learning to sing

Incomplete Equations

In a fevered pitch

Compelled to probe the

Far and deep corners of my mouth

Explore the roof

Of this house

If I was brave

Forgot all fears

Maybe I could fly

But the shadows are formed

And linger with their stories

Teeth grating warnings

Moving molasses

Minus a pulse

Plus the sky

A shroud that I cannot shake

Clingy, draped, like

You just took her virginity

But we are not capable

Of being sweaty, vulnerable, 

Aching lovers equal to 

The shiver from energy to matter

I'm no mathematician,

But this requires summation:

Swallow boundaries and

Embrace what is incomplete

Reciprocity

Trees drop their leaves

Like a body ridding itself

Of some terrible, beautiful disease.

I envy them both

This brief and wild dance

Of a summer's pace --

That lapses into

Fall's fiery parting.

When the leaves rattle and shake

Their rage rendered visible

In explosions of color. Their

Desire to remain attached

Is palpable. They seem

Unwilling, as yet, to "move on" --

To depart from beloved trees.

Jealous, as they are,  to

Share those same branches

With winter's embrace;  who

Would weigh them down,

Clinging, lounging, coating

The stiffened limbs.

Claiming every inch of

The scarred, crooked boughs.

Because leaves have worked

Tirelessly in their golden season

To nurture these bark-covered beings,

And learn to speak the soft,

Lovely language embodied in

The wisdom of reciprocity.

It is not in the leaving

That we should be

Brought to shed tears,

But the aftermath of

Desolation, the stillness --

The arrival of that

Deep, quiet, lonely season

Which initiates our fears.

I Must Remember to Thank the Muse

Where do the thousands of

Un-penned poems live now that

They've deserted me?

We used to be neighbors,

Lovers, comrades in arms.

They would follow me

Crawling after, trailing along --

Shadowy at first, and then

Gaining form, depth, and speed --

Come rushing towards me,

My loyal dogs

Ever so excited in greeting.

Until I could no longer distinguish them

From the sweat on my skin, could not

Even breathe without feeling their pulse

The bass line low and

Humming along -- steady vibrations

Creating simple, sweet melodies.

I would hear them with

The slightest rustling of leaves.

The cracks in dirty, gnarled sidewalks

Caverns which opened up

Poured forth streams of worded

Imagery merely awaiting the vessel

Who might translate them in to an arrangement.

The compositions, however, seem to exist

Before there was ever a human being called "me".

I have no right to claim them or

Attempt to control them.

I must remember to thank the Muse,

For this valuable lesson learned:

Poems are a species that must remain

UNLEASHED.

  

Two Lovers Whisper

Silence rains in

The studio as

Fingers draw sacred circles

And "X" marks the spot.

A soft lump of earth is pushed, pulled, and pinched

Until it rises and glides through the air.

Even when their most intimate moments

Are on display, it is

A lovers' language

Whispered between

The potter and the clay.

Water pail too murky

A pond for deep reflection,

She is all hands and heart --

Pulse timed, breaths swaying

With the speed of the wheel.

Mesmerized by the whirring

She swears it isn't her that

Shapes these vessels --

But each piece

An opportunity for release,

And in that way

It is them shaping her.

Too Too Too Fast

Full sun to fog
All things suddenly
Close as morning breath.
The biosphere becomes apparent,
Surrounding our soft shells.
Dropping off the payload in Ohio,
Strawberries and chocolate
On the otherside.

Ghost of your grandfather,
Captain of a cream colored LeSabre,
Carves his ship through the countryside.
"Stay In Lane" does not address him.
He completely disregards such directives
And sashshays across the lines.
He's always been the one
To plot his own course.

Heading straight through the heart
Land elongated, fluffy
White pancakes --
Flapjack stacks.
And, the parrot speaks of Misery/Missouri.
As we swing beneath the arc,
Hours spent immersed in
Atmospheric drama of  the mid-Western sky.

Stretched between the rumble strip
And punchin' it.
A floppy eared cumilo nimbus 
Reflecting roadside hazards.
The trail turns purple
Towards twilight.

Dusty ridgelines receede,
Still lamenting time travel,
It's never enough speed. 

Sleeping Dragons

It starts with an invitation -- the opportunity

To try and find words

That I haven't the right sort

Of tongue to speak.

It's like attempting to fly

Without possessing the perfect pair 

Of feathered wings.

Clouds are meant for angels, so

I must remain here

Amongst the soil and the sidewalks.

In this crooked game, even kings

Slip between the cracks.

The alchemist can only

Choose to save their self.

It is a quiet, nonetheless,

Vicious bloodbath of a war.

And, like all such affairs,

Mostly waged in shadows [ the mind],

Secreted behind closed doors

And clenched teeth.

Dragons no longer lurk in caves.

They dwell in our bellies,

Still guarding sacred, glistening treasures.

Asleep, but breathing fire from

The depths of our core.

I suppose I've known all along --

These words will never be mine,

Anymore than they are truly yours.

...Someone else holds the strings.

In our frantic arrangement of accumulations,

We pray not to be noticed --

Yet reek of desperation and confusion.

Each day I silently covet the

Immeasurable wealth beneath my sleeping dragon.

Soon, I will breathe fire, too.