In a hall, surrounded by hundreds of people just like myself,
dressed in silk, satin, and tuxedos, shiny shoes and heels with straps
rested on the black and beige floor. Some tapped anxiously, others slowly,
with the rhythm of hot air and friction. But most kept still, bodies erect,
attentive to the sound carried through the round ceiling, plastered in gold.
Strings shook gently against horsehair and rosin as the soloist worshiped
his art in a cathedral filled with penitent prayers. He had played for years,
befriended music at birth. A genius, Mozart for a cello, imbedded in a small
Connecticut town, only discovered by a man walking past his spot on the street.
A gentle shake of the hand reverberated in the mind like the waves that pushed
against our eardrums. Bach, Beethoven, Vivaldi, one and all touched the strings,
and sang from their cords.
Wednesday, April 24, 2013
Feeding Ghost Crabs
The day wore on as I walked over the sand.
The park lay clean, but the beach was dirty.
Together, mother and I sat on dusty ground,
beside a bag of seedless red grapes.
We ate some, fed the gulls some, and watched the sandpipers
scavenge for more. Then we peered at little holes,
tunnels to the center of earth, where night crabs made their home.
Mother told me to sit still as she bit a grape in half and threw
the other to the ground. I mourned the loss of half a fruit as sand
diluted the flavorful juice. Raising my head to dull the disappointment,
I stared at the water, gently treading the shore.
When I peered back the grape was gone.
The park lay clean, but the beach was dirty.
Together, mother and I sat on dusty ground,
beside a bag of seedless red grapes.
We ate some, fed the gulls some, and watched the sandpipers
scavenge for more. Then we peered at little holes,
tunnels to the center of earth, where night crabs made their home.
Mother told me to sit still as she bit a grape in half and threw
the other to the ground. I mourned the loss of half a fruit as sand
diluted the flavorful juice. Raising my head to dull the disappointment,
I stared at the water, gently treading the shore.
When I peered back the grape was gone.
Sand Dollar
Perhaps the artist carved you with fingers of water,
or maybe the salt slipped into your skin to wear your face away.
The clam inside your body must have been cold,
shivering from the holes in your bones.
You tattooed a flower on your forehead to prove that you were best.
Now the color fades from your eyes and you look at the ocean as a mother,
but it didn't make you. No one made you, except for me.
No one shattered your other half, save my hands alone.
Don't fall to pieces again after I spent so long gluing you back together.
You were made to look like stars.
or maybe the salt slipped into your skin to wear your face away.
The clam inside your body must have been cold,
shivering from the holes in your bones.
You tattooed a flower on your forehead to prove that you were best.
Now the color fades from your eyes and you look at the ocean as a mother,
but it didn't make you. No one made you, except for me.
No one shattered your other half, save my hands alone.
Don't fall to pieces again after I spent so long gluing you back together.
You were made to look like stars.
Ice Cream Hunt
Forked lemon ribbons wave behind blonde curls and a smile.
The vegetable man waves a carrot, left in the wake of yellow ribbons.
Black shoes with scuff streaks on the side skip towards the candy shop,
but can't go inside. All the jewels of sugar vanished along with the cash
register and plastic bags. The cement leads on, winding back to the square
where a fountain pours colored water down the side of a rock face,
turning brown to green and lemon.
A cart rolls in front of the child as she dodges traffic to reach the other side.
Ice cream, mounded on a cone that tastes like styrofoam.
Small hands reach up and pass on a silver coin before grasping at the nearest
skyscraper of sweets. Chocolate, raspberry, vanilla, sweet pea.
The vegetable man waves a carrot, left in the wake of yellow ribbons.
Black shoes with scuff streaks on the side skip towards the candy shop,
but can't go inside. All the jewels of sugar vanished along with the cash
register and plastic bags. The cement leads on, winding back to the square
where a fountain pours colored water down the side of a rock face,
turning brown to green and lemon.
A cart rolls in front of the child as she dodges traffic to reach the other side.
Ice cream, mounded on a cone that tastes like styrofoam.
Small hands reach up and pass on a silver coin before grasping at the nearest
skyscraper of sweets. Chocolate, raspberry, vanilla, sweet pea.
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
The Moving Men
A white head with white wings plastered to the side of a black van.
It was a fifteen passenger, those mammoths that try to pass themselves off
for civilian vehicles. A bible verse made into a pun on the side of the van,
viciously stripped of its holy rights, plastered a slogan of speed and efficiency.
The Better Way Movers came to turn the house upside down.
Anyone else would have thought they were robbing us in the name of divine justice.
In all rights, they probably did, we just don't know over the heaps of boxes
and scrap metal left over from father's computer experiments and my brothers old car,
whose heaping carcass still sprawls at the end of the driveway.
We would never know if they took one thing, or if there was a thing worth taking.
Either way, I thought the tall one was pretty good looking, if he were ten years younger.
He winked at me.
It was a fifteen passenger, those mammoths that try to pass themselves off
for civilian vehicles. A bible verse made into a pun on the side of the van,
viciously stripped of its holy rights, plastered a slogan of speed and efficiency.
The Better Way Movers came to turn the house upside down.
Anyone else would have thought they were robbing us in the name of divine justice.
In all rights, they probably did, we just don't know over the heaps of boxes
and scrap metal left over from father's computer experiments and my brothers old car,
whose heaping carcass still sprawls at the end of the driveway.
We would never know if they took one thing, or if there was a thing worth taking.
Either way, I thought the tall one was pretty good looking, if he were ten years younger.
He winked at me.
Warrior Reborn
Eyes as blue as thunder and lightning glared up at me,
tears on the verge of pouring out like rain.
The focus and the fear mixed with his fists
and threw their strongest force at my chest.
The hurt would never leave his mind,
the danger of falling into the dirt and failing
once more would cripple his legs that ran so fast.
A knife could plunge as surely as he wanted it to,
but a piece of metal, even a sharp one, can't remove loss.
All attacks failed, all weapons on the ground
or broken in half, he no longer resembled an angry child,
but a warrior ready to kill me with all the power
of his broken will. But the real man turned
and walked away with a fresh understanding
of powerlessness and hope.
tears on the verge of pouring out like rain.
The focus and the fear mixed with his fists
and threw their strongest force at my chest.
The hurt would never leave his mind,
the danger of falling into the dirt and failing
once more would cripple his legs that ran so fast.
A knife could plunge as surely as he wanted it to,
but a piece of metal, even a sharp one, can't remove loss.
All attacks failed, all weapons on the ground
or broken in half, he no longer resembled an angry child,
but a warrior ready to kill me with all the power
of his broken will. But the real man turned
and walked away with a fresh understanding
of powerlessness and hope.
A Unique Day
There will never be another.
There will never be another sky like the one I saw today as the sun died,
or another moon like the one I saw last Wednesday night as mother and I sat in the car outside the house and listened to the crickets chirp.
There will never be another day like the one I had today when I met a little boy in the hospital and his father, the FedEx man who delivers my packages everyday.
There will also never be another cookie like the one I ate next to the boy in the hospital as we played Connect Four and laughed at the nurses Pebble's style bun.
There will never be another mug of root beer as biting as the one I drank next to my brother as we watched the football game on the ice cream parlors 52 inch screen,
or another leather seat like the one in my brother's little Ford, stained with Mountain Dew and grease from the bowling ball lanes.
There will never be another person like me, on a day like today.
There will never be another sky like the one I saw today as the sun died,
or another moon like the one I saw last Wednesday night as mother and I sat in the car outside the house and listened to the crickets chirp.
There will never be another day like the one I had today when I met a little boy in the hospital and his father, the FedEx man who delivers my packages everyday.
There will also never be another cookie like the one I ate next to the boy in the hospital as we played Connect Four and laughed at the nurses Pebble's style bun.
There will never be another mug of root beer as biting as the one I drank next to my brother as we watched the football game on the ice cream parlors 52 inch screen,
or another leather seat like the one in my brother's little Ford, stained with Mountain Dew and grease from the bowling ball lanes.
There will never be another person like me, on a day like today.
His Captain
Stucco walls the color of blood mixed with dirt grow darker and darker. When the window above his head shut, only thin slivers of light broke through the defenses. The checkerboard floor lay beneath him with dirt, dust, and human hair wadded into balls around his entire body. The wooden door met with the pane and the knob turned, releasing the latch from it's spring-hold to rest inside the necessary hole. A patient hand pulled a warm quilt of black and brown cotton over his back, which he pulled even tighter over his head. Outside, the noise of angry, hurt voices drowned all other sounds. "What are we going to do?" they kept asking, but no one replied a sufficient answer. It didn't matter. No one could lead them now. The Captain's red scarf was a burning reminder, tied around the boy's hand. A reminder that glory days were all over.
Gems and Plastic
Tanzanite, chocolate diamonds, pearls.
Stones sitting grandly inside little felt boxes.
Underneath the glass counter, dark colors contrast
with the blinding white of display shelves in showroom lights.
Metal, as fake as silver, lines the boxes.
What a Taj Mahal!
Men and women dressed in suits behind hte counter
exhibit wares on fingers, toes, neck, and hair
like a fish in rainbow scales. Price tags
are never shown, but always discussed
when it comes down to the card. Platinum, gold, obsidian, sapphire.
Gems and plastic never sound so good together
as when one can buy the other along with all of the other things in life,
useless, needed, desired or otherwise.
Stones sitting grandly inside little felt boxes.
Underneath the glass counter, dark colors contrast
with the blinding white of display shelves in showroom lights.
Metal, as fake as silver, lines the boxes.
What a Taj Mahal!
Men and women dressed in suits behind hte counter
exhibit wares on fingers, toes, neck, and hair
like a fish in rainbow scales. Price tags
are never shown, but always discussed
when it comes down to the card. Platinum, gold, obsidian, sapphire.
Gems and plastic never sound so good together
as when one can buy the other along with all of the other things in life,
useless, needed, desired or otherwise.
A Graveyard
Flowers scattered around grey.
The momentos of ordinary days where people walked.
Some are real, with water in their petals
as they fall to the ground in the cold.
Some are fake, course cotton and glue
holding them together, feigning to cheat death.
Only a few last without getting dirty,
but none of them last eternally.
Standing in metal vases next to stones
marked with epitaphs, nothing grows.
Loving mother, honest man, precious son or daughter.
Irreplaceable woman, enchanting man.
So many roles. Now all that commemorates
them are pale flowers and stone.
The momentos of ordinary days where people walked.
Some are real, with water in their petals
as they fall to the ground in the cold.
Some are fake, course cotton and glue
holding them together, feigning to cheat death.
Only a few last without getting dirty,
but none of them last eternally.
Standing in metal vases next to stones
marked with epitaphs, nothing grows.
Loving mother, honest man, precious son or daughter.
Irreplaceable woman, enchanting man.
So many roles. Now all that commemorates
them are pale flowers and stone.
Beach Music
At night the moon raced past the windowsill
of the second floor bedroom in Beach Music, our house by the sea.
So unremitting and vain.
The lane trod down the shore, but only followed me.
You went another direction, a direction the stars follow,
always farther into themselves, but not you,
never into you.
Yet when we peered out the shattered pane filled with corpses of insects
who should have lived long and free, we didn’t see the end of the ocean,
like many do, where blue melts into green.
We saw only midnight and the shimmer of stars
on the body of the waves. We didn’t noticed the gulls lazily drifting
over our head, or the sandpipers scouring on the ground,
only the tiny world of the window as we peered out of our cage.
We understand so little, the world doesn’t have a chance to tell
our wandering minds how we should really see the clouds and the sun,
how the waves really roll, and what the water should feel
like as the waves beat us sore.
Where did we find such distance?
How do we lose happiness on the trip home?
What is happiness to the honey bee
with the taint of morning glories
still glued to his fur?
That night, the moon raced the world to see if it could make it home
before we did. Before we found a way to cancel it out again.
The world of windowsill bodies stands in Beach Music
on the second floor in the salmon room where together
we understood the world of mosquitoes that drink to nature’s health,
ladybugs who remain two sided and dream,
and spiders weaving stars into their seams.
Knowing
She sits in a chair, wires welded to bone.
Does she know?
Sirens ring in her ears.
Do they know?
Movies shout from the living room.
Why do they care?
What do they know
of her metal limbs, warning sounds outside the door?
What do they know beyond a mirror?
The chair is cold, like mountain air.
Does she know mountain air?
Sirens blare, and no one comes.
Do they know she is there?
A handsome actor shakes his head and smirks.
He knows, doesn’t he?
He knows they can’t find her.
He knows she belongs in a frigid chair.
The chair is a cage that chains her veins.
Does blood still flow?
The red sirens beat circles in her muscles.
How can sirens be strong?
A screen maiden cries that love is to the end,
but how does she know?
How does she know if it goes that far,
or if it is a car short on gas
rolling down a sailing barge?
For a girl in a chair, with steel encased toes,
does strength mean standing alone?
The alarm of death, like the banshee’s wailing call.
Can she hear the spirit once more?
Glass moves on, retelling history,
but never summarizes it all.
Can it summarize her all?
Encase or capture a desperate artery,
then keep it for later falls.
Does she know that iced chair or the last breath of mountain air?
Does anyone mourn, or walk away?
Does the chair sit empty, or gone?
Mama's Peppers
I witnessed brown in a root
that stood in my mother’s garden
burn the water to mud
then dust,
and pollute the flow of veins required for breath,
for living in a world of heat
and cold alike.
Fruit plunged into pits,
into worms and beetles,
too consumed with puddles to bite the sting of sweet,
to savor the green,
the sun-made root sprung in red and yellow,
filled with more seeds than a watermelon.
Wilted, abandoned not by midnight rock,
but by stiff hands too frail to pin them
on fading arms again.
Umbilical cords once cut
can never be resewn.
Babies sleep in dirt,
with no mother,
no mouth for crying.
Only a rough earth shell,
shriveled like cranberries
I am addicted to.
Green and red and yellow stripped
to their hue.
Wednesday, March 13, 2013
Vacations Spent in Cape San Blas, Port St. Joe
Rough shards wave the shore,
she pounds a fist on the ground
and thinks of how things were.
Run to the wash of salt water,
soaking tiny feet, too scared
to trample further.
The waves swallowed her whole.
The night white ran
against silver as the moon contests
against foam. Clams sucked
away in the current
gazed at her with fear.
Water drowns their sediment holes
every time without a tear.
With homes so distant,
easily destroyed,
how could anyone stay long?
She sought to plant them in the dunes
where sunsets dye the air pink
and dark never truly comes.
She wouldn’t be back,
life dies in its days of midnight fear.
As she wades the deserted sand-moore,
she spies none of the dreams
she spied before.
she pounds a fist on the ground
and thinks of how things were.
Run to the wash of salt water,
soaking tiny feet, too scared
to trample further.
The waves swallowed her whole.
The night white ran
against silver as the moon contests
against foam. Clams sucked
away in the current
gazed at her with fear.
Water drowns their sediment holes
every time without a tear.
With homes so distant,
easily destroyed,
how could anyone stay long?
She sought to plant them in the dunes
where sunsets dye the air pink
and dark never truly comes.
She wouldn’t be back,
life dies in its days of midnight fear.
As she wades the deserted sand-moore,
she spies none of the dreams
she spied before.
Draft 3: Writing in the Sky
Space is calligraphic
in the clouds that you draw
on the ground while writing
lines in the sky.
White puffs fill with empty
empty white.
Inside cosmic planes your pens dance
around hollow raindrops
waiting to take on your form,
demanding to take on that form
of clouds turning black with ink
from your veins,
you skin dark with glittering stars
and quills set in ink wells
to wait for your day and night,
for a cloud clear slate to prance past,
loose the empty space.
Drip, drip, drip, the page bleeds
your pitch.
It can't hold all the calligraphy
of silent days that ebb
until the page runs dry.
in the clouds that you draw
on the ground while writing
lines in the sky.
White puffs fill with empty
empty white.
Inside cosmic planes your pens dance
around hollow raindrops
waiting to take on your form,
demanding to take on that form
of clouds turning black with ink
from your veins,
you skin dark with glittering stars
and quills set in ink wells
to wait for your day and night,
for a cloud clear slate to prance past,
loose the empty space.
Drip, drip, drip, the page bleeds
your pitch.
It can't hold all the calligraphy
of silent days that ebb
until the page runs dry.
Draft 2: Waiting for Mom to Come Out of the Store
We lay out under the roof,
like some great camping trip.
She's been in there for hours,
or maybe only days.
Seems like forever,
but that is a trivial time phrase.
My brother took my menu
from the chinese restaurant
next to Kroger and folded
it into a paper airplane
that won't fly because the wing
is lopped off on the side.
My seat won't lean back like his does
so I stretch out on the 3 person sofa
lounging on retractable arm-rests.
I don't like looking at the red,
so I look at the sky.
On the radio, some half-drunk stripper
sings her record hit no doubt
still in her street walker garb.
She sings of peace and harmony,
love and nirvana.
When was the last time you saw
those elements in happy juncture
together, unless you were smoking pot
with the Buddhist monks in the picture
at the chinese restaurant.
Nothing makes sense when you smoke pot,
that's why you do it.
Just like me sitting in this big red van
in the Kroger parking lot with
paper menu airplanes flying
half-heartedly above my leaking head.
like some great camping trip.
She's been in there for hours,
or maybe only days.
Seems like forever,
but that is a trivial time phrase.
My brother took my menu
from the chinese restaurant
next to Kroger and folded
it into a paper airplane
that won't fly because the wing
is lopped off on the side.
My seat won't lean back like his does
so I stretch out on the 3 person sofa
lounging on retractable arm-rests.
I don't like looking at the red,
so I look at the sky.
On the radio, some half-drunk stripper
sings her record hit no doubt
still in her street walker garb.
She sings of peace and harmony,
love and nirvana.
When was the last time you saw
those elements in happy juncture
together, unless you were smoking pot
with the Buddhist monks in the picture
at the chinese restaurant.
Nothing makes sense when you smoke pot,
that's why you do it.
Just like me sitting in this big red van
in the Kroger parking lot with
paper menu airplanes flying
half-heartedly above my leaking head.
Draft 1: Nothing
All the children and slaves demand your speed
and praise this man, Grandpa Fatso, you god
who covers upstate New York. My fellow Americans
will get your busy blizzards conjured from some cauldron.
And the poor, poor parents: do they care about your heart,
which is worthless anyways? You spirit girls away in the dark
and pollute with money, lazy in your pain. You don't invent pain.
Sorry to dash your hopes against some holy-mantled mountain
but there is the truth o great great lover. Go ahead. Cry.
Your liver will bleed through your right eye.
After all the prospected trillions of years,
and greased black maniacal engine gears
singing the same old savage dung song
the world still chugs freakishly straight along.
and praise this man, Grandpa Fatso, you god
who covers upstate New York. My fellow Americans
will get your busy blizzards conjured from some cauldron.
And the poor, poor parents: do they care about your heart,
which is worthless anyways? You spirit girls away in the dark
and pollute with money, lazy in your pain. You don't invent pain.
Sorry to dash your hopes against some holy-mantled mountain
but there is the truth o great great lover. Go ahead. Cry.
Your liver will bleed through your right eye.
After all the prospected trillions of years,
and greased black maniacal engine gears
singing the same old savage dung song
the world still chugs freakishly straight along.
Tuesday, March 12, 2013
20 Junkyard Quotes
1)Burning through water
2)The list of things we know we don't know keeps growing.
3)She sounds like a chipmunk singing backwards in French
4)If cows are holy, then does that mean their milk is holy water?
5)When did humanity decide it was evolved enough to tell gravity it sucks?
6)If all humanity turns into zombies, what will we eat when the humans are all gone?
7)It sounded like you just threw up a thesaurus on me.
8)A group of church ladies discussing the difference between zombies and vampires is disturbing and exciting at the same time.
9)How do you not make hell sound scary?
10)You can't have perfect male characters. That's like making a Mr. Elsie Dinsmore.
11)Don't stop, I like making fun of stupid things.
12)If you use one more acronym you will certifiably be speaking another language.
13)Teens don't need English, they have lol.
14)The dark side can't have cookies, because there is no way Darth Vader can bake.
15)Don't ask me, that is how conspiracy starts.
16)I wanted to hack the FBI for fun, but then I realized I would be arrested for the rest of my life.
17)Dancing and nerds don't go well together.
18)I hate spiders, but they eat mosquitoes, so I guess they are okay.
19)Teach by example once, so you never have to do it again.
20)Being in charge is like having a "Kick me" sign on your back except instead of kicking you, people just kill you.
2)The list of things we know we don't know keeps growing.
3)She sounds like a chipmunk singing backwards in French
4)If cows are holy, then does that mean their milk is holy water?
5)When did humanity decide it was evolved enough to tell gravity it sucks?
6)If all humanity turns into zombies, what will we eat when the humans are all gone?
7)It sounded like you just threw up a thesaurus on me.
8)A group of church ladies discussing the difference between zombies and vampires is disturbing and exciting at the same time.
9)How do you not make hell sound scary?
10)You can't have perfect male characters. That's like making a Mr. Elsie Dinsmore.
11)Don't stop, I like making fun of stupid things.
12)If you use one more acronym you will certifiably be speaking another language.
13)Teens don't need English, they have lol.
14)The dark side can't have cookies, because there is no way Darth Vader can bake.
15)Don't ask me, that is how conspiracy starts.
16)I wanted to hack the FBI for fun, but then I realized I would be arrested for the rest of my life.
17)Dancing and nerds don't go well together.
18)I hate spiders, but they eat mosquitoes, so I guess they are okay.
19)Teach by example once, so you never have to do it again.
20)Being in charge is like having a "Kick me" sign on your back except instead of kicking you, people just kill you.
My Tin Plate
Tin plate's violet enamel veins in cracks,
and bits of straw spin in a puddle on its wall.
They spin and spin like a merry-go-round
at the fairgrounds.
Tin plate's beating sound
as rain crashes along its face
and into the ground.
The straw spins and spins around
like the tornado that tore the haunted house apart.
The fair is never whole now.
Tin plates ding in the fortune tellers hole-in-the-wall.
Read my palm or the fortune ball,
or perhaps my tin plate
lined with violet enamel
that turns colors in your magic hands.
Red for passion, black for pain,
blue for joy, and yellow
for rain rain rain,
that beats forever on my tin plate.
and bits of straw spin in a puddle on its wall.
They spin and spin like a merry-go-round
at the fairgrounds.
Tin plate's beating sound
as rain crashes along its face
and into the ground.
The straw spins and spins around
like the tornado that tore the haunted house apart.
The fair is never whole now.
Tin plates ding in the fortune tellers hole-in-the-wall.
Read my palm or the fortune ball,
or perhaps my tin plate
lined with violet enamel
that turns colors in your magic hands.
Red for passion, black for pain,
blue for joy, and yellow
for rain rain rain,
that beats forever on my tin plate.
Killed Slowly
Even the sigh of not knowing would have us go on,
the weary quietude that falls to hypnotize the great symphonic wheel.
They would have us press through the wild,
not understanding or knowing the cause.
Just support their dreams and let ourselves fall.
We are tired of running and looking behind,
led like puppets to circle, similar to a repeating song.
If you want us dead, you're doing it right.
Leading us on through soil and lies,
against the dust of earth that says
we should be laying frightened in our beds.
Don't tell me there is nothing wrong,
just tell me you want us gone.
the weary quietude that falls to hypnotize the great symphonic wheel.
They would have us press through the wild,
not understanding or knowing the cause.
Just support their dreams and let ourselves fall.
We are tired of running and looking behind,
led like puppets to circle, similar to a repeating song.
If you want us dead, you're doing it right.
Leading us on through soil and lies,
against the dust of earth that says
we should be laying frightened in our beds.
Don't tell me there is nothing wrong,
just tell me you want us gone.
Color Blind
Heart became eyelid of an eye on its way to where I am,
where I am, half drowned in the sea
of blue rimmed spectacles and red interstate rings.
My organs torqued with green and brown cringe as they are tossed around,
around to the worlds tether ball that beats left then right then right some more.
I think I see the other colors like black and grey in my head,
but inside the colors are red,
red like the moon on a night uncanny and strange,
but blue moons never come any day.
My heart beats, but it doesn't live. I beat, but I don't live either.
My eyes see, but I am color blind in my head.
where I am, half drowned in the sea
of blue rimmed spectacles and red interstate rings.
My organs torqued with green and brown cringe as they are tossed around,
around to the worlds tether ball that beats left then right then right some more.
I think I see the other colors like black and grey in my head,
but inside the colors are red,
red like the moon on a night uncanny and strange,
but blue moons never come any day.
My heart beats, but it doesn't live. I beat, but I don't live either.
My eyes see, but I am color blind in my head.
Dress-Up
Two little girls play dress up in my room.
They pick up my clothes and my shoes.
They hum gaily as they pull out pearls
from my jewel box and array their knotted hair
with diamond bands. Bracelets slip over their hands
and rings fall from their thumbs as they smear tuberose cream
on their little palms and faces.
Then they find the make-up
and begin to color their soft, sweet skin
the color of bruises and seductive innocence.
Lips turn red like Snow White and cheeks go pink
like the hues of autumn roads.
Then they prance out of the bathroom
in heels too big for their miniature feet,
and hats to large for tiny heads.
But still they think they are beautiful
and ready for their life ahead.
One day when those clothes fit better,
and the heels work right,
they will prance out of the house to their runway
instead of my hall of lights.
They pick up my clothes and my shoes.
They hum gaily as they pull out pearls
from my jewel box and array their knotted hair
with diamond bands. Bracelets slip over their hands
and rings fall from their thumbs as they smear tuberose cream
on their little palms and faces.
Then they find the make-up
and begin to color their soft, sweet skin
the color of bruises and seductive innocence.
Lips turn red like Snow White and cheeks go pink
like the hues of autumn roads.
Then they prance out of the bathroom
in heels too big for their miniature feet,
and hats to large for tiny heads.
But still they think they are beautiful
and ready for their life ahead.
One day when those clothes fit better,
and the heels work right,
they will prance out of the house to their runway
instead of my hall of lights.
Normal Tones
When I was young,
I crawled in her lap
and listened to her sing.
The sound of her voice
carried me to a distant sea,
where waves tossed gently
and my boat was her rocking
chair, and I heard the sound
of seagulls flying in the air.
I think I was dreaming,
because she was never there.
When I sailed this ocean,
she never saw me there,
among the clouds
and the birds
and the distant shore.
Her music still rang,
but her body never came
to carry me back home.
I think it was her way
of protecting me
from the noise of normal tones.
I crawled in her lap
and listened to her sing.
The sound of her voice
carried me to a distant sea,
where waves tossed gently
and my boat was her rocking
chair, and I heard the sound
of seagulls flying in the air.
I think I was dreaming,
because she was never there.
When I sailed this ocean,
she never saw me there,
among the clouds
and the birds
and the distant shore.
Her music still rang,
but her body never came
to carry me back home.
I think it was her way
of protecting me
from the noise of normal tones.
Six Children in a Bed
I came upon six children laying in a bed,
the little one on the end and the biggest at the head.
When I asked the eldest where his father was,
the little one said, "Roll over."
So the big one rolled down onto the floor
where he shattered into a million bones of men.
Then I asked the next one where his mother was,
the little one said, "Roll over."
So the next one rolled over and fell to the floor
where he met with another man and a bed.
Then I asked the third one why they were all in one bed,
the little one said, "Roll over."
So the third one rolled over and splashed on the floor
as a million golden pieces.
I asked the fourth one, why they were all so young,
and the little one said, "Roll over."
So the fourth one also rolled, and when he landed,
he turned into the sun.
Then I asked the fifth one and asked him
where the others had gone,
and the little one said, "Roll over."
So the fifth one rolled off and before I could catch him,
he fell to the ground dead.
I looked at the little one and saw in his eyes
a maddening red.
He looked at me happily and gnashed his teeth
then said, "Won't you ask me a question?"
I shook my head and said, "I fear if I do, then you too,
would roll off the bed."
He laughed with wicked glee and said, "Yes, I would.
But don't you think that is the need?" I
shook my head again and said,
"No one should ever need to die."
He yelled at me wildly, "But we do, we do, we all have need to die."
"Then go find yourself some other executioner,
I have no more stomach for your schemes."
He rammed his head against the bed post until it bled,
"But you are the only one. After all, you created me."
the little one on the end and the biggest at the head.
When I asked the eldest where his father was,
the little one said, "Roll over."
So the big one rolled down onto the floor
where he shattered into a million bones of men.
Then I asked the next one where his mother was,
the little one said, "Roll over."
So the next one rolled over and fell to the floor
where he met with another man and a bed.
Then I asked the third one why they were all in one bed,
the little one said, "Roll over."
So the third one rolled over and splashed on the floor
as a million golden pieces.
I asked the fourth one, why they were all so young,
and the little one said, "Roll over."
So the fourth one also rolled, and when he landed,
he turned into the sun.
Then I asked the fifth one and asked him
where the others had gone,
and the little one said, "Roll over."
So the fifth one rolled off and before I could catch him,
he fell to the ground dead.
I looked at the little one and saw in his eyes
a maddening red.
He looked at me happily and gnashed his teeth
then said, "Won't you ask me a question?"
I shook my head and said, "I fear if I do, then you too,
would roll off the bed."
He laughed with wicked glee and said, "Yes, I would.
But don't you think that is the need?" I
shook my head again and said,
"No one should ever need to die."
He yelled at me wildly, "But we do, we do, we all have need to die."
"Then go find yourself some other executioner,
I have no more stomach for your schemes."
He rammed his head against the bed post until it bled,
"But you are the only one. After all, you created me."
The Meaning of Life
I peered down a man's throat
and saw the world before me.
He lungs held Africa,
and his stomach was Asia,
China the largest piece of fat.
His heart was America
and Europe was his wind pipe.
Australia sat on his Pancrease
and South America on his liver.
But the most startling sight was himself,
sitting on top of his kidney.
I asked him how he got down there,
and he answered me,
"I was looking
for meaning in life
inside of me."
Did he find it, I asked.
"What do you think?"
and saw the world before me.
He lungs held Africa,
and his stomach was Asia,
China the largest piece of fat.
His heart was America
and Europe was his wind pipe.
Australia sat on his Pancrease
and South America on his liver.
But the most startling sight was himself,
sitting on top of his kidney.
I asked him how he got down there,
and he answered me,
"I was looking
for meaning in life
inside of me."
Did he find it, I asked.
"What do you think?"
Ravens
Ravens line up in a row,
standing on the clothes and bodies of the dying.
They aren't hungry, and they aren't scavengers.
They simply want a life.
They hope to steal
what remains of the men here
to take as their own
to salvage their hearts.
These men can't use them anyway.
In acts of mercy,
the ravens steal broken pieces
to call in the eternal,
whatever that means for the buried birds.
They take what remains
and hope for more strife.
standing on the clothes and bodies of the dying.
They aren't hungry, and they aren't scavengers.
They simply want a life.
They hope to steal
what remains of the men here
to take as their own
to salvage their hearts.
These men can't use them anyway.
In acts of mercy,
the ravens steal broken pieces
to call in the eternal,
whatever that means for the buried birds.
They take what remains
and hope for more strife.
Birds and Fish
I watched my mother
write a letter to the man
she called her lover.
I didn't know much,
I never saw him.
She said he worked hard,
that he was very busy.
But the wind comes and goes,
it never changes and always w
hips your hair the same way.
Change won't come from a piece of paper.
The wind won't carry it that far anyways.
No matter how many lovestruck words
you pour out to you lover,
I doubt he cares.
Like a rose being asked by a dandelion
to stoop to it's own level and become one new flower.
You could be great together you try to say,
but does a dandelion match a rose?
Not even if its petals are littered on the ground
do they remotely ring the same.
Birds and fish, so just drop it already.
write a letter to the man
she called her lover.
I didn't know much,
I never saw him.
She said he worked hard,
that he was very busy.
But the wind comes and goes,
it never changes and always w
hips your hair the same way.
Change won't come from a piece of paper.
The wind won't carry it that far anyways.
No matter how many lovestruck words
you pour out to you lover,
I doubt he cares.
Like a rose being asked by a dandelion
to stoop to it's own level and become one new flower.
You could be great together you try to say,
but does a dandelion match a rose?
Not even if its petals are littered on the ground
do they remotely ring the same.
Birds and fish, so just drop it already.
Casino Cards
The game was spades,
I saw it coming every time,
sitting at the counter,
between players 1 and 4,
the perfect angle to see both hands,
and the mirror behind player 2.
One of them was cheating,
using an identical deck.
He had it down to a science,
switching the cards with the flick of his hand.
The Ace of Spades was his continual land.
It was only a matter of time
until he got caught by one of the players.
You have to count the cards carefully,
or else you will forget what was played.
I crossed my legs and leaned back, waiting
against the bar, barely knocking my brandy glass to the side,
for someone to notice the flip on the dime.
The pile on number 2's side of the table dwindled
as they upped the ante each hand.
He was too drunk to notice the reoccurring cards,
and I am pretty sure player 3 was paying the blonde
on 4's arm to keep him looking more at her chest
than his deck of cards. The poor fools were done for,
and the next group of drunks were up
for a similar beating.
The glass of beer and wine
in front of 1 and 3 were untouched.
Proof of the scam.
I shake my head
and walk away,
thanking the bar tender
for the lovely game.
I saw it coming every time,
sitting at the counter,
between players 1 and 4,
the perfect angle to see both hands,
and the mirror behind player 2.
One of them was cheating,
using an identical deck.
He had it down to a science,
switching the cards with the flick of his hand.
The Ace of Spades was his continual land.
It was only a matter of time
until he got caught by one of the players.
You have to count the cards carefully,
or else you will forget what was played.
I crossed my legs and leaned back, waiting
against the bar, barely knocking my brandy glass to the side,
for someone to notice the flip on the dime.
The pile on number 2's side of the table dwindled
as they upped the ante each hand.
He was too drunk to notice the reoccurring cards,
and I am pretty sure player 3 was paying the blonde
on 4's arm to keep him looking more at her chest
than his deck of cards. The poor fools were done for,
and the next group of drunks were up
for a similar beating.
The glass of beer and wine
in front of 1 and 3 were untouched.
Proof of the scam.
I shake my head
and walk away,
thanking the bar tender
for the lovely game.
Justice on Bail
Where is mom, kid? they asked me.
I don't know, and that is the truth.
She ran out on me years ago,
so I killed her. Really, I don't know.
Is she in heaven or hell?
No clue, seeing as how I'm not the judge, in any case.
Why did you steal the car, kid? the one on the left inquired.
Don't you get it, skinny little excuse for a doughnut eating cop?
I did it for the rush.
I could care less about the money
I'll get from it the second I con out of here.
I like the feeling of leather seats,
a V8 or better purring beneath my feet,
and the clutch of a steering wheel firmly in my grasp.
In that kind of relationship,
I drive where I want to,
do what I want to,
and the transmission happily complies.
Did I know I would get in trouble? the other on the right says surprised.
No, fat moron with a desire to look like Chuck Norris,
I really thought it would be fine.
Actually that wasn't sarcasm.
I've done it plenty of times before,
but you'll never know because I'll never tell. I
like that rule, innocent until proven guilty.
It has saved me many times before.
Stop asking me questions I will never answer truthfully,
they are wasted words,
and everyone knows it is a crime to waste words.
Just clap me in the cuffs and let me wait
with the other miscreants and street walkers
for my friend to come get me.
He will tell you I'm a troubled girl,
escaped from a nearby asylum,
which isn't far from the truth,
and then we will go cruising down the highway
in the stolen car, my freedom paid for with the money
I got from selling it to him. Justice is sweet.
I don't know, and that is the truth.
She ran out on me years ago,
so I killed her. Really, I don't know.
Is she in heaven or hell?
No clue, seeing as how I'm not the judge, in any case.
Why did you steal the car, kid? the one on the left inquired.
Don't you get it, skinny little excuse for a doughnut eating cop?
I did it for the rush.
I could care less about the money
I'll get from it the second I con out of here.
I like the feeling of leather seats,
a V8 or better purring beneath my feet,
and the clutch of a steering wheel firmly in my grasp.
In that kind of relationship,
I drive where I want to,
do what I want to,
and the transmission happily complies.
Did I know I would get in trouble? the other on the right says surprised.
No, fat moron with a desire to look like Chuck Norris,
I really thought it would be fine.
Actually that wasn't sarcasm.
I've done it plenty of times before,
but you'll never know because I'll never tell. I
like that rule, innocent until proven guilty.
It has saved me many times before.
Stop asking me questions I will never answer truthfully,
they are wasted words,
and everyone knows it is a crime to waste words.
Just clap me in the cuffs and let me wait
with the other miscreants and street walkers
for my friend to come get me.
He will tell you I'm a troubled girl,
escaped from a nearby asylum,
which isn't far from the truth,
and then we will go cruising down the highway
in the stolen car, my freedom paid for with the money
I got from selling it to him. Justice is sweet.
It's Coming to Get Me
I walked under the branches of my favorite tree,
an oak with spacious coverings and leaves that rose
from every possible angle. I used to sit there
when I was a little kid and scribble in my notebook
some picture of a squirrel running from Mr. Squiggles,
Amy's cat. She always thought the tabby was somehow disfigured
because of his striped fur coat.
But, now, as I stand under the branches,
I don't see Mr. Squiggles, or Amy,
just the squirrel, already old and tired of searching
for nuts under the trees. He doesn't run anymore,
just chatters with his fellow fuzzy-tailed rodents
and yells at them for making such an old geezer come out and work.
He complains to them that when he was a young squirrel,
the old squirrels never did anything and he always thought
they were the laziest beings on creation.
But they just laugh at him and agree that they were,
so the situation had to be remedied.
I might have agreed with them once, but in the old squirrel,
tired from outrunning Squiggles so much,
I realize it's coming for me too.
an oak with spacious coverings and leaves that rose
from every possible angle. I used to sit there
when I was a little kid and scribble in my notebook
some picture of a squirrel running from Mr. Squiggles,
Amy's cat. She always thought the tabby was somehow disfigured
because of his striped fur coat.
But, now, as I stand under the branches,
I don't see Mr. Squiggles, or Amy,
just the squirrel, already old and tired of searching
for nuts under the trees. He doesn't run anymore,
just chatters with his fellow fuzzy-tailed rodents
and yells at them for making such an old geezer come out and work.
He complains to them that when he was a young squirrel,
the old squirrels never did anything and he always thought
they were the laziest beings on creation.
But they just laugh at him and agree that they were,
so the situation had to be remedied.
I might have agreed with them once, but in the old squirrel,
tired from outrunning Squiggles so much,
I realize it's coming for me too.
More "Evolved" Race
I've often thought that my cat was trying to kill me.
After all, they never do anything for you,
but they always demand so much in return.
Sure they rub against your leg,
but that is only because they are mad.
They use the litter box five times a day,
not because they have to, but because they want
to watch you to clean it for them and
enjoy the look of your face as you scrunch
your nose and curse life and everything that is sane.
They are evil genius you see, but they still can't speak.
But, no one said they have to.
For con artists, all you require is a cute face and a purr
as sweet as crickets humming in the evening around a pond.
Immediately a metal heart melts into impure lava
with flecks of mortality kicking in.
Cats are immortal, I am convinced,
and they want nothing more than to amuse themselves
with the petty lives of humans who inherently believe
they are smarter than all the rest of creation.
After all, they never do anything for you,
but they always demand so much in return.
Sure they rub against your leg,
but that is only because they are mad.
They use the litter box five times a day,
not because they have to, but because they want
to watch you to clean it for them and
enjoy the look of your face as you scrunch
your nose and curse life and everything that is sane.
They are evil genius you see, but they still can't speak.
But, no one said they have to.
For con artists, all you require is a cute face and a purr
as sweet as crickets humming in the evening around a pond.
Immediately a metal heart melts into impure lava
with flecks of mortality kicking in.
Cats are immortal, I am convinced,
and they want nothing more than to amuse themselves
with the petty lives of humans who inherently believe
they are smarter than all the rest of creation.
Progress
Silver lining mounts jade hills where iron boulders and crumbling face stand alone.
Here at the foot of the sea, next to the throne of Poseidon, I bow my head
to stare at the angry white foam that rises and falls after hurling itself
against impenetrable walls. The Greek warriors fought the impervious and prevailed,
but in real war, where things are not always in the hands of men, white warriors
who pounded since the world began still have not won their unending war.
The sky is at peace, the hills will always stay,
and steel stone will never break until thrown.
But the waves will always fight and the wall face will always stand in tone,
never shifted, never dying, never cracking even once.
Only crumbles fall from the rocks in small measure every age or so,
but progress is often just this slow.
Here at the foot of the sea, next to the throne of Poseidon, I bow my head
to stare at the angry white foam that rises and falls after hurling itself
against impenetrable walls. The Greek warriors fought the impervious and prevailed,
but in real war, where things are not always in the hands of men, white warriors
who pounded since the world began still have not won their unending war.
The sky is at peace, the hills will always stay,
and steel stone will never break until thrown.
But the waves will always fight and the wall face will always stand in tone,
never shifted, never dying, never cracking even once.
Only crumbles fall from the rocks in small measure every age or so,
but progress is often just this slow.
Firefly Flowers
Flower petals fall from my embers
into the midnight lake of heaven,
where the cruel stars choke
their light 'til only ashes remain.
Flower petals that turn to feathers,
floating in the winter breeze,
carried along not on wings,
but violet streams of butterfly bodies,
strung together in an endless sea.
In the seasons of spring and time
the hours trickle by in the number of drops
let out from a sieve as mindless men
search for gold in the hills.
But my flower petals rise
from my fire's tongue and
lap at the lake above.
into the midnight lake of heaven,
where the cruel stars choke
their light 'til only ashes remain.
Flower petals that turn to feathers,
floating in the winter breeze,
carried along not on wings,
but violet streams of butterfly bodies,
strung together in an endless sea.
In the seasons of spring and time
the hours trickle by in the number of drops
let out from a sieve as mindless men
search for gold in the hills.
But my flower petals rise
from my fire's tongue and
lap at the lake above.
'Til Death Do Us Part
Would it kill you, just once,
would it take all of your power
to put your dishes in the dishwasher,
not the sink?
Obviously the machine is ready to receive them,
to why not spare me the ten thousand stoops
to place your endless stream of dirty dishes,
used once for a sip of water that you didn't even drink
all the way, in the slave machine.
And would it endanger your life or strain your manly strength
just beyond the point of aid to take your shoes off at the door?
They are covered in mud that you tramp across my freshly mopped floor.
I even used the Pinesol to erase the smell of yesterday's lavatory explosion.
Now look at the tracks you left behind,
dirty boot prints that smell of grease and gasoline.
How about next time you scrub the floor
and I trample on it with my army of rhinos to completely destroy
your hopes and dreams of a job completely done?
And for heaven's sake, please,
even if it takes your last ounce of willpower and pride,
stop throwing your dirty laundry in my face,
on my freshly cleared washroom floor.
You only wore those pants for five minutes
to go get some cigarettes from the gas station at 34,
so why are you telling me they are dirty?
Oh, I forgot, your manly grime.
You just want me to wash them so you can defile them one more time.
That's beer I smell on your shirt no doubt,
but I won't say a word about it,
seeing as how you wouldn't care.
Perhaps one of these days,
I will purposely break my own back
so that you have to hire a maid and all your money
would be sucked up into the endless dishes,
dirty floors, and clothes that she would have to wash.
Just because I am your wife doesn't mean I'm free slave-labor.
I said I would love and cherish you, care for you and submit to you
until death do us part, but this wasn't part of the job description.
Perhaps it is time death did us part.
would it take all of your power
to put your dishes in the dishwasher,
not the sink?
Obviously the machine is ready to receive them,
to why not spare me the ten thousand stoops
to place your endless stream of dirty dishes,
used once for a sip of water that you didn't even drink
all the way, in the slave machine.
And would it endanger your life or strain your manly strength
just beyond the point of aid to take your shoes off at the door?
They are covered in mud that you tramp across my freshly mopped floor.
I even used the Pinesol to erase the smell of yesterday's lavatory explosion.
Now look at the tracks you left behind,
dirty boot prints that smell of grease and gasoline.
How about next time you scrub the floor
and I trample on it with my army of rhinos to completely destroy
your hopes and dreams of a job completely done?
And for heaven's sake, please,
even if it takes your last ounce of willpower and pride,
stop throwing your dirty laundry in my face,
on my freshly cleared washroom floor.
You only wore those pants for five minutes
to go get some cigarettes from the gas station at 34,
so why are you telling me they are dirty?
Oh, I forgot, your manly grime.
You just want me to wash them so you can defile them one more time.
That's beer I smell on your shirt no doubt,
but I won't say a word about it,
seeing as how you wouldn't care.
Perhaps one of these days,
I will purposely break my own back
so that you have to hire a maid and all your money
would be sucked up into the endless dishes,
dirty floors, and clothes that she would have to wash.
Just because I am your wife doesn't mean I'm free slave-labor.
I said I would love and cherish you, care for you and submit to you
until death do us part, but this wasn't part of the job description.
Perhaps it is time death did us part.
Summer Goes By
Hot summer days pass so fast,
when you are making fun with tires and grass.
Play a blade of grass like a flute in the meadow,
and watch the bugs come crawling in lines to hear you.
They applaud for your spectacle and ask for an encore.
Then make a tire roll along the ground though it has no car to push it.
You become the car and the engine and the transmission that push it.
So run as fast as you can or it will run away from you
and fall down again. Dream you are racing along a dirt road
with friendly rivals to win a golden trophy at the end of the finish line.
Then summer days go by too fast.
when you are making fun with tires and grass.
Play a blade of grass like a flute in the meadow,
and watch the bugs come crawling in lines to hear you.
They applaud for your spectacle and ask for an encore.
Then make a tire roll along the ground though it has no car to push it.
You become the car and the engine and the transmission that push it.
So run as fast as you can or it will run away from you
and fall down again. Dream you are racing along a dirt road
with friendly rivals to win a golden trophy at the end of the finish line.
Then summer days go by too fast.
Geppetto's Toyshop
A hunched old man whittles at wood with a dull knife
that is obviously too small for his large, work-worn hands.
The block of wood is smooth, well-finished, but unplanned.
Behind the counter, the shavings fall,
with bits of power and resolve in every curling ball.
Greying wood, once black and ripe,
now rots in the sun outside,
and the lack of life inside.
Chocolates five years old sit in boxes on the counter,
not on display, but still for sale.
Mice squeak in the back corner of the room where little plush dolls,
sewn with a tight stitch and stuffed with feathers
and dirt stare back at the old man with black button eyes and gruesome smiles,
forever fixed in that one position.
He doesn't care though.
His project is almost complete, and it is amazing to see,
that even though the knife was not fit, the block was so big,
and his hands to frail, and little soldier boy stands,
painted and finished grandly on the counter,
looking to the old man as Pinocchio to his father,
and the old man stares back as Geppetto without a fairy
to bring him back to life.
that is obviously too small for his large, work-worn hands.
The block of wood is smooth, well-finished, but unplanned.
Behind the counter, the shavings fall,
with bits of power and resolve in every curling ball.
Greying wood, once black and ripe,
now rots in the sun outside,
and the lack of life inside.
Chocolates five years old sit in boxes on the counter,
not on display, but still for sale.
Mice squeak in the back corner of the room where little plush dolls,
sewn with a tight stitch and stuffed with feathers
and dirt stare back at the old man with black button eyes and gruesome smiles,
forever fixed in that one position.
He doesn't care though.
His project is almost complete, and it is amazing to see,
that even though the knife was not fit, the block was so big,
and his hands to frail, and little soldier boy stands,
painted and finished grandly on the counter,
looking to the old man as Pinocchio to his father,
and the old man stares back as Geppetto without a fairy
to bring him back to life.
Imagination
Many frantic cruelties occur to the flesh of the imagination
And the imagination does have flesh to destroy
And the flesh has imagination to sever.It can burn at the steak like a withc of old,
or feel the sting of the lash like the slaves
who poured their life into the great buildings
of great men, too small to work miracles on their own.
The imagination isn't limited by pain, but is affected by it.
It isn't destroyed because of heat or branding,
but it is forever implanted with the reminder of a crested soul
that sought to choke it out for constant pleasure
and torture all that is good and whole.
Colors and Hues
In a field of wildflowers of every
color, shape, size,
it is hard to notice the beauty of even one.
When grouped together in a mass of color,
the mosaic blots out the individual hue.
The daisy might be white, or red, or blue,
but I will never notice until I stop and look.
When laying in a field of wildflowers,
it is very easy to see that one little raindrop,
still clinging for life to the leaf.
One droplet of water that strayed
too far to the left or right in its gravity drop,
and lingers on the petal of a pink Gerbera Daisy
as it gently bows under the weight
of a thousand more.
In a field of wildflowers,
one must take time to notice
the little things or else
they just become colors and hues.
color, shape, size,
it is hard to notice the beauty of even one.
When grouped together in a mass of color,
the mosaic blots out the individual hue.
The daisy might be white, or red, or blue,
but I will never notice until I stop and look.
When laying in a field of wildflowers,
it is very easy to see that one little raindrop,
still clinging for life to the leaf.
One droplet of water that strayed
too far to the left or right in its gravity drop,
and lingers on the petal of a pink Gerbera Daisy
as it gently bows under the weight
of a thousand more.
In a field of wildflowers,
one must take time to notice
the little things or else
they just become colors and hues.
From the Highest Peak
From my peak, I look down into the valley below,
where at the foot of the mountain leans a lake,
blowing as the wind whips its face across the glass waters.
I live on a mountain, but my mind is often in the valley,
where sheep come to drink from the lake that fills
with rain water and run off from the mud of my mountains roots.
I think the clouds roll faster over if I stare at the valley below,
where I see the shapes of shadow animals racing the green turf.
The race is exciting and moves my day along.
Days on the mountain move slowly by, not because they are boring,
but because I am so close to the sky. You don't notice the change
in astronomy from the mountain like you do from the ground.
Sometimes being too close is a curse that man alone must know.
On the valley floor, they wish to join me on my mountain
so they could see the land below, but on this mountain,
sometimes I wish I were below,
so I could see the sky above with more clarity and love.
But here I will stay and here I will cry as time holds me green
and dying though I sing in my chains like the sea.
where at the foot of the mountain leans a lake,
blowing as the wind whips its face across the glass waters.
I live on a mountain, but my mind is often in the valley,
where sheep come to drink from the lake that fills
with rain water and run off from the mud of my mountains roots.
I think the clouds roll faster over if I stare at the valley below,
where I see the shapes of shadow animals racing the green turf.
The race is exciting and moves my day along.
Days on the mountain move slowly by, not because they are boring,
but because I am so close to the sky. You don't notice the change
in astronomy from the mountain like you do from the ground.
Sometimes being too close is a curse that man alone must know.
On the valley floor, they wish to join me on my mountain
so they could see the land below, but on this mountain,
sometimes I wish I were below,
so I could see the sky above with more clarity and love.
But here I will stay and here I will cry as time holds me green
and dying though I sing in my chains like the sea.
Man's Best Friend
A dog barks from somewhere down the trail.
The trees lining my way look down and judge the mut
for disturbing their peace. He doesn't really seem to care that much
It is disturbing sometimes, how oblivious dogs are.
They hunt and climb, fetch and wag, all for the sake of man.
Why would they want such a best friend?
Haven't they discovered by now that all we do is call them stupid animals
when they don't do what we want them to.
We aren't their best friend, but they aren't ours.
If they were, they would know when to cut us loose
so that we don't drag them down with us
and force them to become
an exiled child in the crackling dusk of
the underworld, the stars blighted.
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