Unlocked.
It was while waiting
for the other shoe
to drop
we decided to drape ourselves
in kale
before it was too late
for any neo-nostalgic bandwagon
Tell me you don’t try
to hold sunbeams
when nobody’s looking
The only filter
seems to be one of memory,
where we pretend
not to be affected
when the metal song
we lost our virginity to
starts playing,
connecting awkward pauses
to garnish on a plate
all alone for a busboy to view
An epic battle took place
sometime between 1 and 3 am
this morning
in my head
and I can’t remember much of it
but I awoke with
a start and a pounding heart.
Breathless and rested
all at once.
That flash of insight
you are gifted
when relaxed
and a modicum of tension holds
at least one part of the body-
that’s the moment
when all meaning becomes clear
and nonsense is everything.
Skies were open,
the path gilded.
My song was quiet
but strong and carried far.
The only chaser
was a crooked past
and as I held still,
a storm of sun and music raged.
I have no idea what this means
to a dreamologist
and I don’t think it much matters.
I got a push
to get through Monday
and I’m rolling.
It’s not a slowing down
to meet a still, natural state
but a non-hurried
inhalation
of cavorting blades of grass,
the swivel of sun
amid dipping clouds,
tapping of toes
to a faraway song
and a glint of years
running through my hair
that keeps me aground
yet soaring with renewed
spring in my fingers.
Watching from near the gate,
counting leaves from the tree limb
that hangs over the honeysuckle.
Being seven,
in all its dusty playground glory.
Sweet fleeting recess
with strangers
that might be friends
once they overlook my odd name
and different accent.
Holding the sweater sleeve
up to my nose, inhaling
mother’s lingering Jean Naté
and Virginia Slims.
Shifting feet over acorns and pebbles,
remembering a river
I hadn’t seen yet
but knew was there waiting.
Wondering at how time stretched
to lose track of home
even though I never forgot to imagine
each room as it would be.
A water song thrown
to a dark night sky.
The moon’s not there
to toss it back;
she must be asleep.
Music lost.
A shuttered heart.
And then?
With firm grip to ground
and a look to a sky of forget,
we try fluidity
but lack grace of rainfall.
Called by the river,
aimlessly following waves.
Silvery edged currents.
Do they all end the same?
He tells me to drop my hold
on the wind,
stop my spin, face tomorrow’s sun,
and gather convening crows.
Smoothly whispering feathers
suggests capture;
wile and flight a guide.
A water dance held
in soft moss steps.
The river shares soft light
for lost comfort
before harsh morning.
The Word Rummager 