The Finding

Waxing poetic with dangerous sentences

The swell of sensation just by reading it,

Two parts, fragmented and far apart,

But finding time to send sentiments and

Make moments in brief, undulating statements.

There is a time and a place for everything,

Perhaps only over kinetic waves,

Humming and buzzing so loud that my brain strains to hold it,

Tingling when the words meet my lips,

Burning when the pictures find my eyes,

Touching the tender spots.

It is a foolish thing to want it,

A childish thing to wait,

A puerile attempt at attention and

Not without effort, still

A constant trying is the way of things here.

People need to be pursued,

And the words make it possible to imagine

The river of things torrential around me,

Vivid and soaking,

If only for a flickering second.

I’ll take the seconds and make them mine,

I’ll feel your words like a haunting,

They surround me when I am not looking,

A kind of welcomed torture, if only to feel you,

And then the day goes on.

A Tender Movement

Touch the ground, our dirty past,

Look up, the twinkling centuries gone,

But on the horizon holding fast,

The present,  alone goes on and on.

Monday

I’m finally a grown up…now what?

Between wasting time, 

a lot of sitting down,

A little wondering how,

A coffee and bad circulation morning happened to me.

Museum

                I am so tired of being me.

               No one can do it better but

                I want to be an oil painting,

                In some stuffy library hall

                and then I'll be enough,

                And say I lived well.

                And children will ignore me,

               While grown -ups will pretend they know me,

                And somewhere on top a cloud

                I’ll be making music

                forgetting who I used to be,

                   Or why I tried so hard.  

Time

Say things to me sweet and gentle

Mend the mental chaos binding

Me, and maybe then I will be whole.

And maybe you will have a purpose

Tender fort just hover over me.

Don’t stop to think of thoughts

And things that plot against us.

Just think of things to quench and mend us.

And slowly time will ooze along a little

Relative to you and simple me,

Kind minutes wasting in longevity.

Our paradise.

Carry On

Look at it.

The creature is moving,

The movements are rhythmic,

The mimic impostor

she owns the world.

She owns the filth of it.

She owns the mire.

What is it?

The outline is clear,

The shading needs work.

The curves move,

It dances.

It finds out routines.

It plays the Piper.

Find her

Fix her

Don’t lose her

Don’t break her,

Find her

Fix her

Forgive her,

Maker.

The Mirror

What is a muse but for a man by design.
Her heart weighs heavy when he is weak.
Her eyes lowered when words will not reach him.
Her breasts heave to please him.
The vixen comes and goes when needed.
And yet her love is pure.

"I am the solid rock foundation
on his sandy shore.
I am the phoenix fire made
my arms of smoke adore his soul though quick and fleeting
I will find him."

And though my words may quick deceive you,
know a muse, her love, will never leave you.

Whether it be with hands, to wash and mend,
or pick up what is broken,
Whether to defend if needs be the lost, the lonesome,
Whether just a little token forgotten is something.

She is something to him.

Feminine to measure his harshness,
Polymath to map the way he works,
Movement subtle, gentle in her wanting,
Renaissance method is where she finds the source
of creativity to inspire,
And agape allegiance to steer his course.