Before stiff frost of winter melted to spring dew,
That was when I met you.
Windy gusts of goosebumps to fill the air
Making my arms stippled wings,
Almost ready to fly.
You wove me through the winds of those westward peaks.
Through sugar dusted days,
you were quickly woven in me.

My life's fabric,
newly adorned with the imprint of you-
A colorful, bright adornment to a darker whole.

The frost did melt,
And the river began to flow,
Your promising path was dealt.
And while you sailed away, the rains came, dropping silently from blue eyes
Slowly feeding the river.

It wasn't until the last drop of rain fell
That I noticed my wings
Full of life, renewed in strength and vigor
It was then I realized
You were my catalyst
For my own flight

While others fastened anchors to me,
Freedom was your gift

And with gratitude
The sea bird flies
Hoping to reach the mouth of the river
That carried you

In my dreams, it seems
there are means for meaning to convene,
an odd mind space in between
what exists and what is unseen;
often intangible serene,
grand, surreal, green
but just a dream it seems,
just a dream a dream a dreeeaaaammmm
coming undone at the seams
ethereal threads, silky sheen
a dimension where the mind teems
a shoulder for my soul's body to lean
my vivid, living dream

Thin brown arms
safely secure themselves
in a little lawn chair
as the sweet old lady
sits there to stare
up at space.

With very little
light pollution
she can see
the majesty
of the evening sky
clearly.

The night is silent,
shaded by purple grey clouds
that cut across
the blinking expanse
at an awkward angle.

But this
evening’s bliss
is broken
by spastic shots
somewhere
down the block.

The sounds of a siren
causes tension.
Her stomach tightens
in fear
until she hears her
young sons voice.

She stands on
the tippy top of
a grand canyon
miles above
looking down
to a ground
where I plant
my heart
hoping to dance
and be a part
of the world’s art.

Her poetry floats
across the gaps
like an echo,
and I gasp
as I grasp
the meaning
of her repeating
syllables.

She leaves me
grieving gently
longing for
a connection,
not a lustful *******
sprinkled with
the touching
kind of affection,
but communication
and shared appreciation
of each other’s
poetic creations.

She does not see me,
retreating
from life’s beating
whilst beseeching,
then dying alone.

Waiting,
in a blood red shirt
on moist earth
he sits indistinct
lulling over something.
On the brink
he thinks
he’s finding
that which he
forgot.

Arms cross
over her
white wrinkled
blouse.
Thin lines
of lovely hair
sit there
as she stares
trying to ease
the sorrow
of something
that she lost.
She waits
and faces
her own face
as a single pane
specter
who fans the flame
of a pain
that longs to be quenched.

Hand clasp
in her lap
as tired eyes
scan the skies
falling down
to the nursing home’s
parking lot,
in hopes
that the family
that has forgotten her
will finally return.
The bags under her eyes
no longer feel
the moistness
of grief
as she witnesses
all those she loved
and needed
just up and leave
like living memories
floating away
on a sweltering
summer breeze.
She knows
they are still out there
but they do not
come back here.

I watch all waiting
for the debating to cease
and the compassion to increase,
for people to hear my pleas
as I cry out for love, hope, and peace,
but I to
sit looking out
at a sad world view
as I to wait alone.

This memory
is a younger
version of me,
nostalgia
distorted by
time and distance
to be played out
in a dream.

I follow
flitting footprints
that represent
some previous sentiment
of playful movement.

Then sit silently
on a sandy beach
watching a world
that never was
and never will be
again.

Little rubber rafts
float lazily
as children laugh
and splash playfully.

I run roughly
then stop
to wiggle each digit
feeling the wet grit
and grinning.
as the sand sifts
softly through
my tiny toesies.

A boombox plays
a song I cannot
make out,
as if
it is
just filler
for some
tv scene
in my dream.

This reverie
is like a prized parcel,
or a delicious morsel
of some recipe
that incorporates
the best past parts of me
into its fine aged flavoring.

Abruptly
I awake
a slight tinge
of sorrow
sliding down
my face
for that lost place.

Heavy is the sun
that runs
orange to red,
over the journeyman’s
aching head.

Blank face and bold
wearing a cloak
that is a century too old
as he wanders alone.

The moon would be nice
to cool this day light
with a little night life.

Letting him gaze
beyond the heated blaze
and toward more calm
evening fires.

He looks toward
the horizon for
the hope of
the one he loves.

A wish to wrap
his arms around
the family he has found
and lost more than once
moves his fatigued
laden form on.

But the sun swallows
and disintegrates
all dreams for better days,
till frustrated
and dehydrated
he dies a ***** death.

He wears a hat of weird wind,
and for the lack of face
I can see him
unsmiling.

Shifted shades
of sad distortions,
colors mixed
in strange proportions
and all is just a sea of
lost emotions
intermingling with
rejected love.

White streaks
flow in semi-circles
surrounded by
a sky blue.

His ears can still hear you,
indifference
is not his preference,
but strangers do not
reference is existence.

All is abstraction
as paint pulls away
to blur a face
that will melt
from the memory of
everyone.

Till, the old blue man
is just poor pigments
plucked from the soil
and returned
to the earth again.

Last night the cicadas sang
For us and summertime
Your eyes showed me
The truth in my lies
Your tongue is poetry
It leaves poetry in me