despair

What cleft 

what hollowed 

nothing 

is this? 

shadow'd 

oily creature 

blooming 

consuming 

bone 

in its 

winding wickurly 

search

for 

cherry blossoms

left

We leave our words wanting legacy against the clock 

ticking tocking off the days wear on the white page 

is it a notebook? 

left against the floorboards or some ether-drifting-design landing upon a fragment of tomorrow's star? 

what was this life so sophomoric & toned 

black white & rose? 

there are many feathers here gathering dust & dreams 

why would anyone write anything exposing viscera grey & dead 

when we know -matter- always remains regardless 

timeless 

transformed 

everything is words reformed 

to light's bright home 

words to stars 

ink to black 

words become  ...

 

within

chameleon 

charlatan 

scared sacred frightened one 

thread & light undone 

forever fearful forever savage disquieting ripples 

crippling 

folded there behind my felted amygdala 

trauma's gala 

no monsters without just demons of doubt 

within 

coloring doubling mantras of shame 

can monsters ever be tamed?

rescued 

revered

rewind rebuilt to treasured honored little one 

thread & light redone 

monsters are mostly our own making 

quaking truth 

sweet wisdom's youth 

heart anew 

resting forever in the wild sky blue 

 

rhythms

   Alyssum belonging collides divides 

elegantly fused 

graciously hiding in jonquils kith launch mirthful 

nights over poppies quaint 

return 

shimmering toward

unusual vectors weaving xanthic yellow zircons . . .

popping up

doggedly dragging its snow-mucky boots 

Winter 

reluctantly leaves these patient plains in spurts of tempered warmth 

leaving leaving on the two o'clock in the morning train to the West 

days pass snow melts 

leaves sticks branches and bother are gathered 

laying bare the waiting grasses 

the waiting buds ready 

long green leaves appear in clusters 

here there here there 

    the verdant earthy fangs of feline creature born of dirt & promise 

soon 

the yellow comes crayola canary sun bursts of wild

many-petaled little sprays of sweet surprise 

plucked rinsed chopped mashed consumed remedy to the shadows of Winter 

the dandelion's bitter golden sweetness unexpectedly mirthful 

things are not always as they appear 

Worry

Worry is a swirling eddy leading to the numbing of delight 

It is not a tulip 

or a darting wren ... 

 No flat line of indifference 

no sweet song of a cardinal trilling from waking branches 

no whistling dance punctuating the morning's rambles 

Worry is a heavy weight about which we tether ourselves when 

       the all light is shadowed by the overgrowth of burden 

It is not a tulip or a darting wren 

She is Not

she quakes with a thunderous joy that echoes & exalts against the gravity of cosmos 

shining so brightly it hurts to look too long 

though 

she pierces hard surfaces with attention & the interest of blue eyes born of a thousand suns 

love--curiosity brimming 

though 

grace becomes her care drips from fingers also swirling in an ageless 

worry 

that still 

this is not enough to secure the unconditional 

as invisible as a dried stalks in Spring's fallow field 

white upon white upon a tenuous perch 

this perfect goldfinch