Seasons Swing (1/2020)

Seasons Swing (1/2020)

under me.
Live and see,
go listening.

Out of reach
on the beach.
if waves are free.

Mountains left craters,
didn’t know where to turn.
Oceans ran to rivers,
only to watch them burn.

Flying feathers fled
before the day went back to bed.
In the sand,
I just feel different.

Distance leaves
before me.
Lost at sea,
then glistening.

Silent feet
on a beach
watching these
seasons swing.

Conductor in the Caboose (1/2020)

Conductor in the Caboose (1/2020)

Two leaves danced off a tree
to get down, see what’s out there.
Tangoing, different speeds,
to build crowns, get some fresh air.

Two drops left on a train
to move on, felt all they’d seen.
Conductor, in front of rain,
sings his song, humming, ‘I know what you mean.’

Throwing more love to the fire,
melt steel and leave storms behind us.
A tired man in a cap tracks back to the caboose
and sits down for the first time in a while.
Two drops behind him.
Raindrops on railroads.
Conductor stuck under a life he’s left,
and the rain just rolls up his windshield.

Two hands twirl on a clock
to call up perspiring rays.
Dialing time ‘til it talks,
singing songs, humming, ‘to sunnier days.’

Two rails run to the west
to slow down, breathe, and feel free.
Gamboling through bad and best,
like two leaves dancing off of a tree.

Lining up, suddenly.
Dancing the same direction.

Prairie Tale (1/2020)

Prairie Tale (1/2020)

The morning in the attic,
where life pours it’s porridge into static,
sparking a flame.

The shadows in the lightning,
where warmth wins in winter when its biting,
firing up home.

Give a sign, hidden hint.
Tell no lies, force the flint.
Anyone, anywhere, could be doing anything right now,
so why don’t we climb back up to our cloud?

We were up there, before it rained.
Watched the ground somehow evaporate.
Now my nose says it’s been sunny for days,
so why don’t we climb back up to our cloud?

The music in the silence,
where sound makes it’s makers question guidance,
whispers a note.

The calm found in the stampede,
where kind gives the givers just what they need,
centered through storms.

No electricity.
Working toward the old ways.
Life cookin’ on the back left burner.
Hum, buzz, happy’s derived from darkness,
surrounded by silence, a whisper, then a smile.

Crooked Attic (1/2020)

Crooked Attic (1/2020)

Tuesday’s filled organizing the pantry in my mind.
Walked to things I’d left behind.
Sorted, sort of, thoughts bubbling
like soda in a pale paper bag.
All of the things that I once had.

I’ve never known what I’m doing
so it all feels like nothing.
Can’t put it into words, naturally?
I don’t know a thing.
Only believe what I say I know,
so I am left believing.

Life’s weird to me.
Everything I get close to seems to disappear everyday,
so I push, throw, say stay away.
I’m weird to me.

Top shelf fell to the floor of the attic in my head.
Reached for thoughts that I had said.
Bending bent things, words folded
like worn wings trying to make good time.
All of the things that I once rhymed.

I never know what I’m doing so it feels like nothing.
Believe I’ve written that before,
would have to see to know.
Suppose that’s why I’m in the pantry
trying to figure out how I do what I’m doing.
Don’t think too much about it.
I think too much about it.
It’s life, it’s weird to me.

Tiptoe Dreams (1/2020)

Tiptoe Dreams (1/2020)

Gently float around a little ball in space,
trying to have an impact.
Inspire a little taste.

Up there, watching the planets.
Down here, right about where I am.
I’ve never done some things that I can.

How could it be
that the littlest part is the most important piece?

She’s somewhere, drinking her warm wine,
never cared about the color of the sky.
I swear she used to send me poetry.
Like her life was poetry,
or it was all a dream.

Why then, not slow down a bit and win the race?
Steady hearts will move mountains,
knowing all anger is waste.

Beneath, feeling the footprints
above tiptoeing on me.
I’ve always wondered if they walked free.

She’d send me poetry,
and if it winds up that this all a dream,
then I don’t wanna wake up. I don’t wanna leave.

Coffee Stained Sunset (1/2020)

Coffee Stained Sunset (1/2020)

She’s the blinds which I turn
day and night, altering it all.

She’s the kite that I fly
wind will bite, but never break this line.

I understand it all, I really do.
Time’s a doorway I lean on,
just holding it open for you.

This warm desert winter,
sunshine shows up and leaves
to come back around again.
I’m looking up to the sky.

She’s the coffee I drink,
nice and cold, I think, I want it all.

She’s the leaves on the trees,
they will fall, but they’ll land right on me.

Always land right on me.
Understand, I really do.
Pushes and pulls, the wind it bends,
I hold on tight to my best friends.

Shoes Off, Please (1/2020)

Shoes Off, Please (1/2020)

Just a waste of space.
This thing has no use.
That thing could be anyone,
just a couple of shoes.

Such a lazy thing.
Cannot find it’s groove.
Anyone could tie that lace.
What happens when they move?

Fill ‘em, they’ve carried all this weight.
Grown older, feet feel it on the shoulders.
Walking, it’s too heavy, the wait.
Guess these were born to be movin’.

Walk on something else.
Heart ho-hums, and mind’s a little louder without her.
Suppose shoes were made for movin’.

Circles throw out time.
Never seem to leave.
Same problem, back around,
simply makes a mind grieve.

Brilliant little brain.
Come out of the dark.
No one’s out to get you.
This thing needs your smarts.

Shoes getting older.
Head to toe, the weight, plus what’s on shoulders.
Sometimes waiting gets too heavy for a head.
Shoes, worn soles, they keep on walking
through the nice and the cold days.