I guess this plane is going down the hard way. It’s funny (in its way) — I thought I’d be falling into
I am stuck
at the beginning,
at rice like
the expectant mother
out of breath
The other side is often pregnant.
we fixate elsewhere,
I don’t always recognize
Tomorrow takes its own word for granted.
Ambition shoves us
though I wish
stop long enough
the track, rushing,
stuck at the
Light thaws in its own time.
You look confused, eyes tangled
in bewilderment, unsure what comes
next. Flustered words slowly swim
upstream, tangled in the waterweeds
and obscuring the direction
of the current sweeping
your feet out from underneath.
Breath. Collect your thoughts — they are
but two-cent pieces taking
up space in a piggy bank you had
hoped fattened by now, or full enough
at least for the both of us.
I’ll be here when you’re ready.
What mystery lives in the black,
those dark corners where light
fears to enter, abandoning
sharp edges for the comfort
of round sides and smooth edges.
The charade may encircle us (eyes
blind the gust of puzzles pointing us
in the wrong direction) binding us
to this place in knots of fear
that only the unrevealed can tie.
I choose to embrace the dark,
the baffling ambivalence that bubbles
when we feel underwater, though
the lake remains half full
whatever lurks beneath.
Morning keeps arriving
with a slap of good intentions —
cheeky red reminder
that fortune favors those
bold enough to get out of bed.
Do I merely follow the sun
on Instagram or
dance cheek to cheek
with others audacious enough
to face another day?
We wink at infinity every time the clock
sounds its alarm, unbending as it howls
as if timelines drive forward between
but always circle back.
Sometimes we notice the period while
standing in it but in a lifetime shared,
these eras softly merge,
blurry in places though
the color flashes in focus like leaves in Autumntime.
And the clock shouts, begging for timeliness
while eternity ticks
its pulsing heartbeat simply
a moment in time.
He chose life because he did
not consider the alternative
with the thought of the after –
overwhelmed – life,
a cosmic conviction
that on such scale
(weighing on him still) he is
remains a light in the void.
There’s not enough coffee in the pantry
to poison the nightmare flower
growing inside my mind this Monday morning –
a menacing thought blooming in shadows.
What phantoms creep in darkness,
wakeful vigils watching
through keyholes while moonless skies sway
then give way
to the quiet sun cheering for someone to hear?
The sun is too loud.
She dropped the seeds in my ear while I was sleeping
then evaporated, leaving me
a farmer diluted, hosing my brain with
caffeine while my wetter winks paint sorrow
in neat rows not yet tilled.
What blossom sprouts in dejection,
rotten and unwanted
I sit wishing the sun would retreat or retract
or simply retrace its steps in reverse?