Still

When eyelids dip deeply and
breathing finds peace,
muscles sigh sweetly
and mind
starts to feast
on ideas still folded and
stored high in haste
unwrapped now in
secret
and savored in taste;
Then music spills fluid,
staining the air
with both brilliant patterns
and memories so fair;
The richest of moments
that grant me my
fill
are those I rest softly
imagining,
still.

Verity

For discussion, dignity,
and the graining of grace
less is always
infinitely more
Practice restraint to find
purpose in peace;
only wings of sincerity
can spread
and then soar.

Untitled

From an inky sort of blackness
comes a rainbow's sacred sound
where eyes beaming as portals
well their wisdom from the ground

Untold stories hiding endings
that we aren't yet meant to know
walled by egos (not by bridges)
mute our movement, dam our flow

It's a frightening kind of cavern
with familiar shadows long
yet only absence of all light
allows emergence, free and strong

If love contains our knowledge,
all these stories in our skin,
our beings will only widen
as knowing works within

A gentle inner landscape
awakens slowly to its task;
Pleasure applauds purpose
that surrenders present,
honors past




"Knowing grows and love expands to contain it. Love is just the skin of knowing."
- William Paul Young, from "The Shack"

Just Me

It is for
tender mornings
I blink to see
new chance dawning
to rise as we
In the youngest light
too faint to hear
my muscles murmur
I'm still here
New day air
eager and fresh
peels dreams away in
ribboned flesh
In later hours
real tones reveal
sun exposure,
cracks unsealed
And despite that fighting
biting fear
I'll rise again
just me,
still here

Vacillate Virtue

Does it bite? Does it burn?
Does it chew? Does it churn?

Does it buzz? Does it crawl?
Does it push? Does it maul?

Is it red? Is it fast?
When it comes, does it last?

When the eyes of those near
wince in hurt, close in tears
Do you stop?

Do you see?

Do you know
you're not free?

Thirst

Waves of intermittent glee
crest and crash away
from me. A silver sunset,
a bare shoreline, the languid,
liquid arch of time. Love wets
my life in seasoned forms;
iced hard in cold and freed
in warmth. Much like to earth
it sinks its knees,
rushes roots and sprinkles
trees, boasts blue mountains,
sings in springs, swells in clouds
and sleets in wings; the wish for
love to stay
one way, captured, cupped,
for countless days,
flows with dreams
of being drenched
in one final, fluid,
exquisite quench.

Some Ways

There was no unfettered whole for
him; a bootstrap without an ankle.
It was only in inebriated ecstasy
that clarity revealed itself to
his jagged consciousness. Among the
seasonal mercies, his tepid attempts
resulted in only unmarked segments
of time, underutilized.

Given her generous inclination towards
amnesty, she willingly remained a silent
servant, humble in her purpose and ruined
of romantic apparitions. In some
ways, you could call them the
perfect match.

Edge

With ginger determination she allowed one splendid
glance at that pure, pristine slab of water, so calm
and deceptive. You almost drowned once, she reminded
her mind, and the inner landscape
has just dried from that flood. Natural disasters
have all license to annihilate absolutely, she thought,
yet somehow amongst the wretched rubble there always remains
some sustained life, called to re-root where everything
is suddenly different.
A slippery periphery of sparkling affection steeped up
sharply from the water’s edge. She still wanted to surrender
to that exquisite tumble; in the water splash each inch
of herself into rippling circles, feel her flesh lapped and licked
by liquid love, drenched in the depths of tender
trust and satiated shared experience.
But no, no! Remember the near drowning? The flailing
gasps, the stolen oxygen, the sudden stunting of all senses
save icy numbness and paralyzing pain?
Are we meant to return
to such challenges? Would he?

Yesterday

I wore a white dress, a gift
from my mother that rippled and
curled in lissome longing for a lost
time. In my lap I traced a friendly
flower bud, aching with
acquaintance. It was possibly
a pattern from another dress I wore
when I was little
and my bitsy body simply
wiggled away from its woes. I have
the same haircut today as I did
when I was three. I don’t remember
fear from then. Now, it leaves my eyes red
and in all that white I must look to others
like a recreant rat.
Outside, erect against the wind
as my dress bracketed my body I pictured
my skin as flour. It was whispered away,
spread and stuck snugly in new
crevices, carried to unknown
locations. I knew then that feeling tremendous
and tiny are the same, and despite the parting
of my particles, I would always keep with me
those white gifts
from my mother.

For You

I want to write a
nimble poem,
a shiny web of
words, without fluff or
fanfare, grounded and
drifting like the sands
of the Earth.
I want my delicate
collection to touch you,
tenderly, strum you like
harp strings; cold fingers,
a tickling chill, then the
envelope of the
warmest chord.
I want this poem to
reveal everything and
nothing about me, to
hold answers that only
unveil a crisp curiosity
that pesters
with new questions.
I want the whisper
of this poem to graze,
hot on your skin and cool
in your core.
I want this poem to
love you, ask you, hear
you. This poem
is what I crave
for you.

To (K)no(w)

Limitless love frays in threaded shreds
of hope as cooler days blink wide to light and these
humid hideouts provide only sticky space
and damp regret.

Old messages rang familiar and weathered in
heavy heartbeats, while still
I stood that softening ground, bare,
and for much time now, unobstructed.
Save me the endless chorus, the souring
tune. Those sounds insult in tones more toxic
than any solitary silence.

Weary, this leaden chest has now allowed
itself a proper burial, sunk swiftly amid
snapping bubbles and heaved by unseen currents,
assigned forever to bereft barnacles and a
silted bed; inside, left locked the loss.

To Yes

Silky melancholy echoes under dripping
notes, like accordion droplets falling
with grace and clever tragedy into
the widest, coolest barrel.

Sinking blinks dip with knees and
swaying hips, arms reaching outward,
forward, skyward for
that single, sonant grip.

Humming gently from the corner you
kept a concerned eye, half
enchanted and half perched to flee;
knowing far before she
these notes were not to be clasped:
these echoes began years before under
desperate skies; sounds meant to land now
as sighs, no longer secrets but clear, unfeigned
markings on a clean and
fertile inner landscape.

From then came the original and now
it’s prettier twin sings
her sweet responses. Twisted in piano, trumpet
and tongue, the staccato, allegro,
crescendo clues
to yes.