Waves

The surf's crash a coital rush
to the waiting shore. A patient
lover anticipating it's nightly deep
embrace. It comes bearing gifts higher
and higher.
A latin tango choreographed to
the slivered moon's dulcet tones.
Covering the dry grittiness with
a moisture borne across the
choppy waves of the Atlantic.
The mighty nightly ritual immovable
in its fortitude predictable and
strong in solidarity.
The lapping waves providing
a soundtrack to the birth of
morning.
The horizon kissed
with the golden red lips of
tomorrow. Soft and tender in
a farewell till they meet
again.

words

Quiet words.
spoken for one to hear
and mull over.
To soak in and apply
in life.

Quiet words.
Spoken to one in fear
of being over heard
for their meanings tempt fate
in consequence.

Loud words.
Spoken for every ear
but never heard
looked at as a sweet threat,
tasty, but rots to the core.

Loud words.
Spoken from mouths in leer
ing scorn. Callous in its volume and
intention.

Quiet and loud words.
Same letters received
differently. Some remembered.
most ignored.
most never truly heard.

Zeus's backyard

Soft and white with strands of gray
that trace a jumbled path across
the sky. Blue sky roughly peeking
through gaps in the picket fence
of Zeus’s backyard.

My thoughts soar through that yard of cumulus
and cirrus clouds of imagination.
No direction.
Just flying.
Just drifting.

Sinking my toes through the hoary
thickness and dabble my fingers in
the pearly cotton and laugh as
my worries drift away on the currents
of the Anemoi.

A morning race

We woke with the sun and raced
west with the sun’s rising. The dusty
yellows lighting the path ahead as the
truck bends and weaves along the
old cracked highway. The bumps and beats
of the tires competing with the soft monotones
of morning talk radio. A subtle cacophony
to keep the driver awake and slightly alert on
the long road trip.

A temporal ceiling

The ceiling for the temporal,
a cobalt grey canvas painted
with lofty white shapes that
serve as the world’s roof.

The stars we reach for,
the otherworld destinations
we dream about, that pie you so
often hear about, all
at home in the limitless sky.

So far away in time and space,
but so near to our ears
and eyes. A liquid less sea holding
all our dreams and fears.

The horizon our ultimate destination.
the reds and purples of dusk our time
to go. A farewell show to our loved ones,
the ones to leave before us, the ones we
beat to the punch, and the ones just
embarking on the opposite end
of the world’s horizon.

Lost directions

I can never go back.
The map is lost
amidst the clutter of the day
and easily forgotten.

Piled under bills and
moved according to priorities
and tasks that can’t be avoided.
Little ideas of insignificance
weighed down by the burden of
tomorrow until it vanishes,
Compressed to nothing.
nothing but a memory.

Life

Life.

Short in its brevity,
once here, and then
once gone.

The elderly waves goodbyes
mirrored in the helloes of the
newborns.

Life.

Cyclical in its motions
of vicious monotony, but
refreshing in its beauty.

It moves as the sand
held so briefly in our hands.
No matter the strength of grip
they disappear ‘til all that
remains are the impressions
of memories once lived.

Knife's twist

It’s real now, the knife’s
Twist no longer metaphorical.
A long, sickening and dulling piercing jerk. A twelve
inch blade that’s pierced my heart
from side to side. The blood that
once rushed at the sight now coating
me in a second skin.

A stain that will never come out. Fade
with time it may, but come out, never.
An ever constant reminder of lose.

Always here, but never present. A ghost
of you that will haunt evicted heart til
the day it dies itself.

I haven't been there

Can you see in your
mind’s eye the places
you’ve never been to?

To color the landscape and
build the structures and
scenery.

To feel the blades of
grass on your feet as
you walk through your
minds picture of your
future destination.

To hear the calls of
birds that may or may
not live there in reality,
but fly freely in your
view of it.

Black

I can’t get out
as the black threatens to consume.
Beckoning to engage in a deathly bout.
It’s a foregone conclusion that I can’t be free
as my fears bind me stronger than shackles.

Imprisoned in an existence without action to
float through life like a falling rose petal.
Slow
and
Lethargic.
To hit the ground with no visible impact.
terrors taking away the initiative
to jump out
and live.