In between moments

I slip through the clouds,
the bulbous breathing clumps
like cotton in a blue cellophane bag,
high overhead in splendor
that lift my mind from the dirt.
My lingering room of dreams,
where I rest on the pillow of downy dampness
and wave my hand back and forth
up and down on invisible air
on car drives through the thickest night.
These creatures move like a flight of fancy,
carrying my moods like children unseen
and unheard waiting
for release
and these days yank my heart hard,
as I shake my head and wonder
why we cannot be as gentle
as the clouds above that move
in and around themselves
and bring comfort through dark days
when the skies grow stormy,
the culmination of time gives need
for the cleansing of the earth
and the minds of the masses
who have forgotten how to be kind,
how to be giving,
how to be human.
I need the clouds to carry it away
and pour the heartache into the space
of a tired world.

Connecting color

Skies weave lights
waiting for stormy moments,
connecting color across the trees
and leaving me to wonder.
What pushes the balance
locked between two places
riding the line to find
solace in the coming times.
Frenzied minutes pass from dark to light
and I stand beneath the maelstrom
waiting for the passing of the rain,
drip drip against my forehead
as I stare at the beyond and wonder,
will this cleansing change the world?
Hopelessly hopeful
each new day that finds me stirring
my words like broth in a cup,
I sip on the tepid brew
and wish for ice chips to cool the soul.
Rainbows and wonder once stole my heart
and now these days they’re far and few,
but I stand still and wait
anticipating the greater things
at the end of the road.

The one thing I adore about where I live is the skies that come so alive during storms. Occasionally I glimpse a rainbow, and for that, I am grateful.

Awash in beauty

Life moves forward, twisted bumps and turns exhaust

the feelings of uncertainty- here we gather in single formation,

buds on the line weathering storms created,

as indecision inspires the muse of words, spinning out of control she bleeds on parchment and weeps for the skies.

In the middle of nowhere the song rises, reaching ears in prisons without walls, flying high to gather safe,

One bird, two bird, ten come forth to mock as life unfolds,

Minutes, seconds, ticking by in their haphazard way-and I watch before drifting into afternoon slumber, the flowers unfurl from rest,

Uninhibited by the goings-on of us mere mortals who cower, afraid for the invisible madness that may or may not strike, perhaps it is we that now gaze in jealousy of a young cardinal on the line who sings a song,

Flying high and away, things we can only dream of in this hour.

I am watching the unfolding of creation and have found a sacred peace as witness to that which I had forgotten.

I spy greatness in the Orchids, and thus, I am alive to the forgotten calling of allowing.