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What We are Given
She stares out the lessening window. Rain hits hard against her forehead against the glass. Cold seeps into the hand falling away falling down. Where are you? This city is foreign, this city is not home. Alone the dark approaches from beyond the black waters beyond the seventh floor. Music fills the space between deep…
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Depth
There is depth of oceans, measured in fathoms There is depth of valleys between mountain ranges, measured in feet or miles. There is depth of being, infinite, stretching from here beyond.
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Close, near
What we truly need and desire, is not beyond the horizon, is not across miles of water, and is not on the other side of the fence. It is close, near, where we already exist, within hands reach. Happy Valentine’s day, love. Used With Permission from Twisted Root Studios
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Lost
Words lost into the horizon fading light of day passing to night. Trees hold ground of their fathers and grandfathers and further down the line tracing back to the one tree. Such lineage and wisdom gained from time, awareness, and silence. Spoken words not enough. Written thoughts lost in translation the fire smolders. Ears open…
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Grey Winter
What is it about winter that is so beautiful? Why do I shun away spring, the light guiding and coaxing seed to root to bloom? What within the deep winter months appeals to every fiber and cell of my being? Here in January, the wind scours iced land, thin of snow, yet brown and waiting…
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Moon
The moon hangs onto something the physical eyes cannot see. The moon offers a glimpse. The moon teases with enough surface exposed to excite. I would hang my hat on the moon if I believed enough in what is beyond here, believed that this reality is what we make it, and if I desired I…
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What Else
I stand before the great mirror of antiquity trying desperately, almost in vain, to understand what I see and where this came from, what process created that face and expression, the eyes peering back at me and the questions, so full of questions. I stand before Blackstone glacier and the refelction has changed, so too…
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Path
Fate. No. Destiny. No. The machine that churns with metal gears crushing spirit, individuality, the fallen blackened veil across burned and stitched eyes. No. The choice of making no choice and the herd racing toward unknown elixirs. No. My stone path. Yes.
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Poem – Smoke
Smoke rose in the evening until the cold came now frozen in mid-winter pose.
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Before the Fray
3:30am wakeup call It is cold and wet, but not a January cold. Cold from the dark and faint light the moon is obscured and faint. Each tree, steetlight, and house casts a cold fuzzy shadow. Something, perhaps the following moon, said to take the slower, more scenic route and I drove through the quiet…