A Flight of Geese . . .

The bus was early
       so I wait . . .
pebbles gleaming
                weakly
in the amber light
     of the street lamp . . . .
The cool damp air
    moistens my reluctant cheeks
exposed to the dark expanse
     of morning . . . . .
I gaze at
        scattered
               cast offs
on the sidewalk,
as they seem to be
            life rafts
on a turbulent
     sea . . .
                    washes of salty brine
exhuming the
      soft centers,
hard shells
            dissolving away.
Overhead,
a thin bank of clouds
            occludes the slender
lights of the
            portentous inky sky . . .
there are moments,
         as cars slush by,
that I long to reach out
and caress a lonely
                          brow,
or expend my energies
           listening to a soul song . . .
a requisite for a poet,
is to delve into
the strati of common lives . . .
nothing is new
           under the sun,
yet
    there are dreams
left unfulfilled
           and loves
                    unexamined,
. . . . . a hard trampling
on the fragile crystal
           of living hearts . . .
   is laying fine lines . . .
adding to the layers
           buried . . . building mounds
   of understanding
and empathy

The humming of the cars
           reach my ears
as if a symphony of sighs,
                  each vehicle a carapace
within which
          the soft flesh
is unexposed . . .
we are lost
          to each other,
I am lost to you . . .
                  your eyes evade mine . . .
as they fly by . . . .
                 like flocks
of wandering geese . . .
     lost
before the coming storm . . .
      we are lost to each other
and yet
in the end our roads will
                      meet
though your flight
           be so much faster
than mine . . .

Drops of water
on my glass shelter
leave
distorted shadows
like tears . . . and scars . . .
on my paper . . .
as I write  … …
        each one slips away . . .
a flight of geese
                      against the lighting sky . . . .

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Enjoying this Jamendo Artist's Music:

Royalty Free Music - Stock Music Library | Jamendo PRO

Like poetry
or lace . . .
a shadow of a smile
flickers on a face . .
music so expressive as it
enters the realm of light,
yet so tentative and touching . . .
While surfacing . . . so quiet . ..
filling the air
with a hint of
peacefulness . . .
a space is created
in the disquiet of life . ..
a place to become immaterial . ..
and rest
when the world
gets too heavy with flame . .
a shaded corner
to hide from the heat . . .
a sprinkle of raindrops . .
to settle the dust . .. .
a smile remains . .

Beautiful music . . . as always . .. .

Review for:

"Instant"  http://www.jamendo.com/en/album/102825

 

The Voyage of the Damned

Rushing, as I walked to
accomplish my errands . . .
upon
turning a corner I saw
in the distance
a goal. . .
my destination.

The street seemed so far away,
and as I progressed I anxiously watched
as it never seemed to get nearer
and then . . .

I realized I was missing
the moment
and all the barely encompassed
here in the now . . .

I was missing
the golden glow of the fall leaves,
expiring against a silver bright sky. . .
I was missing the
Mandelbrot patterns around me,
the pine needles
arrayed on the damp ground . . .
the sounds of music,
the tone of birds . . .
and the scrunch of my feet against
the gravel on the ground,
each tiny rock a crystal bell . . .

I was missing . .
the steamy smiles of
passers by,
and the breath of freedom . . . .

As the goal
became just another passing moment. . .
I retrieved my treasures
like scarlet leaves
collected in a wicker basket . . .
and held in awe 
what senses,
reaching out like tentacles,
exploring the depths
and the heights . . .
were able to harvest
against the coming storms . . .

What is my goal in the end,
but death,
and a moldering
away in a grave
unsuited to
deep breaths of
Autumn flavored air . . .

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An Autumn Moment

The leaves flutter down,
gasping a last refrain,
with colors reminiscent of a Turkish
carpet, arrayed on overgrown grassy lawns
and
clinging like starfish
facing their new horizons,
they feel the flesh of the soil
with splayed fingers,
slowly growing numb . . .
as molds fringe the brittle
textures, scraping away the flesh
to leave a fragile lacy pattern
of veins . . . slowly, slowly . . .
gazing sadly at the stars . . .
as they twirl away in their
nightly dance
across indigo skies . .

The scuffed toe of my boot
skitters through the leaves
committing some to their utter destruction,
and arbitrarily sending others
back into a flight
on Autumn breezes. . .
The cold reaches fingers
up my nose
and the laughter of
children is heard
in the distance . . .

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