Defy Gravity

Feelings of questioning doubt
and inadequacy, as though
fifteen has come back to haunt me
all over again, however momentary.

Album on repeat, songs with lyrics
both powerful and fleeting,
full of themselves to take on authority,
to stand up for something.

And we must, break the concrete
around our feet and quit,
quit being afraid of everything!
And finally find, our wings do – defy gravity.

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Seedsman

For who knows not,
how many sounds
and silent letters
hold up in the throat
daily, till cleared.

And might we write
at least a thousand
more, today?
And put our fingers
to the page,
so that Muse,
who travels
so incessantly
might not forget to
visit us?

Impetuous her,
that we should
catch her
by the tail
and drag her
from the air,
until she does;
“pull these letters
from us.”

So that all these
words
we are compelled to say
are finally released,
dispersed like seeds
upon the wind
to fall – where they lay.

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Travelled

If I told you, “why of course,”
there is a gnawing ache.
Would your ear be so attuned
to find it? For I cannot tell
the cause, or where it
comes from, or where it starts
and doesn’t stop.

“Does it hurt here?” you ask,
but you must, leave your hand
on me “long enough,” to feel
the process. Because the cells
of the body are constantly changing,
“long enough,” to know, to find,
“the beginning.”

Because I am in here somewhere,
and along the way
I know by touch you haven’t forgot,
all the paths in me your hands
have travelled.

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At The Window

How peaceful the light at the window rests
on the vibrant fuchsia petals of the orchid
I’ve somehow grew and regrew.

And how heavy its blooms without scent,
that gravity pulls by the weight of the stem
where three more buds appear.

When honestly, all I do is give it ice cubes,
and of course, the light, “that we both love,
don’t we?” and thrive so much in – at the window.

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Present

But we will always have that;
the way time takes us forward
until the Future becomes the Past.
And I wonder at times if we’ll
ever get ahead of it, when all
we really have is the Present.

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Oysters Raw

But getting back to how
people swallow oysters raw.
I have not had the pleasure
in partaking when they tell me
how they taste like sea water.
“You mean the ocean?”
But I have tasted the ocean.
How it holds up in my eyes
and most days calm, like
the waters off of St. Martin,
until a strong wind comes in
and blows the coconut trees over
so that they drown themselves in
wave after wave. Sea water?
It tastes like emotion, until
it stops, and in the eye of the storm
the clouds clear to brilliant sunlight,
and the coconut trees,
now momentarily free from
the weight that once bound them,
once again, pull themselves upright.

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Flurry of Spring

Waiting on words,
as though they
swirl about like a
handful of leaves
leftover from Winter,
picked up and carried
in this thoughtful dance
and movement of the wind
on a blustery day,
while I wait in hopes
to describe the occasional
flurry of snowflakes,
as much enthralled with them
as I am when the wind
catches and carries
the cherry trees
fast approaching
flurry of Spring.

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At Last

But we were waiting for these
sleepless dreams,
where our eyes were open
and there were no more
ghosts or apparitions
with their haunting faceless
faces, but were known,
once and for all,
flesh and bone
and finally arriving,
and they took us from these
wakeless dreams, to that place
where we would always be;
awake at last, together.

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Give In

It will only take a moment,
“of your time, right?”
Age; is only a number.
Gain; simply, Time advancing.
Intrinsic, you; a dream.
Let me say it: salt, tequila,
lime! Lips pucker, on the
sour of life. You: a hiccup, a mimic!
A Love, I love to look at, Lover.
You; the wild card I drew and
would draw again.
Ace of spades, duece!
And I’m playin’ to win!!
Feelin’ it! All the time, in your
presence. Feelin’ it, and this
is why we live, isn’t it?!? Full,
of receptors, and pickin’ up on
what I want more of; this.
Good energy, it lives!
And so don’t, “why knock it?”
Baby… give in.

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The Bending Reed

Some days I am as though
the bending reed,
who carries the weight
that the songbird sings,
who rests his wings
in the afternoon heat,
and how it is,
I have yet to break.

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