see
light;
a morning dust.
Rise. thin and quiet
slow, mist:
a million eyes
empty, one hushed deity
tinseling in space
of leaves of grass,
dew shaken, suspends, monotone
the memory on a seashore;
watching a uniform pattern
lapse again, again we see=watch
half dark
half light
a bead on a string
between brows, never expected
to be a curtain. to find anything
in a place half built.
take your mind
take your mind
and find this anger,
lift the reasons out
like
a loose curtain
in a morning breeze;
first the dust rises
and then falls away
and you,
where are you still?
I Watched the Day Wake
I watched the day wake
As the sun made its way West
And out of my eyes
A good night’s rest
Let the moon take you where you need to go;
It is a gentle tide that moves around you,
It is a quiet white that floats you close to shore.
Spring is coming- a few birds call us back.
fog and frost
In capes and mounds
fog rises from the ground,
imaginative ectoplasm
or melting frost
drips from the trees and gray
branches, bark or vines
or platelets left of night,
water frames red berries
And I breathe in
the thorned morning
And let out my own fog
quickly dissipating
sun
I am grateful that the sun
reaches to my living bones
and rises slowly in the morn
to cast veils of gold on homes
Yet do not retreat at once
Fire stays, high above our heads,
For days may list in resonance
though ungrateful hearts do tread;
Watch the sun leak through the trees,
ancient beasts though so naive
whose hesitant leaves will still grieve
painting blood on winter’s sleeve,
Paddle through the light, my friends,
with weapons down and hearts wide
for are we not the same at ends,
when shadows rise and seasons slide?
on edge
Who was watching
through the greedy lens
that caused the swift to warn;
Whose feathers on edge
tangled in settling cold
and sheaths of sharp gray wind;
Whose open beak
tremored with sound
to shaded leaves licking at air;
Who was watching
the frightened bird
singing from her perch?
fall prelude
A cool morning
generously opened the blinds
to the scuffling
of a few dried skeletons
skittering across graying pavement
and taunting at my ankles,
rang their little tin bells
but I cannot revive
the heat of summer
nor catch the spirit of fall
so I will enjoy it
with a smile
