Picking Flowers

Picking Flowers

1. 

A violet rose may rise from rubble,

leathery petals poking gingerly upwards with a slight swoop,

ripe stem, stingy about rattling wind, 

barely peeking above the taller grains,

stealing all the sun will give,

just starting to spread into its true form.

2.

I've collected daffodils, jasmine, sunflowers, and all.

Tucked into my jeans, leaning elegantly waving 

to those weary wanderers passing by.  I can't decide

which smells the best, keep asking each particular nose

to choose the fragrant champion so I can finally rest.  No

way to distinguish from them and along the mountain sides

I still attract fancier foliage that tug at my eyes and flair 

my nostrils.  Is scent a curse, a bane?  

I can't decide.

3.

There once was a ghost lily that fell in love

but it couldn't be seen.

How many times he passed by her without perceiving

her fluttering petite palms calling.

If only I could sing, she thought, then he'd

surely saunter over to my mellifluous sound.

In her dreams, he whispers about a smile that

seizes all motion, that resembles the sun.

I know love only through sight, she nods,

and in his sight I see.

Never failing to dance with his exact steps,

the ghost lily lounges in his comforting shadow,

waiting for the moment he'll finally turn around.

I am the Ship

I'm the vessel that'll sniff out the wharf's of old,
they call me bold for bounding seas,
they whispers rumors of my unstable ease,
what's a life without vanishing into the falling pink fold,

Ululating tides spray brisk bounties of water on board,
squabs with new wings spread gloriously painting the blue canvas above,
a mast torn by zephyrs harshly bashing me forward,
gripping the banister awaiting the fading light to recede toward the underworld,

I'm skipping across these emollient waters staring at a tenebrous space
spreading like green wildfire dancing along tangentially, a lace across its face
fleering at my peripatetic soul tattooed along my heart with two soft sails,
I can't fail sidling through the fugue until I've docked on an abundant land,
not counting sheep instead counting stars and collecting them and creating tales
of those lost times between alleys where I heard those vivacious jazz bands.

I am the ship that seeks a shimmer solace,
innately bound to move toward places south of the sun.

Neverfull

There are still things out there I haven’t seen—

a mere tadpole blindly clinging to the base of the pond.

I reach for every star in the inkwell but none are close enough—

even on toes tickling the edge you’ll never reach that boundless ceiling.

I heard them call that warm violet glow love but it appears rarely and never stays—

you’ve only had a slightly quenching drop but there's still endless waves to wander.

Pull

1.

You can feel that pulse.

        Bump.  Bump.

That throb ticking like your old grandfather clock.

        Tick.  Tock.

You've got to settle into the blank space and conjure
everything that makes you more.

2.

Oh the white noise buzzing in my ears
we all fear something,
running my hands over my eyes so the walls stop moving
we all strive for everything,
constantly repeating old phrases but never changing the tide
we all fall.

3.

You're walking on the wrong step,
waking up everyday forgetting what you just remembered,
it isn't what others say,
you've got to stop lip-singing to others,
work,
you've trundled this long don't slow down,
work,
you're chipping closer to a final piece,
so work.

The Walking Stick

It stuck out of the ground like a cross,
(maybe that's where he's buried?)
up to my head, barely moved with the coarse wind,
all the trees were naked, brittle, breakable with my palms,
gripping the stick it pricked me and I bled,
yanking, pulling, moving the mound of earth,
sweat dripped while the winter gales rumbled,
lifting it inch by inch as it clung to the soil with angst, purpose,
I cringed from the pain, fled to the empty blue mattress above,
it didn't want to leave, afraid of the outside,
wishing to be forever dug into this grave,
(eventually we're all moved)
thrown into a patch of dead leaves with the stick in my hand,
chest rising and falling like a tired tide,
a few red dots leaked onto the ground,
(nourishment for the past)
it helped me to my feet, offered me something to lean on,
with it I continued up the mountain,
a hapless smile broke across my dried lips,
thinking I may have found a friend.

Moonlight Watz

You've been staring at the same shadow for hours, yet nothing comes,
sleep evades you like a fly swirling around your hazy eyes, never landing,
You've tried to sink into heavy words, but you're still emerging,
so you've resolved to peering into that blackness on the wall.

You're not afraid of the abyss, sloshing images like a washing machine,
it'll seem large with it's million question marked body, but it's as hallow as a ghost,
the most it can do is make you view the past through a small hole,
You've examined all the faults weighing you down, there's nothing but paper airplanes left.

Stretching endlessly under the sun are stone steps,
you've stated to walk, but can't make any headway,
someone is wandering ahead, calling you, you can only make out her hand waving,
you try to increase your speed, but she is always straying away from you,
after hours of trying to chase her, you've decided to take in the sights,
with the heavy sun lying on your forehead, you can't help but smile.

Dreaming of the other side

The branches begin to shed their robust aging locks,

a stillness as if dead,

creeping clouds clues to some motion,

a mast setting sail eastward the lone vessel in the sea,

the rocking waters rumbling with a lion's roar

snoring while the pale coin twirls with the stars,

sprinkles of salt on the concrete making it crack,

a low moan of tires waning,

a whisper of wind against the brisk pane,

a stifling chill creating goosebumps,

restless night.