Flying for Fish

We flap our wings to fly to success
pelicans
I have a fish, do you have a fish?
I have a sea full of fish
yummy, scrumptious fish
orange, yellow, green fish
by the way,
still flying.

The Palette

See, but cannot hear
soft wheat on bare feet
cold wind rushes by
like a baritone voice echoing off tiles
and then, quiet.
soft jazz rolls through the air like smoke
settling into the velvet armchair by the window
look out to the water, shut eyes and remember salt on the tongue
and wind pushing rocks to roll and tall, dry grass to quiver
like the dream of a lonely child
who shouts in despair
as he watches the last sail kiss the horizon.

Twenty-Eight

Snow fades to anger
In straight, metallic lines
adorning life with LOVE
and memories
of twelve years old
and sheer purple
and Ouija boards
"the last good thing"
whispers softly as I
creep slowly
across that narrow pass of land
promising of bright horizons
and fresh ideas.

The Taste of Iron

I'm trying out my chains
stretching, twisting, getting comfortable with them.
Hm, maybe a different color.
Hm, maybe I need more.
That's it! More!

So I let myself go, and let myself be.
And like magic, there's a new one soon.
Really it's quite neat.

Hey, a chain could be anything.
It could be ignoring a phone call.
It could be smiling with rudeness on my lips.
Or that last drag of a cigarette to
calm. me. down.

The chains are comforting.
You always know where you are when you have chains.
You know how you got them, you control IF you get them.

My chains link me up.
They connect me with my past and drag me into my future.

With cool silver links and metallic sheen
They clink together like richness.

I don't need to break my chains.
I'll just live in them.

Nature Walk Haikus

leaf waterfall
crests
hill's end

three saplings
bow to
winter

dirt, covered up
in color
shamefully

last green
crawls out from
brown bed

poets
seeking truth
natural light

silver composite
divided
mother ivy

pink petals
fight against
snowy demise

green hands
stretch and reach
sun

overcast
obscured by
brick

branches bend
parentally
over Earth.

Classes Before Sunrise

When I become a teacher
I'm gonna learn how the mind works in
Classes before sunrise
And I'm gonna teach them poetry
Plucking poems out of books like fresh flowers
And wrapping them up into bouquets.
I'm gonna show them words that feel like water
And smell like salt
And smell of long days in the sunlight
And cool summer wind
And bright red parasols
And soft volleyball sand
And the thatch-roofed buildings
Of young and old young old young souls
And I'm gonna put infants
And children and seniors and adults
And all the in between people in it
Teaching everybody with sweet words
And learning from each other flawlessly
In that first morning class when I
Become a teacher
And teach in classes
Before Sunrise.

Back Across the Rubicon

As the snow must eventually melt
As the sun must eventually drop
So too must we change

As the battle must eventually end
The soldiers will carry their swords, bloody and bent
Away from the battlefield in due time
To fight again another day
So must you know when
The battle is too tough to fight

I will pack up my heart
And my confidence, and my dreams
Turn around, looking at the river of trust
I had once crossed bravely
And begin to wade back,
Back to brighter days.

Jokester

Blue gingham
warm mornings, cold tile, content
Pink floral
ocean breezes, cool waters, empty feelings
only pieces left behind
curving silver and tan lines
the only whispers left behind
with a hidden meaning

I always mix up
if tonight is
one step forward
or two back

A Spiritual Crash Diet

A black and white strip from a photo booth
Clementine soda and a green armchair
The third mic from the right at church
Bandages, bumps, and bruises
Towering carnival rides
Pen scribbled into skin
Bare feet all year 'round
The color blue
The melodic beeps of a video game
238th Street and Bailey Avenue
Plane rides and road trips
Adrenaline pumping through your veins
A remade, renamed, rethought work of art, never quite finished.

The Olive Branch

plain, uninspired words spill from pursed lips
dead eyes and a half-assed smirk belie your true curiosity
not even a question really, more of a statement in passing
oh, if you could see the effects.

my face warms and my eyes blur and shake
i clench to hide my answers
and i laugh, through clenched teeth
brushing off my back
years of doubtful insecurity
bowled of by a handful
of simple, mean-nothing words
in a perfect conversation.

Geminus Sententia

Light splashed hiccups
sauntering daintily into space
wrack my brain with
twine made of rainbows
hearts, the invisible darkness
quashing unseen disaster
leather and mesh
wrapping tightly around
your air supply
barnyard smells and error screens
wash over grey painted dawns
witches, elemental explosions
lullaby me
blood-stained cobblestone
you alone have saved me
ravaging midnight fires
consume pictures
sunglasses, hamsters
and the number twenty-four.
flute stands and purple curtains
cloth made of butterflies
river-swimming history.

Simple Questions

If I shot a paper plane to the moon
who would read the secret trapped inside?
If I dove from the leafy bassinet of a tree
would I survive? Would I know what it's like to truly be alive?

I surmise
that I will die
from the fear I try to hide.

The Winter Field

The winter field is not full
the field of summer lost in snow: it is strangled in a coat of white
another thing, a different thing. a month early, nine years too late.
"We shouted, we shook you," you tell me,
but there was no sound
only bright, confused eyes.
After they'd pierced a lake and fished me up, I laughed
after they'd reeled me back they packed me under snow and ice, I was the last blade of grass
The summer field, a trampoline and garden
has its many tasks; weeding and walking and cleaning out
the winter field has melted in the sun
For those hours I was young
and my body cold
which you have loved long well
time did not love you. It has left you behind.

804

Soft lilac orthopedic shoes
and a faded "green peace" bag
short silver curls
with pallid gray glasses to match
what a deceptive disguise

Jumbled text on a white index card
the bottom boldly shouting
"There is no Halloween here"

She stands proudly
on a concrete doorstep
looking down with nothing more
than judgement and contempt

Breathing fire
the wrinkled judge
excitedly condemns us
with trying happiness in her voice

Oh, heresy.

Sandstone

Have you ever  just sat in a lakebed and prayed for rain?
It's as dry as Arizona up here, and twice as hot.
You could pray, and beg, and plead
but you couldn't see a spring if you looked all the way out to the horizon
Thirsty is more than a word.
Thirsty is life.
Thirsty is waking up in the morning and breathing
sucking in dark brown dust
just to calm your burning lungs.

And the last thing a thirsty person wants to hear
is that you're hungry.