I love your

woven tale . . . 

it whispers thoughts        

of life    

and connections            

through a creation

of dreams and pain

joy bringing sorrow                        

and a fear of truth

. . . . . 

for hidden in the shadows

is a weary womb                        

burdened by humanity

and folded within the        

jaws of fear

and yet I hear that song

of hope and redemption . . . . 

When I Feel Lost

when you walk down the path

in a sea of mountain flowers

up high where the air

is thin to breath . ..

watch out for the turn

near the base of the hill

where the sand turns to rubble

and the stars

no longer shine

Some days . . . when I have lost my strength to the trials of my job and life and I am depressed and weary . . . I look at the mountains and remember that I own them . . . every one of them . .. and the roads before me . . . and the roads behind . . . I own the sky and all its residents . . . and the sea in all it's glory . . . the wind, the fire bow before me . . . I own everything; yet I am not in control of all that I see . . for I barely have control of myself . . . maybe someday I'll be a god . . . but not yet.

hmmmm . . .

The Seas . . . so endless . . .

The seas so endless
the waves so wide
the eyes slide over
the clouds, the mist,
the shine of sun
upon the rolling hills
of dark waters . .
the fish . .. the whales
and leaping dolphins
the boats that float
on deepened waters . . .
foam and brine
islands and mats of weed
and trash . . . this and that . . .
how to find a small lost ship
that sailed the winds
and then did slip
beneath the tides . .. ?

 

 This was written when I was helping a crowd sourcing site, Tomnod, in search for a lost Malaysian  airplane in March of 2014.  - http://www.tomnod.com/

Differences

I can't change the color of my skin, 
         my race, my looks - just to suit you.
This was how I was created and I like myself,
                     just the way I am.
You are not the maker of humankind or elephants . . . 
you are only a mere mortal . . . just like me
              . . . just like elephants . . .

I cannot and will not change my love to suit you. 
  You did not put that flow of warmth in my heart . . . 
                     my loins . . . 
it is a river, 
richly teaming with the liquor of existence . . 
You are not the creator of my heart . . 
        or its longings . . . 
        You do not know why the whale sings her song . . .. 

I cannot change the foundation of my being 
                          for you 
 - dreaming of my gods 
and living my laws which were laid on me from my birth . . 
         along with my language and my customs . . . 
These were chosen for me while I was still an angel . . 
                   watching this blue marble sing in the heavens . . . 

I am part of this kaleidoscope of life
                            the differences of trees
                                                  and stars
                                                        and oceans
The skin of this earth
which holds us in an embrace . .. 
             that . . . 
                  loves us . . . 
                           denies us . . 
                                   scars us . . . . 
                                           and kills us . .
We have only ourselves . . . to make strong . . .

You can hate me, if you wish, . . . 
     because I am not you . . . 
               and I will walk away . . . 
                       on a dusty pathway of love that lifts me
                                       into the ether . . .
           . . . you cannot change me 
                              . . . and I do not want to change you . . . .

***********************************

Marie Antoinette

I will turn my back upon the rest
as a pillow to hold my head
and watch the blade as it descends
to see its journey as it begins
to end my life
and give me wings
to find my way to the house of kings . . .
if you despise the way I laugh
when like a child I sing and dance
above the tree tops near the moon
where eagles rest
on aerie nests
oblige the skies with silhouettes
I sprinkle dreams
with dusts of endless gold
and rainbows to fold
their sheaths around the blade
as I ascend
or perchance descend
those steps of fire . . .
into the Hades
I do not know . . . nor do I care . . .
I merely stopped here
for a while . .
until I was forced to retire. . .


*******************************************

you are the writing on my wall
the shadow
scribbling dusty marks
branches bowing
strong and tender . . .
charcoal smudges left
like footprints on the brow of time .. .
you are the laughter in my skies
clouds scrubbing moonlit faces
stars whispering
like flames dancing
candlelit sky my birthday cake . . .
blazing on the horizon . . .
 

Privilege . . .

they bake their bread on the backs of your seed . . .
                      and make your cities crumble . . .
they sit in black suits
                                   smiling
             with concrete dust
                                   filtering through their teeth
sifting out your bones . . .
                        to make their gold . . .
                                                   it lies cold and curdled
                                                         beneath their thrones . . .  imagined fires
                          unlit by the stillness of your heart . . .
                                                                                your dreams un-mentored
                                                                 are flavored with the weft of their expectations while
                          their road, endless and dark with shards of scorn
        and yours  . ..  have ended
beneath the bridge of time
                                        as it sinks into the river
of loss . . .

Slowly . . .

Yachats

when you walk down the path

in a sea of mountain flowers

up high where the air

is thin to breath . ..

watch out for the turn

near the base of the hill

where the sand turns to rubble

and the stars

no longer shine

Some days . . . when I have lost my strength to the trials of my job and life and I am depressed and weary . . . I look at the mountains and remember that I own them . . . every one of them . .. and the roads before me . . . and the roads behind . . . I own the sky and all its residents . . . and the sea in all it's glory . . . the wind, the fire bow before me . . . I own everything; yet I am not in control of all that I see . . for I barely have control of myself . . . maybe someday I'll be a god . . . but not yet.

hmmmm . . .

The Voices in the Night

Chihuly's Garden and Glass in Seattle 2014

 I stepped out into the deck

                                 at night

                            the stars were sprinkled

across that black sheet
        above my head                                            

      in familiar patterns,

                                  small lights bright,

       friendly faces beaming down. . .

so close                                                  

                                 I felt I could rearrange them

with a flick of my fingers . . . 

 The crickets were singing                            

      each voice a member of the choir

                      one in particular, an alto,

crying out over and over. . . . "poor Pete,
poor Pete. . . "

          their cheeky voices

                           thick with hope

some little ones          

                    pausing for the cause

like bits of percussion weaving in and out

                                                              with an occasional fanfare. . . 

A breeze raked her cool fingers

                         through the branches of the

trees -                  
                         bright at their tips

                     where they caught the rays

of the moon - 
                                                                   or the streetlamps . . .

       In the distances all around

                                                          were multitudes of voices,

               people laughing,

talking,

              music playing on some

                                                       odd radios,

like memories . . .

                                                              my yard echoes

                        the night

with the sounds of the city                        

          like a basin

catching raindrops

                        . . . . . . . or tears

and reminding me

                                                         with a whisper

that I am not

                                         alone. . .

                                                    . . . . no

                       . . . not ever!             

***********************************
(Written last night)

**********************

(I found this little poem tucked away . . . without knowing its history

. . . I can only vaguely remember the feeling . . . the stars have always

amazed me . .. they give me wings, strength and a strange sense of being

one of them . .  immense . .  yet small - )

 

I gazed with open mouth
at the night sky
the stars are thick and bright . .
there is an endlessness
an eternal peace
in looking though time
trying to find the middle . ..

they told me that being alone in the night
not sleeping
not flying into the dreams of the restful places

will make me tired in the day
and I will fall
down the mountain . ..

but instead I floated away . .  

*************************

Woe!

Be not afraid to fight
that old demon Woe
for though he chases
the birds on wing
he can easily be laid low . . 
           his wounds are deep,
reflecting faintly
of lost stars, 
             liquid 
                    and languid in
muddy waters . . 
               where dreams expire
as drowning swimmers' 
leaden arms refuse
               to fly . . 
yet longing to follow the butterflies of Summer,
watching eyes stung by their
             brilliant dress
    tattered
       by Autumn storms
thin wings
                  fluttering wearily
though bright colors 
                displaced by the harsh drops 
     of rain
          or tears,
remain
as battle scars. . . .
                                . . ..  your rainbow is too exhausted
                             to climb those busy roads
so you live in the grey,
             . . . dusky world where
                                    your long dark shadows
                      embrace you
and ancient dusty spider webs
                entrap you, wrap you greedily . . 
your beloved
grief rebukes 
                 and paralyses your heart . . .
yet the gate closed to
             your reprieve
                          remains unlocked
and on the side where shadows seem to grow
                          the sun rejoices
                                         waiting for you . . 
turn around .  . 
          and open your eyes . ..  let your heart inhale
step forward and touch the frame of strength . . .
walk
fly

the stolen breezes
kiss my face
with the scent
of new baked bread . . . 
and the small bright flowers
cuddled in the glowing green grass
kiss my toes
with honeyed dew . . .

HeartBeat . . . Three Poems . . .

Three poems, unrefined . . . yet here they are in their boney state . .  stark and shadowy without the flesh to clothe their skeletons in bright colors . ..  I am uninspired and worn from life . . . but words lie deep in my breast, waiting to explode into flame . . . soon, very soon . . .
**************************************

a murmuration of birds
a bonding of the seen;
whereas the unseen
lost in oblivion
dance on the mighty tides . . .
the book of Earth
written so long ago . . .where
time is lost behind the veil;
and the echoes of a song
distant in the wild
once heard . . . familiar,
the melody of life
a mark, a score across the vivid nothing . . . yet
a scarlet leaf tumbles to the ground,
an impression of disaster,
the sound of sighing
and regrowth . . .

*************************************

I would have loved you
if I ever knew you . . .
but you were the petal
in the wind . .
a moment's brush
against my cheek
a pink aroma drifting
into the sunset. . .
like a forlorn ash;
If I had but known
I
would have reached out my hand
to catch your bitter sting
of foam . . . trembling at the edge
of the tide . . .
the last wave receding
and leaving you behind . . .
to melt away
a mere shadow in the sand . .
I may
have cooled your fevered brow . .
or set a broken bone . ..
or knit together shredded flesh . . .
If only I had known
I would have gathered up your tears . . .
and planted them;
seeds of the tomorrows grown
and grow again . ..
all errors forgiven
all dreams evaporate. . .
midnight terrors . . .
wild horses cannot stand . .
the spot you see against that shapeless cloud
is but a bird
of mystery . . . I will forever ponder
why she could fly so free . . .
when I never knew her . . .
or ever heard her song . ..

******************

My life is like the song of the drum
my heart is a pulse
from the time I swam in those salty seas
and where I became
and I still become
I walk through life
to the beat of that drum
My march is matched
by the thrum of my dreams
the color red
and the shush of the seas
water rushes
and leaves rustle
the wind sighs
and the moon lights
and bodies unite
to an inner cadence . . .
I am not alone in that solid beat . .
as I grow older
and that tempo slows down
I see an end
coming ever so near
and I know that my life
extended somewhere
with the beat of that drum
my spirit I hear
in my heart

******************************************