Have you found love

"Have you found love?"
I was asked in a dream
"Have you looked far and wide?"

I did not know how to answer
Did not know what to think

I found I was crying
when I finally woke
I tried to figure out why
but instead I just sobbed
and I couldn't stop

To this day I remember the tears
but still cannot remember why

What is the real love?

My love has caused me pain
My love has caused me sorrow
Without my love
There is no need for tomorrow

Letting it be a state of being
A sense of knowing
The reason for living

Letting it come and letting it go
Realizing it is nothing more
Than a moment of essence

A connection with someone else's moment
Sharing a fleeting epiphany through
a glance in their eyes

Having that identical jolt
Of Aha!
Of Wow!
Of Oh!

The unexpected bubble pop with its
transparent firework explosion of
what momentarily contained that
thing that is now released to the
ether of the universe.

I am beyond that love that everyone
scrambles for.
Desperate to find and hold and keep and possess.

I have experienced it before
more than once
Suffering with self-doubt
Jealousies and suspicions

Finally coming out the other side
And seeing that its permanence
is illusion

Finding that its importance is
based in creating my sense of self,
my essence of being,
and in its process it destroys
what we all strive to make it
create.

I do not say it is unimportant
but the true importance lies in
recognizing that THAT love
is not the real love
not the deep love
not the soul love
not the universal love

That love is the thread that
sews us all together
every one of us
past, present and future
Human, animal, non-sentient,
the cycle, the reason,
The point of this all
is that there is no point
there is only the process
the journey
the passage
through time and space
beyond the real and into the realm

HOME - Free Assoc Group 12/2/17

Free Assoc. 12/2/2017
Prompt Word - Home

Home, what does it mean
Is it where I am?
Where I am going?
A place from the past?
What is ahead in my future?
Does it mean people, things, abstracts?
Family, friends, memories?

I've had many places that I
Considered home at one time or another
Some short periods and some longer
Because of my evolution from
one version of myself to another
and then off I went to find
another home,

One that fit the new me well
Well, at the start anyway.

When I look back on these languid or staccato
stops along the way
the many places I've hung my hat
thrown my mattress
lived out of boxes
collected too many things
that contained the essence of the time there,
I smile because I can close my eyes
and see the view out of each window.

Feel the heat or the cold
Remember the regional accents and idiosyncracies
Recall the conversations and interactions
of the acquaintances and friends and loved ones that I
found, cultivated and connected with
that meant the world to me

THAT world to me

What a variety, what a gift
each adventure was
I could write a book
but would i really do any
period of time in any one place
its proper justice?

I can't imagine being able
to muster the narrative
or describe the scene
in such a way that would
build each universe,
really immerse the reader
in the 3 dimensional world
that each place meant to me.
It was never just the time.
It was never just the place.
It was never just the people
or the weather
or the experiences.

Perhaps it is a classic example
of the equation adding up to be much more
than the sum of its parts.

To this day it is very difficult for me to find the words
to get across to anyone who was not there at the time...

How magical this place was,
or how scary that moment was,
or how heart-breaking that outcome was.
Or how hard or simple it was to leave or stay
Or how exciting it was to move on to the next
Or how deeply some people burrowed into my heart
And how everyone I've ever met is still a part of me
And how i truly hope that I am still a part of them.

And how much everyone that I call friend,
or loved one,
or acquaintance,
or stranger
becomes part of what I call home at the moment
because it all becomes part of the blanket
I wrap around me at night when I am alone and safe beneath my roof.

And that is what I call home.

SUNSHINE Free Assoc Group 11/18/17

Free Association 11-18-17

Prompt Word - SUNSHINE

Day breaks
like it always does
Some times huddled into a corner of the night
too groggy to come
and say hello. To start us on our ways.
Sometimes stretched thin and vibrant
too focused on itself to notice all of us.

Sunshine

Essential for my body to flourish
For my skin to warm
And my blood to thin and flow

It dazzles my eyes
So thankful for it's return
My face turns up

Nothing in me
I don't understand.
The clarity of the world outside
Recently rinsed of the seasonal settling
Of dust and miniature matter

The sun shines this morning
causing abrupt shadow
at razor sharp corners

The blue tone of the sky right now
That time between morning and
Midday atmosphere
It causes all the other tones and shades
to be at their vibrant best
All that
And I'm at a loss for the words
to describe
(were I put to the task)
to the writer next to me
Rocking sofly as he
commits his thoughts
to the darkness of the world
outside his experience
Successfully describing to us
These strangers in a room
His view of the world
And I'm hoping to come away from this
Understanding what the sunshine means or does to him.

I am at a loss
for a grasp of the right words
that can translate to him
What I am feeling
About this rare sight just outside the skin of this room
That allows everyone but him
To look up and be inspired
By what today's rare sunshine
Is causing to awaken and shine
through the eyes of everyone else in this room

I am at a loss
And I feel momentarily defeated and empty
because i cannot
feel what to think
smell what to describe
taste what to translate
hear what is distinctly different
touch what there is
  but the warming of the invisible air
because I am unable to take any of senses
that the writer beside me
could experience in what I can only imagine
may be a darkened room
A never ending room that contains all the rest of it,
eveything on the other side of the darkness
the smell, the taste, the sound, the touch
that I am dismayed and disappointed
in my vocabulary ability
that I cannot point any of those out
and offer what I think might
transpose and translate
what the difference in yesterday's sky
and this morning's sky
means or does to anyone.

I am at a loss
because it does not mean or do anything to me
that takes the experience to any other sense
than the sight of it does for me today

BREAK - Free Assoc Workshop 10/21/17

BREAKING POINT

She'd had enough. Honestly, this time was the last time. She woke up, bloodied and bruised. She didn't even remember last night. She didn't think she'd ever seen this guy before but she wasn't really sure. Her friends' words began echoing in her head...."you need some help". She never heeded their words before, was offended that they even brought it up. As she looked in the mirror, she thought about their concern and offers to help her. Something switched on in her head and she saw herself turning over a new leaf, starting fresh and facing the future in a new way.

Often, her evenings started out innocently enough...a couple drinks at a bar or small club. Sometimes with a friend or two, sometimes on her own. She had no issue with starting up a conversation with someone bent over a drink, alone at the bar. She loved meeting new people and getting to know them.

A couple drinks later and things started to become a little fuzzy. They would both become more animated, the laughter was louder and the touching became less tentative and more desperate. As the clock ticked on and the bar bill became higher, both their inhibitions began to dissolve into the beat of whatever loud music was playing, forcing their heads closer and closer together as it became harder to hear.
Pretty soon, they would be swaying and sweaty on the dance floor. And then, of course, last call was announced and the discussion about who's to move the party to began. And the issue was usually resolved fairly quickly.

And this is when she usually began to have her memory lapses. In the past, she always chalked it up to simply giving herself over to having a good time. In the morning, she could only gauge how the rest of the evening had gone - by looking at the state of the apartment or motel room that they'd ended up in. Empties everywhere, clothes strewn around, his attitude toward her. She always felt better when she saw condom wrappers on the floor or bedside table. That meant that they'd at least had the wherewithall to keep safety in mind.

This morning, however, she woke up with the familiar dull pounding in her head and an odd feeling. When she went to the bathroom mirror, she realized why. Things had gone badly apparently. At first she didn't know whether to feel angry, remorseful, guilty or relieved that it wasn't as bad as it could have been.

There was no sign of the guy around...no clothes, personal effects, no note, no nothing. She didn't really care that it had turned into another night of anonymous sex but she felt violated for the first time because of her obvious physical injuries.

She showered. Water nearly scalding her and she scrubbed until her skin was blood red. She had no makeup with her so she couldn't disguise her wounds. She'd worn short sleeves and no jacket so the bruises on her arms were vivid and obvious. Her eye was starting to puff and blacken, her lip was swollen and cracked and would probably split if she smiled. She doubted she'd be smiling today. She did the best she could, put on her sunglasses (thank God she had those with her) and exited the motel quickly and quietly.

Outside on the street, she found a tiny park tucked away and took a seat on a bench. She started going through the contacts on her phone, thinking about who she could call. She didn't want to be judged, to be told "I warned you" or to experience any kind of verbal punishment. She made her mind up, held her breath, and pressed the "call" button.

Stella and her Journey Throught the Night

Stella was an imaginative and peculiar girl of over 13 but under 14. She liked to tell others that her full name was Stella Nightshade but that her family had adopted her and changed her name to their own. She had told this tale for so long and to so many people that she did not remember how the idea had started or even whether it was the truth or made up.

Stella was fascinated with the unknown realms of the human mind. Nothing gave her more pleasure than to read books: psychological reference books, dream analysis books, various journals of both famous and lesser psychiatric masters. She was excited to sink her teeth into alternate reality fiction, books about weather and natural disasters, histories of human societies from the past and their legend and lore. In general, she found her everyday world, the world of flesh and bone, of fact and statistic, quite mundane and a bit of a chore to tolerate and adhere to. Because of her unique personality traits, Stella had few friends. That was fine with her, however, because her mind was rich with other realms and myriad of beings and creatures. She really had little time to give to the development of the socially acceptable traditions and niceties that were expected of young folk in her day and age.

Mr. and Mrs. Walker, Stella's parents, were professional scholars. They were archeologists by trade, anthropological detectives by consequence, and solvers of mystery by passion. Because their work took them the world over, their daughter was left to her own devices the majority of the time. That is not to say they did not hold her in their closest regard. They simply knew, due to years of teaching, guidance and observation, that their daughter was of the brightest and cleverest minds and that she did best by being left to fare on her own. She knew what served her most advantageously in her circumstances. She conducted herself in ways that allowed her mind to cultivate and her imagination to flourish. The elder Walkers knew than great things were in store for their daughter as long as they allowed her to develop her talents in her own way and at her own pace.

When the Walker family planned their move to the area of Oxford University, just three years ago, and into a 3- bedroom flat within a beautiful old manor house than had, in its time, been one of the loveliest stone buildings to grace the nearby grounds of the prestigious learning facility, they did so intentionally, knowing that there would be long stretches of time when Stella would reside there on her own. The family did their research and decided on this particular flat because of the reputation of having close-knit neighbors. They visited the property before making their decision and spoke with the lady of the house, Mrs. March, a descendant of the original owner's family. Mrs. March assured the Walkers that Stella would be safe and well looked after, both within the walls of the manor and in the community in general, while her parents were away.

And so it was decided upon and plans were underway to move the family from the neighborhood near London's Natural History Museum, where the Walkers had resided for 5 years, to the more serene and pastoral setting near the grounds of Oxford University, where they were to take up curator duties within the Pitt Rivers Museum. The Pitt Rivers was the archeological and anthropological museum  which adjoins the Oxford University Natural History Museum. The distance from London was less than 100 km but the change in scenery and general environment would be refreshing for them all.

Stella could not have been more delighted. Having few friends to begin with, her transition was an easy one. She had dreams and drew pictures of rolling countryside, tree-covered hills, bubbling streams, and woodland creatures. These, of course, were fantastical thoughts. Oxford was a city! A much smaller city in comparison with London, but a city nonetheless. She wanted to have a rabbit for a pet. She wanted to ride her bicycle down tree-canopied lanes. She wanted to be left alone to concentrate on things that her mind thought up.
---------------------------------------------------------

When the Walkers arrived in Oxford, Stella's heart sank a little. It was a beautiful place with majestic architecture, true. But it was much more populated than she expected. There were blocks of new, shiny buildings plopped down adjacent to historic old buildings. From the passenger seat Mrs. Walker turned to Stella with a wide smile. The corners of her mouth quickly fell when she saw the look on her daughter's face. Stella did not look unhappy so much as she looked slightly stunned.

"Sweetheart, what's the matter? Isn't it lovely here?" She asked Stella.

"Mum, I thought we were going to live in a village. Like in a country house." Stella said. She was not complaining. She was merely confused.

Mrs. Walker said, "Stella, Oxford is a city. It's not nearly as large as London but it is a proper city. There are all sorts of things to do here to keep you happy. Libraries and museums, of course, but also movie theaters and shoppes and I hear there is an ice-skating rink at city center. You love to ice-skate! Doesn't it sound like an adventure?"

Stella looked at her mother and smiled a weak but sincere smile. She glanced out the opposite window from where she sat and saw the spires of Oxford University rising into the sky. Her heart skipped a little beat. For a moment, she saw herself happy here in her new life.

"Yes, Mummy, it does. Truly. I should have done more research before I set my expectations. I promise I will be happy here," she said. She meant it.

"And don't worry, Stella. The house is beyond city limits. I just thought we'd take a drive through before settling in." Mr. Walker was practically bouncing in his seat with excitement. "It's a proper old country manor. I promise you will find it fascinating!"

Stella's mind was put to ease. She began to relax and enjoy the sights of this new city of hers. This Oxford. The new mixed in with the old. Present and past. She smiled to herself and sat back in her seat. Yes, this new adventure would suit her just fine.
___________________________________________

Sometimes my drawings are unfinished - Green Line 9-2-17

Sometimes my drawings are unfinished
I think I prefer it that way
Not only does it suit my procrastination
it allows for the imagination to complete the page
it gives the opportunity to expand the image
turn it into something more, something completely different even
I like to think it breathes life into my lines on paper

Sometimes my stories are unfinished
I think I prefer it that way
Mostly because I feel they are in constant creation
More chapters, more characters
More conflict and resolution
I don't pride myself in this inability to complete
anything more than a short story
I've written many of those and I like them
but they are like poems - beginning and end
Less difficult to sense completion

Sometimes my poems are unfinished
I think I do not prefer it that way
a poem unfinished to me
is an open-ended thought, an incomplete dream
I feel the need to use the exact words in the perfect order
This is something I've always been adamant about
Everything else in life can remain in progress
A poem needs to have a beginning and an end
Like a perfect moment or a beautiful day

I was overcome with panic - Green Line 9-2-17

It came upon me like a tsunami
this feeling I can't quite explain
like the world is ending
like my brain is melting
like everything and nothing is happening all at once
and I can't control a thing

The light dimmed and my eyesight narrowed
there were fireflies at the edge of my peripheral darkness
I had to reach out to take hold of something
My breathing was rapid and shallow
I became dizzy

I began to reason myself out of this
This feeling of being overcome by panic
I told myself this is not real
This is just my reaction to something in my head
Something that I can control once i identify it
Thoughts are not facts, remember that

Something i once learned in group therapy
about emotions being leaves on a stream
notice and identify and then let them float along
and out of sight

Another analogy that was really helpful
I am the sky, not the clouds
the clouds are just those emotions and thoughts
they are not real, they do not define me
Remain the sky, the canopy above it all

Slowly but moment to moment
I am starting to feel more grounded
a little more in control
I am not convinced everyone is watching me
judging me with critical eyes
I am not believing the thoughts that i am
not worthy to exist among you all

I am healing
little by little, day by day
Becoming the person I know myself to be
And as I begin to reveal my true self
I will amaze you

Stage Manager looked at me - Green Line 9-2-17

The stage manager looked at me. She looked at the director and then back to me again.
"I appreciate your interesting take on this play. However, I don't think this is the direction we were looking for."
I felt momentarily deflated. But it lasted only a moment. I emboldened myself.
"You know, there isn't only one way to interpret the material," I suggested. "I remember reading this treatment earlier and got a very clear vision of something fresh and different. If you aren't opposed to  hearing what my ideas are, I would really like the opportunity to share them with you."
I realized I'd bowed my head a little while I spoke. As if I were asking sheepishly. I wasn't asking sheepishly. I truly wanted to breathe some life into a play that I felt was being developed in a very normal and safe way. I always believed in pushing the envelope, inviting others to expand their expectations, see the world in a more unusual way.
"Give us a moment, please." The director and stage manager, sitting about a third of the way into the theater seats, slightly in the dark, bent their heads close and began to whisper in earnest, using hand gestures and becoming quite animated. This went on for an unbelievably long 3 or 4 minutes.
"Do you have time for a coffee or tea? We actually would like to hear what you have to say. You seem to be sincere in your enthusiasm."
They were right. I was very sincere and I was very enthusiastic.
"I would really like that," I said. "Do you mean right now or should we set up a time and place to meet?"
"We have time right now," the director said. "You were our last audition for the morning. The coffee isn't great here but we have plenty of time."
I felt like I was going to bust. I realized how much I loved the words and message of the play and how much I felt was going to be lost in this slightly tired rendition. I smiled and walked to the edge of the stage, descended the stairs and started up the aisle toward them.

The Violence We Do To Ourselves

I look in the mirror
and hate what I see
truly despise everything
that is in that reflection
and I feel void of the desire to live
But you must understand this

Inside, I am warm and loving
my heart beating for others
and for hope in this world

Inside, I am clever and creative
words and pictures
ideas that no one has thought before
things that would change the world

Inside, I am beautiful and graceful
diamond sparkles from my eyes
and on the surface of my skin

But the outside of me,
this bag of skin,
is so disappointing to me
because I am so disappointing to you all
That which holds me together, tears me apart

There is something dark and wicked
In all those voices
that are trapped in my head
My father's voice for most of my years
And all the way through school
the kindergarten teasing
the pre-teen mocking
the high school cruelty
I hated most of you, you know
you never gave me the chance
to discover and reveal my true self
I would have amazed you
and never judged you in return

None of you ever saw
the nights full of mania and violent depression
Blades at my wrist, calling forth just enough blood
Pills in my mouth, ending in tearful retching
Driving fast and dark through the night
praying for an unknowing assassin

But I did get wise one day
I mean really wise and awake
Finally and after a lifetime of self hate
I was able to put those voices to rest
Stood up to them and shouted them down
Told them they were nothing and of no use

I used the hole that was meant for me
The one I'd worked on every day of my life
And laid them all deep inside
With no contrary thought
I picked up the shovel and
Looking down on what was left of them
momentarily silent with disbelief
I scooped up what they deserved
And let gravity do its job
I felt nothing, not for one moment

And then I woke up from the dream that was
the nightmare that I believed
Now I don't remember it at all

8.27.2017

FALL 8/26/17 Free Assoc Writers Group - FALL/AUTUMN

FALL/AUTUMN

I think it is my favorite time of year...Fall, Autumn.
Whatever you want to call it. It's your choice.
The point is, you have to appreciate
the winding down of the warm, growing seasons in order to
appreciate them re-emerging again, months later,
after slumbering under the comforting blanket
of brown leaves and white snow.

But I get ahead of myself.

Fall, Autumn.

The bite in the air during early evening
when you notice that the sun has already gone for the day
so much earlier than in the warm, humid summer
when you can walk until past nine
and still have time for a little gardening before nightfall.

But fall: That bite in the air, the cut of the breeze
The mornings with their low, light clouds of fog
that hover above the various ponds.

Mornings, when you ready yourself for your day,
and wonder what sort of
sweater or jacket or flannel to wear
because you know it will come off
sooner or later...but you really never know, do you?

Time to switch from cold tea to hot
From salads to soups
From outdoor activities to indoor comforts

Time to plan game nights instead of picnics and hikes
Time to feel the pull of natural hibernation
that you fight against but can never really win

The smells, the sounds,
These are the best indicators really

The woodsmoke scent that hangs in the air
indicating a burnpile or someone at home
priming the fireplace for long winter nights

The sounds of leaves crunching,
the smell they release is almost discernable
but it is as sharp as it is delicate

You experience far more than your five senses
during that time between
putting the lawnmower away for the season
and finding the ice-melt for the sidewalks.

Fall is reminiscence, I don't really know why
I find myself with fond memories of
this and that...nothing of import really
but taking hold of me
Causing me to look out at empty space
smiling slightly about something
I can't quite explain
but can feel in my soul and heart
with comforting warmth and quiet contentment.

And it definitely has to do with
This winding down time of year.
It's not quite here yet, this year's autumn,
but my pulse quickens with anticipation
as I check the weather for the next week
like I do every week.

It's coming.

This morning was chilly enough
as I prepared for my Saturday activities
that I am wearing a sweater
I am in long sleeves
I feel cozy and comfortable

You may not be able to tell
from the look on my face
or from the language of my body
but I am singing and gleeful
Just underneath
about wearing a sweater

You may think it silly but I don't care
This is what is bringing me my joy today
I look forward to the anticipation of autumn every year.

Just like this year.

Just like next.

Free Association Writer's Group - "magical" or "magic" prompt word

Free Association Workshop - Meetup Group - 7/29/17
Magical - prompt word

Motes in the air, random or purposeful?
Whether or not i accomplish something during my day, random or purposeful?
Does it really mean anything?
I sometimes wonder.
I look out the window of the car
into the window of the computer
into the window of my soul
my mind
I sometimes feel like magic is happening.
The conjuring of something from nothing.
The direction of my life, the day, the moment.
Do I care? Sometimes, yes. Often, no.
Like a leaf, I am carried on the stream of my life.
The pools and eddies, the rapids and falls.
I am the leaf that has disconnected from the tree
But am still, and always, deeply connected
To the universe, the earth, the stream, the moment.
Again, it is always down to the moment.
Again, it is always the magic that is the moment.

Sparkles.
Glimmers.
Reflection.
So much to reflect on.
Sadness and loss.
Giving and receiving.
Experience and lesson learned.
Keep it in your bag of life.
It is all important.
It shapes you every day.
It gives you compassion.
It gives you courage.
It gives you moments.
Moments of wonder.

THE MAGIC IS HERE

Try as I might, I cannot capture the magic.
It is always there but is impossible to hold
in the palm of my hand.
It is there and then gone
like a flash of fairy light.
The magic is fleeting but the memory...
the memory is what matters.
It is the lesson learned
the reason for the smile
the reason for the tears
Do not look for it - it will always evade you
like a milkweed fluff on a breezy day
And that is its purpose, I believe
it is not to be held or possessed
it is meant to inspire
a brief moment of time
a brief moment of thought
a brief moment of imagination
and in that
it is transformed
into a bit of the magic that is me.

Ladies fair and dragons fierce
Magic strong enough to pierce
The shining armor of the knight
Whos purpose is to use his might
To bravely keep the kingdom safe
From enemy at the palace gate
The king's own men and queen's own mage
Work together yet separate during this dangerous age
Of treachery close and ____ far

I Remember Dancing

What happens when my passion
is larger than my capacity
for expression?

I remember dancing
when it was nothing but
words
and
sounds
and
drive

Flailing arms and
sweaty skin
Nothing but
energy keeping
us alive

A lifetime full of
building walls
climbing walls
beating walls
breaking walls

Five mile sauna

Immediately I notice this
Sweet and loamy
has given way to
Stagnant and rot
The gullies full of
still water, black and oily
The air is so heavy
from the rains last night
and the beating sun today
no breeze, no movement
Butterflies few and lazy
unable to display
their usual dance for me
I can almost see the steam rising
from the recently soaked trail
crushed limestone and dust
now a silent padded surface
a slurry in some spots
I am nearly light-headed
as I cross the sections
that are full in the sun
I feel disoriented briefly
Thankful I remembered water
I replenish what I am losing
in the sweat drenching my head
my back, my face, my chest
I see the spot in the trail up ahead
the point where I veer off
up the street to my home
I perk up and start to think
That wasn't so bad
I look forward to stripping down
and scrubbing my head
and laying down on my bed
under the ceiling fan
sweat drying and cooling me
Having a nice rest after
my little challenge of the day
My pores feel cleansed
I feel pleasantly tired

She took a walk today

She hit the trail first thing this morning
No coffee, no breakfast
No plan, no goal
Loose shorts, cold water
Laces tight, hat for shade

Arms loose and swinging freely
Stride not too brisk, not too slow
It was a comfortable gait
Most definitely not a stroll
But not a competitive pace

Those she passed seemed
friendly this morning
That was not always the norm
Head down and focused
often ignoring her greeting
She used to get angry, irritated
Judging them for their rudeness
Some days she couldn't care less
This was one of those days
And yet they all offered a smile
a wave or a verbal greeting
She smiled as she walked
It never left her face
This was one of the best
and most relaxed mornings
she could remember in a while

It had a different feel today
Something positive crackled
in the air
The warming air, the breezy air
the sunny air, the clean, fresh air

Runners passed her as she walked
She sometimes envied them
She could no longer run
Her knees, you know
They constantly bothered her now
Her hip also but she ignored that
She thought about attempting a slow jog
along a deserted stretch of path
But when she imagined it
she found the idea of the hustle
the easy leap from one foot to the next
the impact of bone on bone
She found herself subdued
bridled and restrained

Conscious of the effects
it would have on her body
she chose not to venture forth
with that absurd notion
and instead noticed a tiny butterfly
flitting from blossom to blossom
She smiled and chose to be satisfied
with her measured level of activity
steadfast and unfaltering

She could walk like this for hours
and often did
It gave her the opportunity
to become part of the landscape
She knew where the wild raspberries grew
could smell the clover patch, warmed by the sun
around the bend from the wetlands
that nearly deafened with the cacophony
of bullfrogs after a soaking rain
She knew the places where she would
see the rabbits and the squirrels
running across the pathway

She was particularly fond of the days
when she met no one on the path
as if she had it all to herself by design
This is when she could
Hear the lazy buzzing of the bees
as they became heavy with their pollen
See the myriad variety of butterflies and moths
small to large, colorful to camouflaged
Stand in awe of the brilliance and iridescence
of her favorite, the dragonfly

These are the little moments of memory
the flashes of secrets, tucked away
the twinkles in her eyes that no one can decipher
This is her, making magic of the mundane
seeing life swirl in all its colors
using every sense to mark time passing
And all she will tell us, all she'll reveal
Is that she took a walk today

Daily walk

Tall trees sway in the wind
Sunlight dapples through leaves
Onto the dusty trail that stretches ahead
No thoughts on my mind
Unless you count those
That swirl and linger
Like lazy dragonflies and earnest bees
There is a melody
That rides the breeze
While the milkweed fairies
Dance before me in unison

Something about you

Something about you
makes me wonder
Why skies grow dark
at the end of a beautiful day

Something about you
makes me angry
That I can almost forgive
but can never forget

Something about you
makes me think
That I should have known better
when we locked eyes at the start

Something about you
makes me wish
That we were both better people
with less corroded hearts

Something about you
makes me feel better
That you are the reason
I know myself so much more

Something about you
makes me feel worse
That it finally happened
after we said our goodbyes

Opposite attractions

We were perfect
together
We loved with fire
We consumed
each other
We floated down
alleys
We ran up
the hills
Every experience
was new
And we were with
each other
Day became night
Night became day
We did not notice
the drift
Until it was
too late
Until we were
on opposite
sides of the galaxy

Don't get scientific

Don't get scientific with me
You can laugh all you want
You think you know it all
But all I am is inside
And hidden from you
Until I let it out for you to see
Or maybe I won't
You will not know until I do
So don't you dare get scientific with me

i am everything

I am shattered and fractured like the moon through the trees
I am burning and brazen like the sun in the sky
Ice and snow
Blowing grass
Well trod paths
Mountain peaks
I am creases and lines on the palm of my hand
I am blood and bile and marrow inside
I am neurons and sadness and planets and stars
I have no idea

Plans passed

My plans, they all dissolved
they fleetly flew
my Village Voice ideas
the loft, the poetry, the life
fuck-I don't know what happened
Did I just grow up or get older?
I think that was a bad idea.
I think it happened when I wasn't looking
Where is my parallel life?
The one where everything I imagined
became a reality
I sometimes visit myself in a dream
and I go everywhere
and I see everything
and I meet everyone
that ever was
I sometimes fly
and I sometimes crash
and that is fine with me
because it makes me feel
and I know I am really there

What of words

If I went off the medication
would I get it back?
Would you come slithering back
through the window one night
say 3 or 4 o'clock
when I lay staring at the ceiling?
When my mind is reeling?
When everything and nothing
make as much sense as the other
Would I start crying for my mother?
Would I sob with the pain that
I never want to admit or face?
This whole fucking human rat race.
Would I cry out into the darkness
with the joy that I feel
when I feel the words slide down my arms
and rat-a-tat-tat come out of my fingertips?
Would my words rhyme or make sense?
Would I feel them with such intensity
as a beautiful midnight epiphany?

Then what ever would become
of my syllables and grunts
Are you going to laugh at me?
Are you going to point at me?
Are you going to remember me?
I have no idea
I have my own ideas

Set my words free

Close my eyes and drift to dream
Open my heart and set my words free