Tag Archives: writing

Discus

It hangs there over long,
a middle finger to the sky;
a chin flick to the ground,
amorous
only towards and for freedom.

A heavy hand may cast it out,
and it will settle in ones more gentle,
but freedom
is all it is and ever will be.

Let others seek it out in envy
finding only futility.
In the dirt or in hands,
it is nothing once stopped,
pinned down;
anchored to another’s will.

The Dirt

The dirt, brittle cracks exposed,
hidden beneath flowers in rows, and rows, and rows-

begs for the darkness that hides the sun’s rising,
the labor gestating beyond the horizon.

Let the torrent wash over those wounds,
like sand over the dessert dunes;

let it fill the countless spaces between-
make them whole, placid, serene.

Rationalize the absurd landscapes
with a throng of rivers, ponds, and lakes;

though the myriad of cracks remain,
the water gives the earth an even plain-

stable enough for all the life we know
to drink deep and grow, and grow, and grow.

The Rain Barrel

Hard times like wine on the skin,
some blush between the discarded inhibitions.
Verdant memories soaking in slowly,
like ancient intercontinental trade routes;
the silent contents growing louder with history,
as too the benefits.

On sunny days, while grace shines upon us,
the vessel looks out of place.
Less than useless, an abuse of the time we have,
to remind us of the times we hate.
It aches in the light, becoming brittle planks,
on which our eyes will walk briefly,
and plunge into the depths of the day,
escape or drown, it’s all the same.

But on those rainy days they come to collect
all our troubles overflowing,
and they tell stories only the rain can hear;
thunderous applause after each quiet punchline.

It is dangerous to consume what the sky gives us,
for it may return our own gifts.

Sinking In

The mirror shattered to reveal a forest
aching for relevance in this reality;
whispering sounds of ancient purity
over the reflected light in the sink below,
collecting like lightning in a bottle.

I too was pooled there amongst those cutting edges;
echoing the world on stage before me.
Awaiting the curtains to drop and take a bow;
usher the lot of us out to the streets below,
where sirens still wailed incessant panic
and cars congested like dry autumn leaves
while pedestrians walk from a to b,
oblivious to the forest in 13 c.

Shadow Boxing

Come out and play,
          come out and play!

I hear you in the shadows,
            dancing through the darkness
                    like a sea cucumber in the current.
                            The absurd fun,
                                the jubilation.

Come out and play,
            come out and play!

I see the soft glow of your teeth,
        still obscured from the light,
                like the scales of a fish,
                    waving back through muddied water.
                            The subtle jest,
                                  the tease.

Come out and play,
          come out and play!

I feel your intensity,
        the primal tugging beyond the veil,
                like the vortex of a whales tail,
                      disorienting its prey.
                              The elegant guile,
                                    the hubris.

I am ready.
Come out and play,
          come out and play.

A Lament

I regret the tragedies that broke me,
the quiet moments after, parsing thoughts,
finding solace when I should have suffered,
and, at last, forgetting the lesson learned.

I regret mysteries I did not see,
those theaters of war where I should have fought,
the responsibilities I deferred,
and not recognizing what I had earned.

I regret not letting my anger be,
becoming the anxiety it sought,
not heeding the advice that was conferred,
and ignoring the peace that I so yearned.

I regret thinking time was like the sea,
capricious waves in which we were all caught,
a purity otherwise unperturbed,
and not an ocean, overfished and spurned.