we’re all just filling time
so many ways, shapes
busyness for no reason
languishing
awaiting answers to questions unasked
ducks lined up neatly
is not the whole story
freedom surrounds, but not really
the popular paths are open
wherever we want to go, within reason
we have all we ask for
in secret prayers long ago
but we find ourselves
bereft and alone
and wishing for less
less to keep track of
less to answer for
and wanting more
more open fields
more open days
too late
I’m running out … when will it be enough?
The days of warm cookies just out of the oven in winter and chasing fireflies in twilight summer seem lost.
The first view of the city’s skyline in morning was enough to cover early heartache.
The Van Gogh I secretly touched in the museum- those raised paints and ridges, FUCK!- they were enough for a whole semester of college.
Staring at clouds and feeling soft grass beneath my feet with my daughter… she’s too busy now.
Staring at the crackling fire sharing stories with my son… he’s off on other adventures now.
Memories of flesh taken quickly in the old shed were enough to get through almost a decade.
Visions of candles on medieval cathedrals, clear waters off the Mediterranean, rocky plains of Iceland all were enough for a short time.
But, I’m running out…
I want to savor each spice on my pizza instead of blindly devouring.
I want to wiggle my toes in sand and feel smoothed by warm winds.
I want to feel cold winter winds on my cheek, warm embraces at night.
I want to hear mysterious moans over moors.
I want to walk in more dark forests, exploring every nook.
I want to abandon fear of words hurting any more.
I want to know it’s not too late for me.
love, that’s why
we keep trying
reaching for a future
that cannot be
you say
it’s not possible
for love
to stay
but I’ll never stop
because I’ll either find it
or die practicing
either way
I’ll be happy
quiet, there’s a storm brewing
sitting still
quiet
it seems
but with quivers
they can’t see
deep inside
calling me
I’m never this quiet
a storm’s brewing
grabbing with both hands
a chance to speak
all that’s left
from decades
of stifled intent
some words will be ethereal
and some will really bruise
but it’s all coming out
it’s all coming soon
which way is north
no repeating past lessons
straddling time zones
figuring which way is North
answering simple queries
what to do next
should be easier
than strumming a banjo
except the fist won’t unfurl
The Word Rummager 