Whispering Wind

We stand in the wind as if its bite has no effect.
Daring it to knock us level to the ground.
We mock the naked trees and envy the tumbleweed.
Still the vacated cave can't stop its whispers.

At the end of the road we expect more than a bowl of pistachios. Something more to stand in place of our suffering and travailing. Anything just short of a parade where people line up and habitually wave as you pass by is an insult. After all you did leave your guts splattered in a ditch along the way--without complaint. Images regurgitated from the floors of our bowel duct display like old home movies played on reels revisit hoping to find relief. The bitterness is more than we can handle, but to release them would cause us to declare ourselves whole. This would of course require further action on our part. To let go of the written form letters we submit as excuses as to why we didn't and couldn't bring ourselves to turn the corner. The side streets are alluring but the Broadway is well routed.

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.