Romancing The Dawn

Bouncing over clouds that bare a silver lining,
Darkness bows it’s head to the morning sun shining,

Moving onward now as my feet seek their way,
Through the dawn pushing night into a new day,

Brushing back the cobwebs of my sticky nest of dream,
Sipping coffee and contentment with a maple’s tired lean,

Sleepy thoughts cascading like water over stone,
Slowly softening the edges of sharp protruding bone,

Wind whispers in the grass by the roadside that I tread,
Sweet lassitude eluding me as I quit my empty bed,

Wrapped up in robes of morning I am humming to myself,
The heart in my pocket is my currency and wealth,

With a heavy weight I carry all the demons on my shoulder,
Angels seem so scarce now with my body growing older,

Joints creaking like a forest in a gentle autumn breeze,
I cannot battle logic from down here on my knees,

A poet with no pages heading off to puch the clock,
Weapons of mass distraction haunt the shadows where I walk,

A lonely keening wail uttered only by my pen,
As silence settles settles on my tongue where kisses once had been.

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No Man’s Land

I could dance to the tunes you are not singing,

Sway to the breath passing silent lips,

Harmonize with melodies in wordless eyes,

Lavish myself with your extravagant lack,

 

Ambiguity is buoyancy, above me are the stars,

Ascending sleight of hand and a game of hearts,

Soaring empty expanses of No Man’s Land,

Smiling to myself beneath my tears.

 

 

 

The Way Of The Tiger

Once upon a time, there was a poetic tiger that hunted the wood for obscure phrase and juicy metaphor. This muse of fire wore a black fedora hat and a Carhart jacket with a pouch of Drum rolling tobacco in the breast pocket. The tap of her leather boots was heard at all hours of night through the quiet streets and graveled back roads of a scenic Cascade town, and when she emerged from the wood to prowl the neighborhood she was welcome in most homes. Carrying a bag of notebooks and at least two pens, occasionally a few beers to keep them company, she was known to wander moonlit pathways and perch on the bridge when the sun was just right.

This tiger was solitary, preferring the chuckles of a river to the laughter of campfires. Silence was golden in her green utopia, but not in the mind that held her words. Always twisting, moulding, contorting and exposing her reality, shaping her perspective until her pen was finely honed on the stone of logic.

Knowledge is lonely. When one sees life so grandly, so all encompassing, so much more multifaceted than those around you, it is hard not to make yourself smaller in order to comply. This is what the tiger did. She hid her teeth, covered her stripes in secret pages, and tried to blend in with the herd, but her eyes still shone when the moonlight filled them. Her footprints still showed claws, and she was known to ‘chuff’ or growl beneath her breath. The stretching of her limbs bore a subtle menace in their gracefulness, and she was known to lurk at the edges of the fire light.

The habits of the tiger were still firmly ingrained, and it did not escape the notice of those few she allowed near enough to see her. Rabbits, cocks, dogs, sheep, snakes and pigs, all ran away from the shadow of the Hunter. Something in her demeanor made them uneasy, but they could not say what it was. They asked her to be smaller, normal, more like them… But you can’t teach an olde tiger new tricks. She would just flick her tail with annoyance and pad back into the hills, shooting derisive glances over her shoulder with a green eye- until she crossed the path of another tiger.

She had gone out hunting a bit further a-field that day, in the high desert 4oo miles from her poetic den. Free as a breeze, red hair tied in a warrior’s knot, green eyes flashing mischief, his bold stripes were bared for all to see. She spotted him in passing, but pretended not to notice. She let him stalk her through the jungle of craft booths and tepees, strolling her own path with a hidden smirk. He circled, he analyzed, and at just the right moment, he pounced. She feigned surprise.

He walked with her for a while through the wild unknown, padding behind her through the loam, but never at her side. He listened raptly to the words of Truth that fell from her lips in the moonlight, and growled sweet nothings to her when he thought her asleep. She matched him and transcended him, was captivated and honored by him, but such an offering was too heavy for him to bear… Tigers are by nature, solitary.

She was not surprised when he slunk off one grey morning in the wee hours of dawn, and did not believe him when he said he would return. She was not crushed, she did not lament, but a small piece of her went with him on his travels. She cherished the gift he had unwittingly given her with his companionship, the simple understanding, a person who had “actually seen past the mirror she wore on her chest into the trueness of her eyes…” These and other words did he brand on the surface of her heart. He had SEEN her, and in seeing had allowed her to see herself. Had given her a strength, vindication, acceptance of her self.

The six to her nine, the yin to her yang, the sun to her moon, the sky to her earth, a re-balance of all that had been blurry before. She thanked him in the privacy of her heart, and wished him well.

These days she claims a much different hunting ground, across oceans and mountains she has prowled and sang. Countless starry nights and wayward dreams have come and gone in the passage of years, but she still holds the memory of that tiger. Somewhere, she knows, he holds a hawk on his fist and a bow on his back, slinging arrows over someone else’s ramparts. The thought makes her smile.

She sings “Freedom, oh freedom, well that’s just some people talkin’. We’re prisoners walkin’ through this world all alone…”

Her sandals go flip-flop, the sun tans her hide, and she has no regrets at all.

Learning Anicca

Lying limply in the limelight, of your covetous regard,

Burned by the flames igniting your iris,

Searing into my flesh where I am deeply scared,

The insinuating insatiable virus,

 

Held in my palms hopelessly, like grains of sand,

Memories that trickle away,

On weakened knees I have the strength to stand,

The assault of what you say,

 

A lung full of air with the sweet tang of salt,

Holds my unspoken reply,

In your ignorance I will not judge, nor fault,

I just let it go, and sigh…

Red Is The Color Of Passion

Feeling decadent and sly,

Like a snake sliding across a bed,

Of satin sheets,

Twinkle in my eye,

From pretty words you never said,

Dancing to their beats,

 

Laughing at the waves,

That wash my wandering dirty toes,

In my solitude,

Oh let me count the ways,

These subtle tides will ebb and flow,

Right into you,

 

Sweetly on my lips,

Your name like the song of wind,

In my exhale,

Swaying lonely hips,

To those soft melodies within,

And raise sail,

 

Almost would I…

Leave you hanging on a word,

Sweet torture,

But this red sky,

Claims honesty is preferred,

To the obscured,

 

Sunshine creeps,

Sinuously through the sunset,

On my skin,

The cliff is very steep,

So I am not jumping yet…

Let me in.

Island Time

It’s all rainbows and butterflies,

A sea-salt compromise,

Midnight dip,

Hysterical quip,

Kona coffee on ice,

Heaven’s little slice,

Where the moonlight wanes,

Along with my pains,

Birdsong alarm clock,

Beach side lunch walk,

Steak made on the fire,

A cliff wind lyre,

Dirty happy feet,

Beach towel for a seat,

Nowhere to go,

Grooving on the flow,

I don’t even know the time,

Just don’t seem to mind,

My days revolve around the sun,

And new ways of having fun,

So don’t run with the city and the herd,

Perfection is not a four letter word.

 

Old Lace And Notebook Pages

Lacey curtains of poetry and rhyme, where all the holes in the story somehow make it more beautiful.

Demurely covering the heart of the matter, while exposing tantalizing facts that only inflame the imagination.

Floral patterns in the memory of daisy chains, spiraling tendrils of adjective and flexible lines of facsimile that creep along the border.

Draping this assemblage of promiscuous prose around my bare shoulders on a winter’s eve, dispelling the draft of loneliness.