Puffy Eyes in the Morning

12:49 a.m.



It's that time of night again.

When all the emotions run
their courses through my broken
body, etching deeper furrows,
eroding away the resilient shoreline
in whitewater waves of pure feeling.

I do not want to, cannot deal with
them- any of them.

So I drown myself in media,
in the millions of fanfictions and
Facebook posts and meaningless
YouTube videos and book reviews
on what I'll never read, and craftsy
blogs and Pinterest projects I
won't ever do and TV shows
so horrible only late-night viewers
are zoned out enough to even bother.

It's all a depressant, an electronic distraction.

I do not have the internal strength
to handle my emotions so I don't
even attempt to try.

I cry and feel wretched,
then continue to watch
another video sequence of
flashing colors and sound bytes.

The truth is,
I am a first-class coward.



3:26 a.m.

Emily

With a click of a button,

the turn of a key, 

the roar of an engine;

with the kiss of a breeze,

the blessing of light, 

the call of the horizon;

she is off.

She is off to new lands,

to wherever the road may take her,

whether by pavement

or gravel 

or dirt

or river

or sea

or the endless sky,

she is gone.

She is gone to explore,

to experience all that this world

has to offer her open mind

and willing heart,

ready to embrace the spirit

of travel.

Here It Is

Here it is, the last push, the last sprint,

the last burst of energy to carry you over

that spray painted finish line.

Here it is, the last need for something huge

or something little, or even something that is 

just enough to carry you past the end.

Here it is, the last little bit, the last length,

the last hundred feet, the last hundred inches

that will carry you beyond the final step.

Here I am, at the last push, the last dash,

the last second wind that will have to carry 

me over that neon yellow finish line.

Here I am, at the last surge of power rushing

through my veins in a feeble attempt at mimicking

the initial adrenaline that carried me past the start.

Here I am, at the brink of success's glorious

sunrise, teetering on the edge of falling into the

deep waters below, behind the final step.

Here we are, at the top of the final hill,

the last incline that will send us careening joyously

into the open arms of triumph.

Here we are, at the last moments before a victorious

sunrise, the last moments that seem so dark and

dreary, but we shall emerge rejoicing at the end.

Here we are, at the last wave of energy, the last launch

that will carry us to the moon and beyond.

Here we all stand, at the top of the mountain,

at the tail of a comet, at the edge of the moon;

we have conquered and proved ourselves worthy.

Here we all stand, at the great and shining dawn 

that glows with an exalted glory as we raise our hands

in gratifying magnificence.

Here we stand, the finishers of the race, the crying 

teammates draped with honors and success; for we

have proved ourselves. 

We have carried us across that neon yellow finish line.

All You Ever Needed

I am a chameleon,
standing here on the branch
of the wrinkled chocolate stone
that grows upward and outward,
feasting upon the small rivulets of
blueberry juice that flow from the waves
of the open grey sphere that expands so far
that it appears to be flat, if flat indeed it is,
and all the world is a round flat disc of the
third dimension that could roll in the palm of the
hand of a living deity; it could roll around on an axis,
and focus on a bright yellow spot that glowed in
return for such revolving attention, such a spotlight
as that cannot turn away or veer off
from its accepted course.

I am an invisible ink,
the lemon juice, the milk, the white crayon
that small children use to write secret messages
to one another about their crushes, their secret lives
of imagination that extend far more outwards
and abstractly yet logically than full-grown, experienced
adults, leaders of this mundane world, are willing to
give them credit for, for this power had been lost
somewhere in the murky depths of a bog they call maturity,
mingled with responsibility and taxes
and getting a job and raising a family that they
often find doing just as well without them, for rarely
are they ever home long enough
to truly know who
their children will become.

I am a thought, a whisper,
lingering in the back of your mind,
reminding you that you still need to call
your grandmother and tell her "happy birthday,"
since she will soon be beyond the reach of a simple
phone call- seven numbers away- and she will be
soaring over the earth, the round flat disc of the third
dimension that continues its set path around the fiery sphere
in the almost-center of the solar system, and she will
fly through the clouds like dollops of whipping cream and
cut through the stars and galaxies like the freeway,
the highway, cutting through the beautiful country
littered with wild flowers and open fields.
Soon she will be gone,
and you won't be able to tell her
everything you needed to say.

The Haunts of the Past

Here is a road that I have traveled before;
it looks quite familiar, but I can not remember
which way I had taken the last time I passed.
Was it right? Or was it left? Or perhaps in-between?
Maybe left and three-quarters- but maybe not so.

Here is a road that I have traveled before;
so many choices that I do not think that I had
considered when last I showed up on this same ground.
Perhaps I ought to retrace my steps; or perhaps I should
simply let my gut feeling lead, for it always knows where to go.

Here is a road that I have traveled before;
all its paths seem familiar, but I can not recall from where.
Whence did this memory come surging through my nerves?
Is it a primal instinct that has been bred into my very make up,
or was it impressed upon me as a young, curious child?

Here is a road that I have traveled before;
the leaves of one branch's trees call me softly to join them
underneath their whispering susurrant embrace that
promises to keep me always warm and comfortable while
I yet stay within their easy, cushioned, sunny cradle.

Here is a road that I have traveled before;
another path's mysterious silver lining echoes chants
and welcoming calls that lie faint, yet pleasant, on my cocked
and listening ear. The thick fog does not deter me from considering this;
indeed, it seems to drape most gracefully like lace upon a lady's dress.

Here is a road that I have traveled before;
a third path beckons with fingers like gossamer, almost leading
me along without my notice toward its smoothly undulating lane, like
the ocean, that endless avenue with no marked lines or boundaries
save for the ever-eroding land that will eventually sink beneath its waves.

Here is a road that I have traveled before;
there seems no place to go that does not hold something
just out of reach, barely out of sight, that nags at my mind, reels me in
like so many fish hooked on a line. Yet I am a fish that has fallen
to the lines of three, and must let go of two or be torn into useless ribbons.

Dark Green

Deep, deep down in the dark green roots
of the dark green trees
of the dark green forest
lived a dark green creature
with a dark green face.
The dark green creature
with a dark green face
had two dark green eyes
that glittered like twins
of the dark green kind.
It had a dark green mouth
and a dark green tongue
that flickered once or twice
to taste the dark green air.
This dark green creature
had four dark green legs
with four dark green feet
that had four dark green claws
on each dark green foot
like four dark green daggers
that cut the dark green soil
under the dark green roots
of the dark green trees
way down deep in the dark green forest.

Summer Dreams

My mother used to tell me a story
when we would sit out in our yard
and look up at the gleaming stars on a
warm summer night, and all around
was quietude, save for the chirping crickets
singing their soft evening melody to the
setting sun that had just left for her bright
western lands on the other side of the earth.
We would sit out on the cooling grass
just getting damp with crystal dew, and I
would nestle close to her as she whispered:

Once upon a time in a fantastical land
far, far away and a long time ago,
there was a beautiful island far out in
the sea, where grew a flourishing forest
all dense with healthy green foliage and vividly
sprouting flowers that grew in all colors of the
world; there were pinks and blues in all sorts
of wondrous shades, deep crimson clovers,
pure white lilies, royal carpets of violets,
and all other blossoms that could ever be named.

And the creatures that lived there! Well! Never was
there such a sight as the island during the budding
spring days, all just thawing out from a snow-laced
winter, everything simply teeming with life and
joy; this joy, you know, derived from the wonderful
happening of new calves, new colts, new piglets,
new lambs, new pups, new cubs, new fledglings, all
scarcely entering this new and strange land that
would become as familiar to them as this house is
to you. To them, now, though, everything was curious
and odd, but not yet dangerous or worthy of their
cautious step. All was soft as their mother's womb,
and nothing could hurt them while their loving
parent yet stood near like a comforting shadow.

But never did anyone see any creature so
majestic and beautiful and glorious as the fabled
fire lizard. the folk of the island, who lived alongside the
many prolific animals there, would say that it was
the very heart of the island, the life force of their home.
As it breathed, so too did the inhabitants, and
as it shifted in its sleep, the ripples would cause the
fields to become ripe, and the creatures and people
to prosper and live in plenty and peace. Everyone
on the island slept in ease with their protector caring
for their every need and want.

And as she would say this, my mother would
wrap me in her soft, floral-scented arms, and carry me
inside to my comforting bed, which was crisply made
with newly washed sheets. My stuffed bear would be
there waiting for me, with his open, fluffy paws,
and I would sleepily snuggle into the comforter and
fall directly to sleep as soon as my head dropped
to the pillow. That night, I would dream of a beautiful
island draped with magnificent foliage and populated
with the most incredible creatures, and I would feel
the deep comfort of the great island lizard.

Neon Lights

There's that feeling when you are driving
home at night, and every silhouetted tree
and bush and hill creates a backdrop for those
thoughts that come at night when the only
sound that can be heard is the muffled wind
rushing by outside your window and the
gentle friction of your tires on the smoothly
paved asphalt. Small golden lights twinkle in the
not-so-far distance of the city down in the valley,
where busy taxis and lightning cars speed past in
a flashing line of neon light through the streets and
avenues and alleyways, an intricate system of
weaving together the fabric of the city.
As you pass by each darkened shadow of daytime
delight, a rather pensive cloud overtakes you,
settles on your mind, takes root, and grows,
sprouts, blooms into a flower of soft, sable color
with velvety petals glistening with a sweet metallic nectar
that sticks to the tongue and dissolves on the roof of
your mouth, diffusing into the inner acid and spreading
throughout the veins, making it all the way to the heart,
the feeling organ that tentatively searches for that right,
perfect calling, that right, perfect person, the one who will
make everything seem as if all the world is blooming with
perpetual springtime roses and violets, daisies and tulips.
And perhaps, for just a moment, you sense something
that is not of your normal constitution, some sort of urge
to do something, to be something that will make
a true difference in the world, and just be that person,
be that go-getter, the one who has traveled, who has been
places outside of your hometown streets and seen amazing things
and tried scary things and done everything under the sun
and the moon as well; the feeling that the life you lead has
not yet reached its peak and the best is yet to come, but you
will pass it by soon if you don't look for it and be spontaneous
and leave the neon lights below and simply go drive
somewhere out there, somewhere that will make for a good story.

Dearest Heart

Dearest heart, how you look in this moonlight,
shining through the lovely windows of our hall,
glancing over each carefully polished marble stone
that glows alike to their originator's gleam,
skipping across the floor in a silver reflection of
her resting greater golden sister, who does bring
the colors and life of the glorious, gilded day.
Dearest heart, how you look in this silken dress,
twirling around in dizzying circles and graceful arcs,
so much like a regal swan barely rippling her pond, or
a lovely doe in her spotted coat leaping through the wood.

Dearest heart, won't you dance with me across this
smoothly polished floor? For I am missing my dear love,
who has not yet taken my hand in his, and led me
'cross the stone of our shared youth and sapling years.
Dearest heart, here, light a candle, or all, and place them
in their burnished sconces, and we shall have our own
ball tonight, with as many guests as we deem fit, and as much
company as we do desire to fill this empty hall with joy.

Dearest heart, call the cooks to their fires, and the bards
to their instruments. For tonight we shall have a dance,
a dance which shall surpass all others in glory and color. We shall
have all our tables heavy laden with plenteous fare, enough for
the entire neighborhood to feast with pleasure, and we shall have
the finest attire worn by our great ladies; none shall be wanting
for a small bouquet or nosegay, or a crown of fresh wildflowers.
And our gentlemen shall each have a red, deep crimson rose
peeking out of their chest pockets like a beating heart.

Dearest heart, how I do love this sight, and all the delight
which I have gleaned from it! Here they all stand, like an array
of the finest meadow flowers, each decked out in the most elegant
fashion! Oh, how my heart raptures in this most glorious vision!

Dearest heart, how you look in your white silken dress
here in the soft light of the warm, glowing candles.
You dance as an angelic creature, for as such do I deem you.
Oh, my dearest heart, I do so love you!

land across the green

in a land across the green
where nothing ever grew
save for the woody, dreary shrubs
and dullish flowers numbered few
in this land across the green
so dark and painted neutral
where all of all blended together
and life was nothing but a funeral
here in this land across the green
there loved but only one
one who did not mind the flatness
nor the never-showing sun
now this land across the green
where this one truly lived
he lived on solitude as sustenance
and loneliness made his crib
in this land across the green
this one loved to go a-walking
walking though the endless waste
and cartwheel like a burdened king
this land across the green
was this one's home so dear
and never would he ever leave it
e'en if the sky struck at his heart with fear
so in this land across the green
there never would be but just the one
and this one would not ever go
for here was he creatively spun
in this land across the green
as child this one had wept
for the tale that would never be
because of secrets that had been kept
out of this land across the green
emerged a champion strong and true
for ever had he vowed to keep
the colors in the brightest hue
but in this land across the green
there were vows that had been broken
and so broken yet beyond repair
that none could make right save for a hero fallen
and now in this land across the green
there no more a hero waits
to rise above and prove himself
to the most fickle changing fates
ever in the land across the green
shall this one be waiting for the day
when a hero shall strike up a bargain
and with the world's destiny play
but now in this land across the green
no one has yet been heard to sing
until the hero shall rise again
and a new life with him bring

Run-on Saturday Morning

When the sun peeks over
the shadowed hilly landscape
and just barely begins to glow
on the walls of your pastel-painted
bedroom and throws lightened
shadows on your softly carpeted
floor and you wake to the smell of
cinnamon and peanut butter
freshly baked from the oven and
retrieved by comfortable, worn
oven mitts in dull silver muffin tins
warm to the touch- so warm that
they could burn your entire hand in
an instant and make it become all
read and flaming and blistering,
so that the only remedy is cold, icy
water and your mother's consoling
hugs and kisses applied with care
as well as bandages to wrap your
hand in so that it looks something like
a mitten that you wore just last winter
during the great snowstorm that
canceled school, when you built that
great snowman and his family and
pet dog named Jordan, and all the
neighborhood kids were so jealous
of your incredible artistic skill-
When you sit down with your sleepy
eyes at the wood table that has
withstood babyhood and major temper
tantrums and you see that your morning
meal has been placed before you and
prepared in just the way you know
your mom knows you like it and you
can almost taste the almond extract
and sweet cinnamon sugar-dusted dessert
that others would call breakfast on
a rushed day, and you can feel the comfortable
heat radiating from the perfectly-sized
pastry in waves of silver steam,
don't forget to thank the one who made it.

Harvest Gold

Here it is, a perfectly finished product

of the finest silks in the kingdom,

perhaps even the world, dyed in the

most glorious shade of harvest gold,

exactly as you had requested and

commissioned us to do, my lady.

And here, you see, are all the crafted

buttons from the finest metals purified

over the hottest furnace that has yet

been built in this modern day and age,

so clear and bright that you can see

your very own image in each little sun

of a mirror, just as you desired, 

and there are twenty-three of them, 

all down the back of the bodice,

and another forty-six down the front,

all the way to the floor, where, as you

can see, the creamy lace blends perfectly 

with the golden threads of the smooth,

ruffled skirt, made entirely by hand,

in only a week of time to create such a

tailored masterpiece as has yet passed 

through my rather experienced hands.

Tonight you shall be simply ravishing,

my lady, for when you rise and enter the

dance hall crowded with all those other

vain and narcissistic so-called nobility

with their feathered fans and enormous

bustles like cattle, those oversized peacocks

stuffed into silk and satin, you shall shine

brighter than any of them, for such a 

simple cut suits your graceful frame with

such perfection and truly compliments your

natural beauties, your glowing skin,

your flowing, wavy, burnished hair, your

finely shaped arms and torso, so that

none of it is lost in gaudiness.

Thank you, dear tailor, for this lovely gift.

No lady of my rank could have asked for

anything more superb and wonderfully

made as this delightful ballgown that has been

put together like a dream. I shall wear my

southern pearls with this, and a net in my hair,

with a few loose ringlets to add a sort of

statement. My sky blue shoes shall be

the perfect compliment to your work, sir, 

and I shall wear a corsage of forget-me-nots

and small white buds in order to add a 

simplistic charm to this wondrous gown.

Again, I thank you, dear tailor.

Hope

Once all the earth was in a glorious summer,
never ceasing to please with trees heavily laden
with sweet fruits, huge fields of ambrosial blossoms
like thick silken carpets, and the golden beams
of sunlight streaming through the interlaced boughs,
signifying a glorious age of serene prosperity.

But then.

Then, with the last crisp, red, juicy apple
plucked from its mother tree came a cold, biting
rush of wind, a gale that swept through the world
so quickly, it caused the bright, verdant green leaves
atop the strong, sturdy trees to wither into reds
and golds and browns and fall, fall so far to the cool,
frosted ground, where the sun's rays had as little
an influence to warm as a single thread to clothe.
And so did the earth fall into autumn.

But the whirlwind was not yet satisfied with its work.

After once surveying all the faded, shrunken glory
of the world that had had previously been the
crown jewel of its kind, the devious gust proceeded
further in its detrimental destruction and stirred up
dark, ominous clouds full to bursting with small,
white, freezing flakes that would melt at warmth and
seep through layers of wool and coat all the rough
branches in a white, crystalline blanket, stiffening
the living giants in a casing of smooth icy shards.
Thus did the earth slip into winter.

But the earth would not be defeated so easily, though
all hope seemed to flee at the bitter cold.

It was then, during the deepest, darkest point of
this dreary season, that a miracle happened.
Out of the landscape of white, gray, and brown, a small,
tiny, minuscule seed took root, and began to sprout forth
into a green leaf gilded, as it seemed, with a silver shadow.
Though the furious wind did its best to destroy this
slight ray of hope with even more terrible storms
and hail and snow and ice, this did avail nothing, but
strengthened the seedling so that it did bloom and flourish,
a burgeoning symbol of life.

Once more did the sun shine gold upon the earth's surface,
and once more did the trees bloom with all their
green finery and sweet-scented blossoms, and once more
did the endless fields come to life with vivid, soft flowers,
all because that a single, brave seed took root.

Lazarus Jewel Box

The dragon slithered out from its lair
and hissed out, "You have a choice.
To either open this box and view your
end, or gaze in this mirror and see countless
others that will flow from your actions
from this day forth and beyond.
Choose now, or never return to your
hearth and family."
Now this here was a quandary,
for never had Sir Kendrix Meron
made any sort of choice in his privileged life.
From the time he had been but a pink
little bundle, everything had been placed before
him on a silver platter, quite literally. Never had
he wanted for anything, nor even had
to think about which boots to wear or which
jacket would go best with his new neon doublet
(and none of them did, which was why he had
never once worn that particular doublet in
public, but only as pajamas, once the palace
seamstress had altered it fit for a night gown).
In short, to be faced with such a weighty question
when he had had so little experience with questions
and choices and that sort of thing was close to
pushing him over the edge and into a state of
babbling, nervous anxiety (which here was nearly
the case with Sir Kendrix Meron).
Struck almost dumb, Sir Kendrx Meron pondered
over the glittering vermilion dragon's query,
then asked a question in return:
"Might I see you do it first?"

Dear Jane

I'm afraid I've become a hopeless romantic.

When I wake up, the first thought
to enter my head is the question of whether
or not I will meet "the one" today while
I work- perhaps a customer, or a new employee,
or maybe even someone that I pass on the
street will chance to glace up and gaze into my
eyes, and in that instant the both of us will know
absolutely that we are meant for each other,
and a desperate search for one another's names,
phone numbers, e-mails, social media profiles,
will immediately ensue, and we will live happily ever after.

I'm afraid I've become a hopeless romantic.

When I ought to be working diligently at filing papers,
my mind begins to wander and daydream about
the perfect first date, how his eyes will sparkle
in a perfectly pure and happy and loving way in the
romantic candlelight of the Italian restaurant,
under the white lights of a swing dancing studio,
with tiny tan flecks of clay splattered across his cheek
from a malformed vase he jokingly gives to me as
a Christmas gift that sits on my kitchen counter
in all its warped and contorted glory.

I'm afraid I've become a hopeless romantic.

When I read about Elizabeth, Jane, Anne, Fanny,
Catherine, Eleanor, Marianne, Emma-
my heart seems to beat wildly in my chest in
exultation when each of these beloved heroines unites
in matrimony with their undisputably true loves,
and longs, at the same time, for just such a relationship
that will sweep me off my feet in good taste, a sweet
disposition to do good, a perfect sensibility to social relations,
and an enduring love that will bind us together
for as long as we ever shall be here-

Literary Propaganda

At five in the morning my alarm clock buzzed,
jolting me awake to its urgent monotonous call
to rise and seize the day as so many of my ancestors
did long before alarm clocks were even around-
back when only an imperceptible change of light
behind the thick woven window curtains and the faint
call of a rooster summoned them to take up their
brooms, their mops, their rags, their gloves, their buckets
and shovels and go out under the pinprick gazes of the
still-visible stars to do the work appointed unto them
before breakfast in a few hours-
and as it buzzed, my well-trained arm reached over
to pause it in its excitement to start the day that had only
just heard the shot of the gun to begin the race of
today's desperate sprints and hurdles in order to achieve
what the experts call "success," or, in other words,
a perfect job with the perfect salary and perfect freedom
and a perfect house and the perfect wardrobe and
the perfect relationship and the perfect friends and perfect
everything in between.
I know that if I make excuses to stay in the warm comfort
of my sheets I will never make it out of the house on time
to my less-than-perfect job with a less-than-perfect salary
in order to have a somewhat perfect freedom that may
lead me to a semi-perfect relationship that my equally
imperfect acquaintances may not perfectly approve of,
so I resign myself to yet another menial, less-than-perfect day.
The hours tick by slowly, and rush-hour traffic is at its
absolute worst. When I finally make it home to my affordable
apartment, I am sorely tempted to simply collapse on my
bed and sleep the late afternoon and evening away.
But I can't.
Tomorrow a huge business project is due, and I still need
to correspond with someone who is in charge of the main part
of the said project and has not yet fulfilled his share of responsibility.
This done, I plop on the couch, exhausted.
A rather dusty novel sits on the side table, one which had been
my favorite during my youth. Perhaps a quick read wouldn't hurt
before a nap before dinner.
Soon I am lost in the old favorite's prose that had so richly
nourished my adolescent need to know that there was
some sort of order and truth in this world, and not everything
had to be seen through a cynical eye.
My soul is relieved of the heavy burden of routine that had
made it dusty and worn. Now it is neatly polished and shines,
shines like the sun on the summer solstice.
Forget a nap. I'm reading.

A Mother's Hope

The tiny, fleshy thing reaches out,
attempting with all its might to grasp
onto something sure and solid in this
world of infinite uncertainties,
something that will keep it anchored
amidst the storms and whirlwinds
that have yet to reveal themselves.
Such dainty, almost delicate softness
there is to this smooth, dimpled paw,
the nails shining under the soft yellow
lamp light glowing calmly above it.
But this is no weakling- though in
comparison to others, it is the most
vulnerable and defenseless thing to
have ever entered this world- no, it
clings to my finger with a fist of iron,
unwilling and loath to part with its grip
on this one sure thing, this one solid
hold on something that it trusts
wholeheartedly to keep it safe through
the treacherous nights and calescent days.

All around is peace and silence, now,
if only for this moment, this passing glance
of eternity, here in the dark blue cushions
of the inherited rocking chair
three generations back.
And she gurgles sleepily, an accepted sign
of weariness so early on in her intrepid days,
for truly, one must possess bravery and courage
to face this world, this earth, alongside others
who would wish to harm, to injure, if only
to the end of self-gain and prideful fulfillment.
Soon, too soon, she will grow into a beautiful
young woman, a lovely budding rose just
beginning to reveal the deep, vibrant color within
and display all her inner charm and grace to
the one who will vow to keep her in comfort,
in poverty, in wellness and illness, until
the very end of eternity itself.

But for now, all is calm and quiet,
as she, my living hope, slumbers serenely in her crib.

Tag!

And here's the adrenaline
pumping through my veins
with a temporary spike to
better urge my sore and tired
muscles past their breaking point
and encourage my heart to
work double time, just to keep up
with the superhuman speed at which
everything seems to pass by
in a blur of color and brightness,
shiny and dull, dull as the sky filled
with gloomy storm clouds that do not
break, but build up with darkness
and tension until it's all too much
and all of it comes bursting out
in small pellets of clear blue and
shining grey streaks pelting everything
within reach, soaking it all in a heartbeat.

And here are the butterflies
flitting around in my stomach,
twisting my nerves in an awful sort of way,
a way that makes me want to cry and laugh
and shout all at the same time,
a way that almost doubles me over for lack
of coherent thought except for the impulsing
signals sent to my brain faster than lightning
or the speed of light across the galaxy
radiating from the cold, blazing stars
in the firmament scattered in a velvet case,
swallowed whole by those empty voids
with no thought or emotion or cares
for thinking, feeling beings that still hope for
something better, something bigger,
something brighter, something at least halfway
decent for survival on another rocky
sphere hurtling around its lifesource,
a star that burns far brighter than any of
those pathetic tiny specs in the far, far distance
with no meaning or memory attached.

And here are the stumblings,
the natural consequences of such
exertions so early on in the game-
and now the very breath in my lungs seems
to work against me, alongside the headwind,
so strong against my pumping arms and legs,
and all around me appears to be flying
ahead of me, and I, I am going backwards,
reeling away from my goal just around
the tall oak tree a hundred years old,
older than me or anyone I know,
older, even, than the city of which it is now
rightful property.

And here, I must stop,
rest,
breathe,
and run again,
slower,
too slow.

You're it!

Mindless Questioning

Why is the sky blue?
What are the primary colors made of?
How does a clock keep ticking
if it has no battery?
What charges a battery, anyway?
If all the world were flat,
than how would we know it
if someone disappeared
off the face of the earth?
Would we remember more
if we kept no written records
but passed everything down orally?
But wouldn't a lot of important
details be left out?
Why are emotions so confusing?
Miss Mary, how does your garden grow?
Do you still have your blue
cockle shells and silver bells?
And what, pray tell, is the purpose
of a flower garden with only
polished rocks around the rim?
Could you still hold your breath
for thirty seconds under water
if thirty seconds were more than a
day of time?
And what if the hours we use to measure
out our days and weeks and months and years
were only a split second,
half of a half second
of time in the eternities?
How long is eternity?
Is it a blink of an eye?
Or the longest day?
Did we get the mail this morning,
or will the mailman come later this afternoon?
Do you think there will ever be
a chance for true love to bloom
and blossom like Miss Mary's cockle shells?
Have you ever read Jane Austen?
Ever been lost in the poetic prose of her writing?
Have you ever fantasized about
jumping off a waterfall
just to rise up and soar among the misty clouds?
What does it take for someone to reach
their breaking point?
How can you stand there, looking on
as if you would wish to join in, but cannot bear
to tear yourself away from the printed wallpaper?

And here ends my thought process for the day.

An Autumn Painting

Can you see all the colors? The colors!

How bright and vibrant they are

against the autumn sky!

Can you see all the colors stretch on
past the round of the world as far
as leaves can fall or drift
down to the soft and fertile ground.
Can you see all the colors dance? Oh, how they dance!
Waving so brilliantly in the waltzing breeze,
tangoing across the bright blue ballroom
in a flurry of grace and spontaneity.
Can you see all the colors fly
past the sentinels of dawn,
painting each a varied shade of pink
and gold and purple, in preparation for
the grand orb's noble entrance from its
journeys around the world.
Can you see all the colors sketch out
the map for those migratory silhouettes
that make their way from their homeland
to their winter quarters in a season
of rushing air traffic and crisp mornings
begun with a crosswind and ruffled feathers
and honks to keep moving forward to the
haven from the chilling white frost.
Can you see all the colors dive?
What nimbleness they all possess!
There, one flips thrice, and look! another
spins 'round its fellow in a gamboling
airborne whirl, accompanied by the ever present draft.
Can you see all the colors in joy,
celebrating this wondrous time
of vivid oranges, wild reds, deep royal violets
and stunning azure blues,
all splattered across the pavement of gold,
glancing off the benevolent gaze of the shining sun,
radiating from the undersides of velvet leaves,
crunching underfoot and tossed into
the welcoming sky, a window stained with
such jubilant glowing embers,
starkly contrasting its own unchanging
electric hues.
Can you see all the colors around you
swirling 'round your face and entangling your hair
in a playful manner so as to tempt your nature
to come and frolic alongside them,
and escape the drudgery of routine and schedule,
calling you to a game of soccer, football, catch,
anything that relieves the gray monotony that so often
takes hold of the working men and women, caught up
in the necessity of making a living.
These all the colors take and show the light
and delight of the life around them that so quickly
passes by in a blur of days and months and years,
the joy that comes from living outside the cubicle and getting out
among the healthy trees and flowers and fresh, brisk air,
and see all the bright color of life.

The Gilded Lilies

There is a place beyond the mountains
Past the rippling hills of green
Far west of the sandy desert
Where only the birds have seen

Such beauty that is beyond compare
Of woodland stream or sanded beach
And even the great blue lake
Cannot hope to pass its reach

For there beyond the mountains
Past the rippling emerald hills
Lies west of the arid desert
The meadow with gold and silver

So rich and abundant with luxury
Grown in the form of small blossoms
With dainty, thin, soft things for petals
Worth more than a thousand sums

For hours upon end one could gaze at the sight
Of so many of nature's rich hues
But the most precious view above all
Is a glimpse of the dawn off the dew

Perhaps one day you may travel across
The mountains and hills so lush
And pass beyond the barren desert
To see the golden oasis plush

And thence perchance you may reap the reward
Of making the journey so far
To revel in the glorious sight
That surpasses all others that are

You may truly lie 'mongst the gilded lilies
And smell their sweet scent so pure,
Gaze upon the sapphire sky
To feel no place so secure

As this the land of beauty without any end
As far as it stretches beyond
The horizon far off crowned with gleaming sun
Whose rays no finer king has donned

And there you may sit, you may lie in the grace
Of such fine, charming works of the earth
Forever to stay in such a pleasant state
'Til you are no more sensible to their worth

There is a place beyond the mountains
Past the rippling hills of green
Far west of the sandy desert
Where only the birds have seen

Such beauty that is beyond compare
Of woodland stream or sanded beach
And even the great blue lake
Cannot hope to pass its reach

Quiet

All she needs is a moment of quiet,

a moment of silence to collect her thoughts.

Just a minute or two to close her eyes,

and empty her mind of the daily clutter

that so often litters the floor of reason.

This is the best part of her day,

when the sun begins to dip below the horizon

and the clouds are tinted pink like cotton candy

and the sky is streaked with light lilac

on top of a dark cerulean canvas

and the birds twitter quietly to their young

to sleep, to rest, for the great gold light

is leaving the sky, and the silver eye of night

will rapidly succeed its daytime counterpart.

This is the great part of her day,

when she can sit out on her porch under 

the dusky glow of eventide and enjoy the chirpings

and sweet music of the crickets and katydids

hiding in her rosebushes and great oak tree leaves

the color of a richly hued emerald with delicate veins

running across a fuzzy landscape of soft, single, upright

blades of grass so prolific as an ancient forest.

This is the calm part of her day,

when the stars sprinkle out of the raven sky,

arrayed around the moon like attendants

waiting on their great lady- Diane, Phoebe, Artemis-

whose sure aim has not yet proven false

across the centuries, nay, even nigh on four millennia,

whose bow has yet to be broken.

This is the reflective part of her day,

when she takes a moment as nature's nightly performance

goes on to play out as it is wont to do,

and ponders on her most inner thoughts, those which,

if looked at and made known to another, would seem

to be naught but the things of fancy, the inventions of whim,

but to her are deemed the most prized above all.

All she needs is a moment of quiet.

Come, Abide

Here, come, and I will keep you steady.
Reach out, and I will take your hand.
Grasp my wrist; I will not let you fall.
Do not fear, for I will with you stand.

Along a winding path we walk,
but we are not alone.
There are sharp thorns and tangled branches,
but our guide knows the way.
You may trip among the low-laying brambles,
but I won't let you be left behind.

Here, come, and I will keep you steady.
Reach out, and I will take your hand.
Grasp my wrist; I will not let you fall.
Do not fear, for I will with you stand.

Perhaps you may lose sight of the end,
but here, a compass to point you back.
Yes, you will stumble often through the foliage,
but there is a soothing balm to heal your wounds.
It may be that you wish to surrender to hopelessness,
but remember that you have an unlimited support.

Here, come, and I will keep you steady.
Reach out, and I will take your hand.
Grasp my wrist; I will not let you fall.
Do not fear, for I will with you stand.

You may now rest easy,
for our destination is nigh at hand.
Press forward faithfully,
for now you cannot waver.
Abide with me now,
for the prize is close within hand's breadth.

Here, come, and I will keep you steady.
Reach out, and I will take your hand.
Grasp my wrist; I will not let you fall.
Do not fear, for I will with you stand.

Runaway Umbrella

Oh dear- it is windy,
and the rain falls
like shimmering sheets
of silver plating,
hammering obnoxiously
on the ladybug red
of my umbrella,
almost causing my step
to falter numerous times,
and land me in
the sloshing gutter,
a thin soup of thick mud
and refuse draining down
its subterranean pipes,
soon to meet back with
its motherland, the ocean
(this I learned from my
childhood friend Nemo,
and thus know it to be true),
whence it may swirl in eddies
large and small, perhaps to
amuse itself by confounding
a small fishing boat
or large cruise ship
with the currents it is
capable of creating that
may yet prove stronger
than a structure of wood
and metal and man-made brawn.
A playful gust wrests
my foul weather friend
from my iron grip with
invisible fingers like wrenches,
and I am immediately drenched
in the precipitation's
endless onslaught of drops
like bullets, small and piercing,
with the stinging nip of
icy chills that travel up
and down my spinal cord,
causing a tremendous headache
and numb, clammy feet.
Racing after my now-dripping
promise of a slightly drier head,
my hands are a poor substitute
for the job best prescribed
to the one custom-made
for this kind of work,
and are soon cold as my
frozen feet encased in their
sodden water-proof
brown leather boots.
I make a mental note to
not buy this brand again.
Borne upwards by a mischievous
gale, the polished wood handle
is just beyond my wrinkled,
prune-like fingertips,
seeming to tease with vindictiveness,
unrelenting and ruthless
int his game of keep-away.

I am not amused.

Dashing across
the open street now,
my umbrella is just visible
as a speck of vibrant crimson
amidst the drab, blended
neutrals of the city.
At last, tired of its charade,
the whirlwind lets down
my rightful property in a
blessedly low branch of
a budding sapling
just ten feet away.
Grateful, I shake off the
excess water droplets
from the edges, and
continue on my way down
the puddled sidewalk,
with a glimpse of a gleaming
rainbow just peeking out
of the clouds behind me.

Night

There are things
that happen at night,
when all the world is
enshrouded with the cold
ebony cloak of twilight,
and all living things ought to be
at rest, readying for the day
to follow,
but some do not.

There are things that steal away,
steal away in the night.
There are things that scurry and hide,
hide away in the night.
There are things that ought not to be,
yet happen in the night.

There are masked faces
and muffled footsteps
dogging the way of an innocent
making her way home,
late from a long working shift.
There are gloved hands
and disguised persons
feigning friendship and amiability
toward an unsuspecting victim,
naive and pure, soon to be devoured
by the malevolent lusts of whim.

There are things that steal away,
steal away in the night.
There are things that scurry and hide,
hide away in the night.
There are things that ought not to be,
yet happen in the night.

There are true horrors in the night,
preying upon insecurity and doubts,
the shadows that cause the child
to jump, the fledgling to start;
the sounds in the closet,
the footsteps on the street,
the way the moonlight reflects upon
a shiny black something in the
gloomy corner.

There are things that steal away,
steal away in the night.
There are things that scurry and hide,
hide away in the night.
There are things that ought not to be,
yet happen in the night.

But the worst frights
to enter the heart and mind
are those which are real.
Those happenings that can cause
the most sturdy of men and women
to shake and tremble with fear,
revulsion, and pity,
for these are no imaginations of
a childish fiction, but tangible,
discernible, visible,
and the victims
are voiceless.

Busy

She is a river,
sprinting down the mountainside
in rushing rivulets of blue
and silver and white,
never once stopping to rest from
such a swift and hasty dash,
never once pondering
upon the reason for her flight.

A Night to Dance, Part Two

My breath catches in my throat
as I gaze upon this my savior
from complete solitude,
this knight who has defeated
my plaguing companion, loneliness.
Remembering my manners
that had been drilled
into my very being since I was
a little child, I curtsy,
my very frame trembling
like a dried up leaf
on an autumn oak that knows
it must fly away on the wicked wind,
no zephyr, never to return home.

He returns my feeble attempt
at courtesy with a noble bow,
proper in that it does not mock,
as previous others have been,
nor does it steep too low
like a drowning whale,
nor is it only a mere slight incline
of the head.
In every aspect I find it the
most perfect bow this evening.

"How do you do?"
This very sentence sends chills
of delight racing up and down my spine,
and I find my lips returning a gentle
smile, forming the proper response.
He extends his gloved hand to my own
shrouded in white gossamer,
and we begin to waltz to our own music,
here up on the balcony
under the glinting white stars
and radiant moon.
Our steps are smooth and perfectly
synchronized, like some great
clockwork, effortless and fluid,
even graceful. We exchange names
and titles, and discover that we are
one another's equivalent in standing.
Such a lovely, exquisite, faultless example
of a man have I never had the great
privilege to make my acquaintance.

Long after, it seems, the party below
has ended, we are still dancing
under the slowly descending silver disc.
Abruptly, my new idol pauses our step,
looking around in agitation.
I gaze at him inquiringly, rather upset
that my fleeting impression
of friendship has come so soon
to an end.
He glances quickly at me,
seeming to drink in every detail
in such a short span of half a second.

Then, in such quick succession,
I am made aware of several events,
all occurring within
a moment of the other, like a
hummingbird's rapidly flapping wings.
First, a dark shadow on the slated roof
darts to another equally shaded place,
agile as a housecat stalking an ill-fated mouse.
Second, I hear a rustling behind me,
in the curtain, a soft susurration
akin to the whisperings of meadow flowers
under a silent breeze.
Third, a sharp pain explodes upon the
back of my skull, causing the
world around me to shift,
and colors to distort my stumbling vision.
Cold marble welcomes me into
open arms, and I nestle close,
every nerve in my left arm screaming
to run, to shout,
but I cannot function.

Before I close my eyes in sleep,
the shiny boot of my dear
gleams in the darkened sky,
proclaiming the coming of dawn.

A Night to Dance, Part One

Here up on the balcony
the sounds below seem
as far as the ocean in a desert,
with just the barest vibrations
humming their way up
the spiral staircase
and through the thick curtains.
It is a pleasant waltz
the band is playing now,
a familiar one from my childhood
that I used to daydream to,
imagining a night
much like this one,
with the ballroom full to bursting,
soft silks and ruffled lace
like gossamer adorning all the
fashionable ladies' corset-made forms,
crystal goblets delicately tinkling
and jeweled skirts and necks
twinkling in the starlight,
and the soft murmur
of conversation in the garden.
Tonight, it seems,
is a fulfillment of that long-held
dream of childish fantasy.

And yet, all is not
as I would have it;
for there is, in my heart,
an element missing.

Despite my efforts
to plunge myself into the
massive shifting ocean of taffeta
and lace,
notwithstanding my attempts
to converse intelligently with
the great lords and ladies,
in spite of endeavoring to appear
as the great and gentle hostess
and lady that my mother
had reared me to be,
not one of the faces I encountered
possessed a single line
in their visage that bespoke
a friendly, amiable disposition,
but rather the polar opposite
of contempt, disdain,
and a vicious foible
to smoothly lie and deceive
in order to gain a higher placement
with the loftier nobility.

Gazing out upon
the winking garden lights,
I find my spirits sinking ever lower,
ever deeper,
reducing so to the point
that the beginnings of salty diamonds
appear in the corner of my eyes.
A sigh escapes my lungs,
a silent plea to the passive night
to release me from this
involuntary isolation.

Just as I resign
to a night of seclusion,
a rustle of the embroidered drapery
catches my sharp attention.
From behind the cloth divider
appears the greatest glimmer of hope
that I have had all evening,
which appears to me
the most beautiful and heroic form.

It is a young man,
about my own age,
muscular and trim,
and finely dressed to boot.
His hair is wavy and thick,
falling across his clear forehead
in the most pleasant way possible,
just above a pair of the most
exotic and expressive eyes
in a hue most akin to the ocean on
a perfect sunny day in a tropical cove.

A Line

keep calm when life happens

as it does most days of the year

Marsh Lights

How gently now the lights do bob
up and down in the balmy air
suspended by naught in sight-
neither hand nor sconce
doth claim the golden glow.

"Watch carefully, my son, and note
the pattern and habit of these
the floating lights.
Can you see- now, there it is!-
see that one that winked out
and in again?"

"I see it, papa, I truly do;
and is it always so with these?"

"Always, dear boy, since
a time before- long before-
you had ever a thought
of entering this enchanted world."

"But what is it that holds them there?
Is there a rope from which these
lamps do swing? A piece of fairy gossamer
that keeps them steady in the air?"

"I do not know, I cannot tell.
I am so sorry, my dear son. This
has ever been a mystery, and even
the wisest men in town do not possess
the knowledge which you seek."

"But Grandpapa- he knows, yes?
I heard him speak of it not a day ago.
He said that these are the lights
of the dead, the spirits that protect
our home, our village, our family
from the evil that lurks within the bog."

"Grandpapa is a such a storyteller;
he was a bard, you know, when
he traveled the land."

"But is he right?"

"I suppose he is, in part...
Yes, in part he is correct, at least,
so far as any village myths are concerned.
Legends tell of a hero long ago
who rescued an entire city
from a grave and terrible destruction.
In return, their spirits guard his tomb."

"Who was the hero, papa?
Do I know him?"

"He would not be in your lessons,
son."

"Then he was not famous?"

"Not enough for a school book, no."

"I should think such a deed
would be worthy of the praises
of the entire world! If I were him,
I should want my name known
throughout the villages and towns
across the plains and hills and oceans."

"Indeed, his act was worthy of such note."

"Why did he not spread the news?"

"I think he preferred to remain
a humble, unknown doer of good,
my son."

"Well, I think he is great, greater
than any wise man in the town."

"Me too, son."

How gently now the lights do bob
up and down in the balmy air
guarding the secret
of the shallow marsh
wherein their savior doth lie.

Excerpt from my "Verse for the Road"

Outside my door today I found

a winding path that led too far for my eyes to see,

just wide enough for me and a few thoughts to gather.

So I set off with a spring in my step,

the lure of adventure and mystery leading on

to strange roads and long-forgotten avenues.

How Beautiful the Day

How beautiful the day
when the sun rises early
in a splendor of mango
and strawberry cream,
and the sky lightens
from a deep, pensive slumber
to an ocean in suspension
over the earth
with streaks of clouds
like cotton and paint
smeared across its dyed canvas,
and the silhouettes of trees-
dark and joyous shadows
that they are-
reveal their true colors
in a brilliant display of springtime,
drops of sparkling diamond dew
still clinging to each budding pine,
each delicate vein,
and a ruffle of warmth
flows through the wild meadow,
where daffodils, lilies, and violets
have just taken root, striving
to make their way past
the moist, fertile earth,
heavy with that early-morning shower,
a daily gift which spring presents
in modesty and pleasure,
accompanied at times
with a gentle, soothing zephyr,
or, when she is passionate,
a roaring gale and sprinkling hail,
overshadowed with thunderheads
dark with anticipation and excitement,
and a flash of violet lightning too,
just to accentuate
her token of coming.
How beautiful the day
when the world spins round its axis
at its leisure, letting the seasons
come and go in perfect liberty,
and all things come to a close
with a matchless sunset
sinking in grapefruit and pomegranate,
giving way to a violet sky
painted with roses and
scattered with gems
sparkling and glimmering across
the dark expanses of the endless
mystery called space-
empty, perhaps, but certainly filled
with pictures sketched by the gods
of their favored mortals, lively still,
and trailing through the heavens
each unique history and tale,
legends of old-
this, then, is the grandest end
to the grandest beginning
of the grandest day
that ever was,
a mere score and four hours long,
but lingering still
in the memory of those who
took the time
to cherish each moment,
each grand moment,
which then can be retold
and enjoyed, in part,
by the next generation, and
posterity ever after, until
the most perfect day that ever was
comes again
in the most perfect beginning,
entering in quietly, nobly, gloriously,
continuing in such a fashion,
until the most perfect end,
the most perfect sunset, arrives
in a matching nobility and glory,
falling into a perfect,
quiet,
noble,
glorious
grave.

To My Mom

I remember
when I was little
my mom would always
cover me up
before bed.
I would lie down
on my twin bed mattress
and wait for first the sheet-
white cotton
with bright flowers
and purple butterflies-
then the fluffy comforter,
red and pink and green,
so thick and heavy
with all the safety of
homely comforts.
And I never wanted
to get out until morning,
for then would the spell
be lost,
and no one could ever
recreate the snug closeness
of a few blankets
and a pillow
like my mom,
least of all
myself.
So would I fall asleep
in that warm, close
hug from heaven,
delivered
by my one childhood idol,
and dream
in childish
bliss.

Edge of the Earth

When the great orb has faded from the sky
And Artemis glows silver with her bow
And all the flow'rs' bright plumage seems to die
And all earth slumbers, unaware of foe-
That silent presence that penetrates all
And poisons dreams so sweet with bitter bile
And causes the unwary one to fall
Into a pit of bitterness and guile-
Then does Apollo's chariot of flame
Rise o'er the horizon in vic'try
With fiery shield to cast away the name
So whispered in the Grecian mystery.
And ever will this cycle never cease
'Til all worlds shall perish in burning peace.