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?
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.
Cloistered in spaces unseen
gifts in crevices found
the colors of life grow wild in my life.
Rising in strength to become
a hanging cluster of goodness
lingering in shadows
but still hanging on.
I’ve waited for these things,
the beauty of life beneath
an awkward sun burns
to touch pavement beneath tired feet.
Coming days, months, years
awaken in their splendor
to find me waiting with open hands.
Tiny beings like dreams
wait to be plucked from the fertile mind,
and I return to find
the places I’d forgotten
still stand in glory,
the figment of want fulfilled.
This image, if it sticks, is a banana tree in my yard. It has been growing for years, yet never produced. Imagine my surprise to see the wisps of purple flower petals upon the ground…and in the tree, the gift of fruit, finally. I now have four bunches on four different trees. I love bananas, but this bounty is too much. My neighbors will be well fed.
sliding down paper tongues,
nestled amongst forgotten tomes
of history remembered
in dusty attics.
Sharp tongue slays the beast
of a procrastination hour
left lingering beneath the quicksilver moon,
waiting for the crystal cleanse,
the heart hastens to grasp
the birth of an image.
Who we become when no one sees
the hands moving through the story’s rise and fall,
splayed like paint across barren walls,
we write our future in the clouds
that descends over the light
of luna’s delicious irony,
here and gone,
the void deep and wide.
Hasten the mind to bring forth,
in reason and madness the spirit toys
with the lopsided circumstance the creation rising,
becoming one of itself-
a silly song sings of a child’s logic,
and nimble fingers draw the way
down the page of a new story born.