Whitened pine needles                                                                                

Crisp air steaming in our noses 

Smiling hellos and goodbyes 

Like we never slipped 

Down this steep angled hill. 

Frigid waves, fingers shaking 

Looking up to face the sky 

Only when we remember at times 

How we've forgotten the warmth of the sun 

We absentmindedly ask for forgiveness 

and hope it comes before we reach the end 

   

Far off a sailors waltz calls 

Drunken adventures and worlds to see 

Oceans to master, maps to make, 

Pretty impulse romances to try... 

Yet this beckoning call 

Tells a heavy tale, 

Sadly howling in the nighttime storms... 

   

Still it pulls us away from the bitter reality 

That is home. 

Here 

This northwest wind 

closes proclaiming mouths 

so it hurts to smile 

and hushes precious shouts of joy 

It calls us names like Insanity, Naive 

and we forget how to remain in truth 

Returning from voyages to unknown, 

Sadness feeling like blanket chills 

Rocking shipwrecked wood--

and we say that is freedom? 

No escape changes anything, ever. 

It's living here that sometimes feels like slow monotonous breathing, 

and that will be all 

Until we find our love again, 

Which we won't 

We never do, 

We won't remember. 

   

But 

Lucky truths define themselves 

Before our narrowed eyes 

And 

Warmth finds us. 

We cannot search enough 

Try enough 

Read learn grow speak hear enough 

Skeptics 

We're running numb 

So we can't feel enough to stop 

And the warmth finds us. 

That's how it comes, 

The sunlight peeks through these grey towers and white, 

and dawn is on my face 

Like I never knew 

and I remember 

The newness that means fire 

melting all the harsh 

and igniting all the good, 

Sparks on my tongue 

so powerfully sweet. 

   

We laugh heartily 

warmth returns to our lungs 

And ours is the steam that we see 

The vapor echoes of praising hearts, 

Glory in misfortune turned 

To a story of hide and seek 

    

freedom in fires lit by 

Helping hands 

Magical hands 

Miracle workers in our days 

Before we even knew to 

Think of remembering to look up.   

12-22-11

World of Hearing                                                             

There's something about the piano. 

Simple lyric-less expression into keys

Notes like post-its everywhere I turn my face

surrounding me

reminding me of a simple world,

Simplicity returning to a tired mind

Falling into lullabies...

There's something about the piano. 

Sometimes

Eerie weary tired sounds

Reverberating once and twice and again

Beckon--

Singing invitations

to slip inside a world 

where echoes softly play

and cover wounded hearts

A place where tears are old clothes

Worn and worn into wasted rags

But nobody cares because

     The norm is emotional. 

The regular passerby wave

 in somber contemplation

 lost in secret melodies,

  Dreams running free,

  Effortless imaginations. 

Carried here in my willing heart

I am moved

This resting place holds me

Gentle like a hammock swaying,

 back and forth,

Swaying this body 

 moving me,

 slowing my breath into trance-existence 

and singing the eyelids shut,

   Yes, there's 

    something about the piano. 

Something about the swift motion on ivory

sweeping melodies into my consciousness

Like I never had a choice

Those fingers, graceful and swift,

 somehow so ignorant

Perhaps intentionally oblivious to

 open hearts, real words, and Lyric.

The secret whispers of

Thoughtful silence in a mind 

  that weeps another tragedy,

Are heavy ringing for the world,

Yet shut in a closed room.

After

Dancing softer sounds

slow and come to an end

Honey tasting rhythms,

Haunting thousands of my years,

Bow and retire

  I emerge.

Sweet bliss is stolen 

And reality reminds me,

 Consequence

hits me like a frontal car collision.

Fluidity turns blunt like truth 

to innocent ignorance

and the careless swimming of my thoughts

ceases to yield a pleasant wonder.

In honest sadness I go

 And when I do

I want to take him with me

Where haunting never dares

To weigh down the hopeful heart

And eternity

Sweeps hopeful dreamers off their feet

And into so much more than sleep,

Sweet moments of new life

Reality sweeter, warmer, better than a hot mug

Bringing comfort 

On the wings of notes

 sung in creativity with a purpose

Knowing that no matter the task,

completed here now whenever,

Doing doing doing becomes 

rest in written freedom,

giving reasons to run and

A sweet newness awaits.

it will beget wisdom 

in the refining of learning

 because theorizing is dead 

  locked away with the keys 

   played forever and ever

And 

in the 

arms of peace and

melodic enlightenment

we listen hear and know

it is finished.

Ruby                                                                                   

The mundane, separating sheets of paper,
tasks given and completed.
A friendly conversation,
easy, formulaic, solvable.


This testing room,
blank, dull, like the mind
after a rampage of frustrated actions.


Forever there will be the knowledge of a better time.
Perfect memories, flawless through the lens of distance
and, well, sheer nostalgia.


She cuts.
She cuts, she cuts, she cuts, she cuts, she cuts.


I speak. Words?


If we speak truth into a bucket of lies
there will be war.
Just wait. A mind of lies hates its enemies
and swarms them to slaughter them in sheer numbers.
In the folds of self-comfort they will hide,
depreciating whatever comes into their trap,
and pounce on light like it's tangible.


There is a warrior who tells me to fight
he says things like
"I am with you."
And I wish the happy,
under years of darkness, would resist.
Not to squirm as if already taken,
but rise
rise to the place that it is,
fulfill its creational intention,
become a conquering entity
ingenious
love in screaming persistency
to the point of revolution--
he is telling me to fight.


And I will.
with loyalty
piercing indifference,
lashes deepening conversation,
and love
gifts in knowledge of companionship.


I will fight. with my counterculture weapon.
and while that 
horrible abundance of falsity 
lingers,
it is not bottomless...
like the best daddy he tells me I am free
to ask for anything
ponies and dolls
and strength in numbers
so I beg
I beg until I cannot breathe
and she moves.
I am reminded of the home
she will forever have in my heart.
Stirring whispers truth
in words
written long ago,
trust glides into the place
where anxiety was,
and the air to my lungs becomes hope.