Unlocked.
The dark doesn’t surprise me
but I’m mystified by stars.
No matter how often I look,
it’s a messy jumble -but magical somehow.
–
It’s effort to look out the window
when terror lurks
in a visitor or a squall or
a garden rabbit upsetting my marigolds.
–
Will I always feel like jumping
out of my skin or will I settle
into a quieter place
without fear of noise or fading away?
–
We’re between storms
so it’s only natural to seek light
even if it’s a blinking plane
and not a star.
There are at least three pianos
within two minutes from where I stand
but my song is stuck in my throat
because if I open even a little,
who knows if I will sound like
a gurgling creek or a screeching hawk?
.
I swallow my song again and have no idea
if my walk will become more comfortable
or more painful – is there a point
where I can tell the difference?
.
I am at that well-worn place
where I do not know what to do
so I keep… doing… walking… sort of
like a fish that will die without swimming
but I am not afraid of dying, just the
stopping part of it all. I hope to go on.
He is wading through pages
of dots in the form of faces and words,
imagining them as recipes
for things he always wanted to try.
.
Asking the heavens for a dash of that,
a pinch of this, and a pen
that never runs out of ink.
.
His spirit dallies in the old neighborhood
lolling about the rooftops
watching flowers bloom and buses pass by.
.
Wondering if being a watcher is ok
when there aren’t any questions left,
he eases himself onto a cloud
and sketches a history in three lines:
.
A few more points
harmonize
what was and is.
.
.
(a remembrance for a poet friend who passed away a month ago)
Air so heavy
gallons of fog and sweat
grass on the cusp of fading
a breath means laboring
tossing the head back
to look up at a hazy night
yet the stars persist
(I named one after you)
we can stare until dizzy
with music implied
while we stand still
amid a spinning world
limbs heavy / dreams light
wondering if we’re close
to finding a place to land.
Her dance con brio
was inspired by a spinner
growing more intense every second
until she was as luminous as lightning
but was it enough
to stand against night like white gold,
recalling Theia, a siren time traveler
gifted with stories of storms at sea.
She was the cynosure of all the moons
held in quiet repose with the lotus
as it floated near the spinner.
The Word Rummager 