The ancient ones

A thunder of drumming
that no one seems to hear
beats an ancient song
of struggle and release.

There are no answers
when questions are derived
from quantum storytelling
and divining cloud shapes.

Today finds new threads
following old patterns
and the love that blooms
is bright and evergreen.

Trying to give direction

I am as far away as a tree branch
but close enough you can hear my song.
I try mightily to mask my breathing
but holding it in as I have been told is hard;
I would rather shout nonsense
than coldly express what I see.

What I see is far too vibrant to be calm
so you may usually know where I am
even if you do not know what I am thinking.

I am lousy at being detached
so I launch myself over and over,
hoping someone will catch me.

Ambling, a ramble

A return to aimless wandering
is a surprising side effect of getting older.
“Where” is not so important or even why;
what is will be, and what will not be, is lost.

Lost things can be remembered
and treasured without touch.
I will always remember something about you
even if just your sigh or laugh or hands.

So many storytellers swear by their processes:
drink, stand, sit in quiet, sit in a cafe,
travel, sit still, read voraciously, study,
and most of all, listen.

I stare at streetlights long enough
and they split in two, leaving a vision
of sunset straddling mountains and
skyscrapers. I hear music that may be wind.

So far away from me

I spent much of my day
with you, though you didn’t know it.
We were walking through cool sand
while a breeze pushed our laughter
back and forth between us.
We held hands.
It was almost winter
and the ocean watched us
as we were oblivious to time rolling past,
except to step back from incoming tides.
I don’t know where we were
but you knew. You’d been there before.
And it exists- just as we do. Far away
yet… I was there today with you.
I wonder if you felt something familiar
like a memory that hadn’t happened yet.


Willfully ignoring weight of fog
in morning in its reluctance
to lift away
from the lush forest of trees,
vestiges of summer and long nights.
Not everything is a sign
or maybe all of it is
telling a story I skim distractedly.
Racing through the dull bits
to get to the fire and wind
is how I face my days,
laughingly wondering why
I am unsettled.
Unsure of most things
except for the love I carry
for morning fog after long nights.

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