According to the experts dreams are the creation of our subconscious. Whenever this body of flesh rest, the mind continues to work. If this is true, then the mind, a faculty of the soul, stores and records all of life's events and the emotions that come along with them. It is in the sleep that they are revisited and put on display like the unlocked trunks from the attic spread out on the front lawn for a yard sale. The soul is trying to rid itself, but sometimes it's hard for the mind to let go of it's memorabilia.

A Trip Home

The streets are not as wide or as long as they were before.
Manicured lawns, painted houses and porches
Once filled with the laughter of playing children, all gone.
Disappeared as if aliens had invaded and all the inhabitants had to flee to find refuge. Inhabited now by those who have changed the facade.
Left by those living there day to day by faith.
Faith that could be heard on every corner.
From the stands holding the singing birds and the pulpits that echoed.
These creatures only take, no mind to recycle the knowledge left behind.
By those who left their mark through garden statues.
Only now to be desecrated with the dung of pigeons.
The Main street once dressed for the parades resemble a ghost town.
Howling down the street faint voices of prosperity.
Resurrection needed for a place, of a time and of a people.
Crucified by poverty laid to rest in a tomb of rubble, waiting for an ascension.

Treasure

someone to love you

the way you desire to be loved

loving them the way they desire to be loved

hidden, until you reach to find it

Dusk is soon approaching. The evening sun not as hopeful as the morning dew. There is a calmness, stillness on the earth. The crimson sky stained with the events of the day. The sun looking as if it's turning it's back on the world. Digressing momentarily to another space and returning with a new perspective. Time's illusional and deceitful. Un-guardable, the night season emerges. The moon itself has a seductive quality. It's hard to see for the unknown, but the intensity is swollen. The summer's night air is tepid and moist, sweet to the lips, a reprieve from the bitterness of winter. The days won't cease moving in one direction, it forces action--to taste this moment. Submerging in today, covered with enough love to satisfy, enough strength to hold, enough joy to be full and enough courage to wait--until tomorrow.

the color gray

The printless tracks left in the sand
might be a clue or an indication of an overly
exaggerated magic trick of how the water
evaporated from the glass, it's molecular
nature scattered about, the problem,
the volume no longer works on the dial
and the picture on the tube has suddenly become
distorted but not pretty like a water painting,
or even abstract like days forgotten with the evening
sun and the nights that have been slept away,
while waiting for the color to change.

There's a box on the doorstep no card is
attached but carefully wrapped but
swaddled inside a rarity.

Before I Die

I want to live like I'm running from yesterday but not worried about tomorrow. Live as if a rainbow shows up everyday before the stars come out to play.

I want to love like my next breath is dependent upon my lovers smile. The smile in the eyes that says the loves the same. A kind love gentle enough to hold and sweet enough to taste. To taste even when the air is bitter and the moon is hidden.

I want to roam the earth looking for the lost treasures. Lost because their beauty has been overlooked. Not the obvious sunrise in the morning but when it goes to bed and the moon takes his turn over the Mediterranean Sea shining on the black waters.

To pick the fruit off the trees and drink the water from the stream. To ride and feel the wind as the road of worries disappears in the distance while I reach over the horizon to touch the sun.

If I Was Hungry I Wouldn't Tell You

The bite of the cold air is equal to the hole in my stomach.
The inside structure threatens to cave in at any moment.
Only buried determination allows me to stand.
Stand face to face against the howl of the wind.
Mocking me with each step.
But the memory of the warm sun reigns.