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.

None the Less

Prostrate, thumbs hooked,
Teeth cradling my tongue,
A billowing sage and cedar satchel
Rests in my palms. Staring down the barrel,
Bathed in indigo wisps, my silent prayers
Are carried by this musky, spicy, rolling stream.
Facing North, pale, under New Moon –
I am guided to see: being human means
I am both the potter and the clay.
Uniquely situated to dance
The space between form and substance.
For a few exquisitely triumphant and tentative moments,
“I” am the nexus of matter and energy.
“You” are none the less.
And, in spite of our abhorrent filth and greed,
We still can find at least
7 billion ways to unleash the power of love,
And solace in a quiet place to breathe.

Dormant Does Not Mean Idle

When the axis of this moving magma rock,

Our living, water-loving habitat,

Tilts a single slice away from Sol,

 We only feel this 23 degrees of motion

As the embers in the furnace grow faint and lose heat.

Being a humanimal, with the  X,Y  

Co-ordinates set to:  78, 42 – I terminate

Fully a quarter of my conscious, waking hours 

Beneath Winters’ leaden skies.

A necessary, yearly tax;

Paying for an abundance of: rolling hills, leafy trees, screaming blue skies, 
Crunchy apples, refreshing lakes, wine-making grapes.

And, every time this mighty rock does a full promenade, we are lucky enough to be embraced

By Sol in a 16hr long kiss. Flower petals fine tune their most attractive colors,

Annually anticipating that…one…exquisitelyendlessseemingday.

  

On my tilt-a-world, it isn’t so much that I mind the spinning,

But nausea frequently crawls up my esophagus in those grey, frozen months;

Impossibly void-of-bursting-greens.

Most of this sentence is served 

Shuffling around boarded up bunkers of re-enforced sheet-rock

And wrapping our selves in shrouds of plastic/rubber/nylon/poly-cotton/wool-blends.

Rigid containers, lids screwed on too tight. Tension brews another pot of dark-roast coffee

 And serves it with silent haste to Sterility.

However, all seeds come equipped with a pod that shelters from the blight of a bitter gale.

Mine is an artificial one – complete with an assortment

Of dancing, colored lights and various, hand-selected bonbons.

So, most of these violently shortened days,

I seek my fill with somewhat reckless abandon.

Mashing my closed fists against silicone buttons,

Sequences, codes, a whole workable lexicon –

Oh, the senselessly endless combination of symbols!

From a certain angle, that seems like enough

To keep me sluggishly distracted.

Eyes at half mast, biding my time…

My senses thaw as whatever small, veined, photosynthetic miracles

Rise to the surface

Their determined tendrils reaching away from the past,

But remaining rooted there.

How to explain?

Try not to see it as: choosing to be stuck, 
Psychologically fixed to a place,

But, rather – emerging with momentous inspiration.

Breaking through, shedding the shell and growing

Means leaving some of our parts behind

And finding ways to flourish in spite of the pain.

When Spring lives do reveal their presence,

Stretching and lengthening after a season’s sleep beneath icy, white sheets,

The significance of the Void,

The power drawn, the potential energy gained

In the midst of quiet absence, is realized.

Isolation has taught me that

Dormant does not mean idle. 

Meeting at the Mouth of Niagara

Just a quick glance through the streaky, steamy window,

And my heart is momentarily engulfed in a jealous rage.

To be mocked by, and unable to turn away from

Winter’s passionately loving embrace of Land.

The snow rushing, spinning, filled to the brim and

Falling urgently to meet the ground.

Preternaturally attracted to gathering in graceful clusters,

Downy blankets. But, this lust-driven explosion begins

With slowly sweeping, long and low Clouds that

Pan across from the southwest corner to the northeast

Point of Erie’s shore.

When they reach the sultry, drawn in curves of

Niagara’s mouth and – panting –

Take a rest, must catch their breath,

It is then their sights become intently fixed

On the dormant yet unquestionably magnetic,

The dynamic and comforting breach of Land

Turning away and leaving Water. The lines of shore, an

Outstretched hand that reaches back. The limb that knows

The sacrifices we make for distance, separation. That relentlessly futile

Quest for a sense of our own, distinct identity.

Winter Clouds can see the depth and despair of Land’s regret.

And as a distraction from grief, a measure of their love, an effort to woo,

They release almost weightless pearls

That wash in to our small harbors.

Begrudgingly we wade through this gift.

Precious little time is spent acknowledging its wealth. 

Most often it appears as inconvenient as

The television’s static, the distasteful white-noise

That interrupts our already scheduled programming.

The Echo

Precision and clarity will not be the mark of this speech.

For I am bound beneath grey skies

And stared at by stiffened, stark, bark covered limbs. The tension so palpable

They seem likely to snap at every slight shift in the already listless breeze.

These days have cast their spell upon me;  now

The unsightly details glare in this matte silver light.

While colors lose their power  – washed out and dimmed.

They do not leap from the walls, splashing viewers

Tempting them to wade in their pixilated, pulsing, surging stream.

Instead, they have receded and remain fixed in framed compositions.

Dormant and isolated in space.

I keep hearing the echo,

Following it from room to room –  

Up the stairs and down the long hall.

On a circuit, but not pacing.

I have the time to stop,

Pause…

Perk up my ears,

Re-discover some

Precious few moment’s worth of comfort:

Standing alone and without fear,

Softly breathing , listening to the world speak.