The last wind of winter has ceased its power.
It is memory now, and has no message to give.

The rains of spring have replaced the snow.
And spatter insistent tunes upon the roof.

From the ground, the plants have burst out.
Reminders of the cycle of life and renewal.

Early flowers busy in their own serenity.
Splashes of colour that arrive in splendour.

O falling rain, cleanse the dirt of the heart.

I find myself sitting on my balcony.
Surrounded by the discrimination of life.

Sighing gently to the pattern of the rain,
singing softly the songs of emerging spring.

Patterns of raindrops that hit the mind in
mud puddles of dank self imposed denial.

They are a growing source of cleansing
which shall shatter, for now, the winter grey.

O falling rain, cleanse the dirt of the heart.

Standing up, I become once again myself.
Moaning in unison with the rain, captivated

by the thoughts of what the waters bring.
I am entirely open to fountains of rebirth.

Vindictive tugging of thought interferes
with the cherished sunshine of awareness.

Rushing fiercely into the rain,
I pull each flower from the ground.

O falling rain, cleanse the dirt of the heart.

He stops his feelings.
They ******* his beams of light.
"Pretend", he exclaims, "just pretend."
That the children have not gone,
or
that
his
marriage fell apart.
"I will not be a spectre of
fallen expectations." he
moans to the skies.
Groaning tissues mutate
into flagons of bitter brew.
Next
comes
the
message.
"I will not hear it."
He is firm in his plan.
Determined in his goals.
A man is a man if he
provides the guise of strength.
Who has ordained this?
Broken eggshells
scattered about him.
His testament, his truth.
"Am I forgiven?"
he asks in bewilderment.
Forgiven by friends, and family,
for
every transgression
completed.
Backwards are fables
mingled with
lost causes.
Resentments.
Forward is
amphibious,
not negotiable,
set in iron.
"I will stay forever
travelling
in the stars
above my head."
This his proclamation.

Now he can rest in peace.

If the silence calls, answer it.
Seeping like smoke
i
n
t
o
the veins.
Drained blood vessels
f
i
l
l
e
d
with chemicals.
The body is what it is.
A skin filled skeleton
motivated to carry on.
Even if the
s
o
u
l
asks to be released.

A little boy is playing in his backyard.
Plastic knights and make-believe castles.
His imagination flourishes, thrives;
magic empires he creates in his world.
He does not think about tomorrow.
He does not worry about anything.

I wish I was him again.
Start all over.

Not possible, however.
We can only
w
a
l
k
ahead,
never back.

In truth, he was an unflavoured soul,
a vessel of despair fashioned in clay.
A misfit of intense and wild emotions,
that fled the world, gone astray.

He created his own sheltered universe
from which he built a life of fear.
Running, fleeing, his reality of disgrace
which had defined his growing years.

Poor orphan child, a stranger to respect,
who satisfied himself in his own eyes.
Travelled like an ant away from the hill,
to seek his space, to avoid hidden sighs.

The flesh can burn, the soul can wither
like an empty cup left alone on the table.
This he knew, for this was his existence.
A world weary, tired, emotionally unstable.

And if he let a sleeping tear escape
from untrusting eye that blinked in pain,
he knew that strangers would object
to any thought that he might complain.

Poor orphan child, man of no respect,
who drifted like a leaf in a summer wind.
His face a mask of tolerated stone,
which hides his constant sense of sin.

What would his salvation prove to be?
Oh soul, what is your purpose and plan?
He would not know, he would not see,
for little of reality did he understand.

Aeroplanes fly
at great speed.
Inside their metal bodies
resides colonies of humans.
Side by side they sit,
lying to each other
about their lives.

Every stone that
lies on the ground
has its own story.

Every diamond
is fashioned from
lumps of coal.

All the Kings horses
and all the Kings men
are not able to change
the inevitable.

Black skies hide
the rotting yearning,
the plunge into
that shallow space.

I live here.
Coloured liquid
pours from my
aching thoughts.

I drop pretending
so fast, one would
imagine it never
was there at all.

Sit beside me.
We shall fly together.
Echoes following
every strangled sigh.

Touching the shallow,
we can speak of
people known and
people forgotten.

Struggle in separate shells
as we attempt to bond
in contemporary fashion.

Should I tell you
that they have told me
I am dying?

I think not.
That would cause
too many lips to
drip with sympathy.

Aeroplanes are
emergency reunions
of jocular strangers
emptied of reality.

I want to be
one of those strangers,
and cast a spell
of formaldehyde
expectations.

I crushed a flower
      in my hand.
It felt good.
It felt right.
Felt like I was
      absolutely
      in control.
Petals and stem juice
      stained my hand.
I make a wind
      and
       blow
        them
         away.
Just like a judge
      presiding
       over a trial,
I am the voice
      of justice.
A bloated bulb
      of tremendous
       distance
        begins to roll
         over to me.
Misguided hand,
you must know,
      that what
        you
         began
          will come to pass.
Morphine eyes
see shapes and
      shadows
that flicker briefly
      before
        floating away.
The hand can
try and hold
itself in power,
      but
       in
        the end
         can only
          move as required.
I am as crushed
      as the flower,
       staining
        the palm
         of my demise.

Castles in the air. They seem to be hung there
on strings of invisible contemplation's. Shimmering
in clouds dappled with false expectations. The sun
opens the windows with embraces of expectations.
We are inside these floating shelters, not inhibited.
No boundaries contain our focus. This the statement
of our shared perspective, our call to salvation as
we jump through the sunlight that captures us.

A war begins. We did not begin it. We now had
to decide if it was ours. To decline would be a
perception of awareness. You and I determine
the extent of our participation. Instead of
succumbing to our weakness, we stand with
anger at the waste of time. One day there
will be peace. We believe this. We feel only
the strength of our flying imaginations.

Partially, I wonder if our mutual pretensions
can manufacture the serenity we've proclaimed.
You laugh at me. It hurts. This begins the only
exit we achieve. Strange how stone can be so
deeply grievous. Odd how "we" can so aptly
be given to retreat. Off you go, and I hate
the sound of the departure. But regardless,
I shall not be concerned. For you see, it does
not matter the configuration. I can close the
curtains and still be as strong as need be.

Flickering like a pill bottle without a cap,
in the air castles of my dying secret world.