Morning arrived with an icy slap
of good intentions — a cheeky
red reminder to weather another day.
Will the unwritten tourist hasten
to the conclusion, twenty-four unlived
chapters cut for time?
Or will she hold the day close and enjoy
whatever blows in with the chill, knowing
we cannot choose the story but relish the book?
The sun illuminates
what night tries to hide — a colorless tale
cannot survive long.
Survive long.
Standing in the mirror
she failed to divine
the scope
of a universe just above
the horizon. Unseen
within herself,
distracted by visions
of reflected glory, her dreams
begged for sunlight.
The astronaut neglected
to recognize the gravity
of the situation,
but with luck she will
seize the opportunity
another daybreak illuminates, light
bounding among
the star-point hopes
lost among the dark.
The rocks mark the ground
between prospering weeds enriched
by the warmth of a sun surging overhead,
encircling those of us interred
on a planet whose
percussive heartbeat rocks me to sleep.
I sense the presence of wildflowers,
of ants scurrying together in the dirt,
of life — too bountiful to count or name —
thriving in the darkness or
at least out of sight —
I dare not note a difference in perspective.
Photos remain after we pass on
a gentle breeze that thoughtlessly turns
blacks to sepia, discoloring too many memories
otherwise cruelly lost
in darkness
even though the sun shines tomorrow.
The twilight of another year sparkles
with flashes — burning brilliance —
so I cannot leave them behind
as we place one foot into the future.
I pause now, lingering
on the twinkling moments,
savoring the sweet stamped imprints
while my month waters
in anticipation of more to come.
Even the sad, the hurt,
the bulbs I’d replace if I could —
I’ll take them with me. Sometimes
any light is a reminder
that life glimmers between bursts
of radiant light
whether we’re looking or not.
Her cheeks glow from the wine,
confidence radiating beneath
warm brown eyes looking to a future
we share with another bottle.
She inspires me, warm comfort
in a life where nothing is promised,
as we decant our vows again
reassured by her smoldering flush.
As I leap into middle age
(knuckles white)
I wonder if the greatest adventure
is merely to breathe
(snow meets altruistic land)
In a world spinning its wheels,
(frigid morning scrubs icy)
the eager sound can’t whine for change,
stale taste of winter
(skin burning with the chill)
The calendar will jump to Spring
(teeth rattle loose)
anticipation blooming every dewy night
I snore away
(gray hair wind-blown)
Who will hear our prayer,
echoing through the empty air
that divides us, an appeal
to something unseen and unseeable,
our invocation lost among nothing?
Who will hear our psalm,
the choir humbly beseeched
by a chorus reverberating with thanks
in its every deliverance before
the entreating congregation?
Who will answer our pleas,
voices searching for seraphic blessing
while some celestial body
of spiritual vitality circles —
words bouncing in the void?
Colors are not frozen, shyly hiding
In the shadows while hinting at
a deeper shade. Colors can be different
colors, attacking us with their brilliance
or assaulting us through blue dreams
that search for softer complexion,
a complexity of consciousness.
Color may dance in musical hues
of pixelated pigment only I can hear,
telling stories too bold for black and white.
A brutal world craves absolutes, leaving us
to unearth our own meaning where we may.
A colorless tale has no heart. Let it go.
We will find warmth in tinctured breaths.
My murky memory extrapolates the smoke,
pixelated recollections somewhere in the cache
that clears itself (a grasp slackens)
as I hasten to replace lost echoes
with reminiscences to come,
not forgotten among the ash,
rising if we dare stretch hereafter.
The future — always fuzzy like sleep
that won’t rub out of our eyes — changes
every time we look at it, as we push forward
carrying the momentum of those better angels
urging us to grow our own wings
and launch ourselves to join those
refusing to leave progress to others.
Time will tell what tales we create,
Proceeding only where we dare.
I lack the spirit
of my younger self,
that satisfying zest
I’ve since replaced
with cynicism or something
just as sour.
Perhaps it’s merely
misplaced, that zeal
that bubbles in youth,
a soapy froth sterilizing
us as we age
unless we embrace the dirt.
