Some days I feel...

Like you and me and everyone
Are waiting for a flawless moment
When the imperfect is far more joyous...

Like days and nights
All get mixed together
Into tangled catastrophe...

Like first and last
Are just quirky counterparts
On an unfinished track to somewhere...

Like unbroken sleep
Is a balm of pure mystery
That continually evades me...

Like my mind will split wide open
Like the first time I read Dickens or Whitman
To which no modern words can compare...

Like time waits incessantly for us
But can not pause to carry us along
If we tarry where we should not...

Like I can see with a thousand eyes
The light that pierces deeply
With sureness that never fails...

Like I want to scream the truth
Even to those who won't hear it
Who grope in the depths of numbness...

Like change is my favorite ride
Oh! The newness and feel of it
I long for it so...

Like everyone is just going to
Drift away on a golden sea
I don't belong to...

Do I graciously give up and flee
Or bravely stay and fight?
I just don't know...
I just don't know...

Peaceable

A yielded hand shows so much more than intended:
Subtle submission of love-
Requited or not- no matter
Peaceably, even illustriously, joined
In tight declaration of what is
And could be
So much more than intended
But so much less than what is possible...

Renewal

Whispers sweet and fluid like breeze-drifting nomads
Lay a foundation firm and poised
For renewal.
Those who will redefine old places and spaces stained with dirt
And tears,
Those who will restore worn faces and chase the devastated
With patient resolve,
Those who will sacrifice everyhing they are for a justice not their own
Will walk here, upon this foundation of whispers
So quiet and unyielding.

Sweet necessity, sweet protection.

The whispers live on
And grow in abundance
With time.

Gray is the color of today.

Yesterday the bloom was bright.
Tomorrow will bring more silence.
But gray is the color of today-
Its winding thoughts and melancholic temper,
It's tender admonition of dullness
And dispassionate existence.

Yesterday was brilliant with plummage and color so strong
It shone like a million silver moons in reflective harmony.
And tomorrow is a steady drum beat of unknowingness, silent and ready.
It has prepared (we know not what),
And waits to pounce with deafening sureness.

But gray is the color of today.
And all I want is escape.

Subtle Discourse

Epic is the discourse of my heart
In my own little world, my own small time.
A grand scale it would be to weigh
All the hopes and dreams there fondly kept, there nurtured.
And should I hope to outlast the bravest and best,
My pursuit must be sure and quick;
For they could envelop the whole world
And not leave an inch of my heart intact.

Dead Men Talking

They are dead men talking and walking a lie,
As only dead men know what it is to live without life.

Dead men speak words that never reach the fruit of being,
Because dead men can't enjoy the rapture of real seeing.

They are dead men content in their dead-waking world,
As only dead men confer stiffly in rust-laden words.

Dead men hear sounds in foggy-dim dimension,
Because dead men are confined to black-and-white pretension.

They are dead men who will cease to be, no understanding of eternity,
As only dead men don't know to want something so full and so pristine.

Dead men are wholly unfamiliar with hopeful excitations,
Because dead men can't feel with their weak-pale heart simulations.

But if dead men discover how to talk and walk in truth,
Through dead men comes the seed to save the whole world.

Skye

The Isle of Skye feels like the end of the world
Where the horizon meets the moon
In a cloudy world of togetherness-
Like Inverness and just as green.

And if I may not pass this way again,
At least I have a frame from which to draw
The purest breath of air so clean
I can hardly inhale its precision.

Like the early morning fog that lifts
Only when the smell of fresh grass has moved on,
I am momentarily, extraordinarily
Sitting atop the Quiraing and watching
Flossies fall
Off
The
Edge.