it got cold again. I am absolutely devastated by it. I tried to wear shorts yesterday all the same and regretted it. This poem is my melodramatic response to this horrifying reality:
And like that he collapsed upon himself like a dying star.
Not in a fantastic explosion of energy as he had always imagined; leaving a hole where he had been
No, just a gradual dim until the space he had been in was once again empty.
And the sky was less bright.
also I made my coffee too weak today…
Open up the window
Let escape the sterile air
New breath, new life
A blowing inspiration.
A scent I had forgotten;
Come remind me of past happiness.
But window, you are blocking me
However grand your view
Get out! Get out! I’ll have my day
I’ll join the blossoms budding
I’ll join the branches dancing
I’ll join the grasses fin’ly climbing one inch higher
O sun you beckon us to you
The robin, the flower, the pine, the shrub, the woken squirrel, the dusty mind, the openness and utter limitlessness of the sky
What joy! I thought I had forgotten
I thought I had lost this joie
Robin, I sing with thee, let us make our call together!
I join you in our celebration of vibration, let us cast our voices Lo for they are heard!
My world you have awoken!
Am I late to join?
Trapped in my hibernation what time? What chance, What songs have passed?
Were dances danced? Were colors shown?
But grays are all I’ve ever known
Stepping out, I embrace this world, this day, this everything
All the things I’ll sing for you!
With voice I had forgotten.
I would be well served to find my resonance at last
Keeping it within me now before the tempest passed.
The creeping sun rises, inching sleep by sleep to bully and awaken a restful world.
Her golden beams like hands pulling back the weighted sheets that cover lover’s eyes.
“It is a new world,” she says.
“Arise and make it what you will.”
The businessman rises and washes sleep from his eyes, like world’s before.
Same suit. Same Tie. Same binding loafers doomed to pound on pavement faces that wait at the end of his life sentence; a road of commute, he travels content-driving himself to the gallows.
“Stop this madness!”
on he drives.
“Look what gift I give you:
This world has never been before, so now how will you make it?”
To his willing prison he enters in and locks his cell, facing cold stone walls of grey and gray to forget the world outside.
From the window a perfect view of other windows, not one face.
Nothing exists beyond the walls, the cells, the bars, the wires, the bricks that make this blockhouse of empathy.
Does he ever leave?
Perhaps, but one day more conditioned not to recognize the faces that were on the streets he traveled home.
Someday he’ll enter an empty house, though other souls still live there.
The teacher rises with the sun, and greets the coming world.
He/She flusters with the the woes of world’s before.
Papers.
Papers.
Drowned in papers, dry and empty; meaningless.
But words and words and words and words
Their gift, their challenge, their art, their hist’ry
They fill worlds and worlds and worlds and worlds
Worlds before.
Worlds tomorrow.
“What world do you see today?”
Another paper, just as blank as those that came before.
“Can’t you see what gift I’ve given? How can you ignore it?”
But he/she will make time for it another day, another world, when it can be appreciated.
not today.
not this day.
He/She needs another world.
The farmer rose before the sun and greeted her with open arms
With hands within the earth the farmer calls, “What sun, come join. The world has started. Come and light my world.”
The coo’s and caw’s of trees reply and on the farmer hoes.
New life. New Green. New Brown. New Blue.
New light.
What the farmer sees and what the farmer knows is a mystery to the sun.
She smiles at her happy worker, pleased with the work.
They dance together, laugh together, talk to one another as they walk across mother’s face.
The farmer tires and soon falls out of the sight of the sun.
“Tomorrow,” she whispers.
“I promise you tomorrow.”
Where, I wonder, do the dreamers go when they end their sleep?
Perhaps the sun forgets them
or leaves them in their bliss.
How terrifying that must be
when nightmare’s claim their sleep.
Nothing.
I’m full of nothing.
I don’t need to find words to say
I haven’t even got the words to say
Words.
Lonely words.
Great grey spirit on the water
Tide has come
Can we stand for now together
Staring at the waves that you came from?
The sky’s a little duller
the moon has lost it’s color
And I’ve lost the words to speak my beating, pounding drum.
Lonely ship upon another
sea of glass.
Can will fill her sail together?
Sing the songs we wrote on leaves of grass.
Where are my songs?
Where are my words?
A poet with no words to speak
no thoughts no feelings left to call my own.
All my words are stolen
and I’m staring at an empty sky alone.
Why speak words now?
you’ll leave anyway.
What can my words do with
nothing left to say?
With a touch you silence me you
melt away my words
Just a touch can silence me yet
fill my heart with words.
How you fill my words with meaning.
Fill my songs.
Captain, my captain
The night is coming.
Captain, O my captain
A violet heaven claims the sky
let’s go walking you an I
A trail of footprints echo with our humming.
Captain, my captain
We haven’t long.
Captain, O my captain
I hear you sing, I hear your song
I feel it ring I’ll hum along.
Life In Hyperbole 