I facilitated nothing that meant permanence
so this context can be called something like
a home for a lost citizen devoid of tradition.
the others build homes with punctuated
decorations that wave based on the weather
of attitude and storms.

lost I decorated you in the resistance
because it was natural to
want to stop drowning             hidden here now behind the metaphor
behind moist parallels, the exits and entrances for light.

I can hear voices back here that dare to tempt growth
fantasize compassion, perplex us in years
for just one reason for being.
keep asking while I prefer to listen, she blessed my ears
with the hope for something not yet heard.


how water travels

there is nothing beautiful in crying storms from the screams of discontent
falls black into shadows without the reflection of light
beautiful tears can fall from my eyes in current at the softness of your voice
they travel after a song to my palms, the surface and the curvature of my fingers
when gently fisted from joy, they fall after the rhythm of these words as they move
from keys like a prayer, today I am suspicious
of the sky; the tears will fall like rain and settle like growth
and the children outside my window will become flowers, flippant and colorful with hope.


I wake.
There is beauty.
It is not the grandiose type of beauty you imagine.
The distorted reality of a passing cliché.
In a golden sunrise along the horizon.
A gentle sweetness in the morning bird’s song.
That window’s edge.
That bright epiphany.
That sweet aroma carried en masse by an eager wind.
I have found its partner in wake.
Its senses in subtlety.
It is momentary
and the shocking acceptance of what is life.
All is good. What is known.
That at this moment I am in the context
of nothing special, out of a paltry dream,
a life better settled and a failure to plan the
possibilities, a growing mind, stronger
in obstacles. Isn’t it towered upon bittersweet?
The years of contemplation—
to arrive at such simplicity,
to embody surrender, the living and the lost.
Give me the moment.
Can I call it hope?
Becoming I, becoming the beauty,
the subtle rhythms of shared breaths
and interrupted meaning found only in silence,
breaks, contemplation, join fire and water with morning light
and you, my remnant, my souvenir,
replace the possibilities.
Let it be all, all sacred at this moment. Risen.
This anomaly,
this latent premise given only a second to live.
Peace of mind sudden. It is worth a lifetime of understanding.

The joy of doing nothing

dusk and dawn and
the pages in between
the perfect ambience
of a quiet day
I resolve to write you to sleep
wake these weary eyes
after the guilt
of clumsy fingers subsides
ah, what sensual guilt
to rest in indecision
the horizontal body
against the star-filled sky
I fear these eyes will not wake.
together. we may weigh more than the morning sun.

To Windows and Dreams

The end of the day
when the body rests in harmonious partnership with comfort
an oxymoron to uncertainty, the human will relive
its subconscious babble in the dream.
how many manifestations of destiny exist behind windows
when life is about choice and time is about limits
bury the rest in clay of different colors
body from the Earth, mind from the Divine
peering through the windows of what is lost
the sight of mounds and mounds I sleep.

I sleep now feeling weighed upon by all I have lost to the ego.
There are dreams to be had—in tonight’s I’ll be flying.

Learning to Ride

I know that there were hands behind me
like a scaffold to be sewn into the mind
for future use in middle age, supporting
the crooked back of motherhood,
to let them fall, to have them ride.

and it was the hillside, the rolling path that took
him forward without my hands
because it was a better option—to ride away
in exhilarating pleasure than to believe that this new body
had a balance of before and after.

We can be owned by no one except in the memory of hands.
They keep letting us go to pedal the bridges of this unsteady world.