The stream (all workshops)
I feel the movement
as souls embrace.
Notes play.
Chopin
Nocturne 17
Fingers gently grace tips;
eyes understand.
Tears and heart
glisten mid melody,
snowflakes compliment;
wishing
to believe again,
that love is made worth its risk.
red tailed hawk
suspended
suddenly
swoops setting sun
~~~~~
one legged,
heron meditates
gulps
river moon
rising
with so much bravado
"blow it out your asses
you niggling little dimwits"
that's exactly what he said
"by the seat of your pants,
the only way to fly"
I bailed
he crashed
dissing the world and its ways
one too many times
what a guy!
it was an ordinary funeral
“Heaven and earth are like a set of bellows.
Although empty, they are endlessly productive.
The more you work them, the more they produce.
The mouth, on the other hand, becomes exhausted if you talk too much.
Better to keep your thoughts inside you.”
-Lao Tzu
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My mouth entombs me
or sets me free,
in an endless stream of words
Beautiful images in precise words
swirl around my head, when I speak
something else comes out instead
It was many and many a year ago
as I knelt down on my knee
three roses and cognac were left to bestow
an honor to you from me,
and these gifts were bought with no other thought
than to be placed here just by me.
I am your fan and they are your fans
as I'd kneel down on my knee
but we knew what we knew was more than we knew--
in this honor to you from me;
a gift of love that each year would show
an honor to you from me.
Within stirs a persistent bane
birthed while on her Mother’s knee.
Now her bones grate
against rhythmic rocking chair,
break the dim silence
while images reverberate
on the back walls of her mind.
Disquietude prompts alarm
as obsessions claw toward
recognition amid graves
of muffled fears
she pretends are invalid.
Her desire to flee
from reminders of falsehoods
and fake passions
nags her endlessly
like unforgivable sins
haunt a cloistered sister.
what utter nonsense
"go placidly amidst the noise and haste"
i'm not sure but i'm the fool that rushes
bangs my head on the open door, my feelings old
stains on the short
shirt, cuff links hanging from my ears
like discipline my mother wore around her
finger, circles of a wedding ring, there's only the
scent of peonies and lilacs now and stories
she told about the hows and whys of stories
becoming the hows and whys of a mother's
life, i drown myself on the edge of nothing
i can come up with
reasons why i smoke
why i eat more when sad
i can explain how socks
magically disappear
in the machine
none come to mind
when each season
sees you as
a tired excuse
i carry in my back pocket
In Sacramento was I born too soon.
Those days the premature were bound to die,
yet somehow I was grant a doubtful boon
and left alone to live not knowing why.
But two pounds in the manger early June,
sans nails and ears stuck out as if to fly.
For thirteen years my parents had been wed,
at last to birth a creature best off dead.
The night hurls torrents against dark glass,
the trees, unseen, are set to dance.
Tonight this tempest, too, shall pass
with dawn's promise of another chance.
On such nights old men sit and think
of day just gone, as well as all;
lightning flashes blink to blink,
the tick of time just down the hall.
Envy of lives lived fancy free,
and what such freedom must feel like.
Such a life was never meant for me,
my thumb destined to plug the dike.
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