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.
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.
The tree stretches like a snowflake,
a white quilt whispering winter along
evergreen branches, lulling day
to sleep while cold quiet announces
the end of another year.
The tree earns another ring, thankful
for moderation in all things living
and dead. Moments of profound insight
from regular cycles leave a peaceful chill
in the air, holding me close, shivering
in the still afternoon sun.
In the end we still look to what comes
next, hushed faces in the setting sun
bracing against the cold, aware
somehow the light will return.
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.
I heard the voice — whirling in my ears
like a breeze whistling on leaves
with the bluster of November not expecting
December to overshadow it — though
in my delirium I could not find it.
The voice — alien and incoherent as it seized
my mind without a through to the impression
it left — told me to leave (bounded
in lunacy and invisible) to
the irrational rabble wrapped in regret.
Was it mania — a psychic knot tied
to some forgotten tram unspooling and
unwelcome — or merely benign?
I am not delusional enough
to think I know the difference.
The match lights.
The newspaper sparks immediately —
the flame matching the intensity
of the ink passionately spread through
a dozen stories — and dissolves into ash.
The infant flame crawls onto twigs.
I stand mesmerized by this transmutation:
words once poured over by anxious writers
now spilled into a fire as kindling, sweat
burning into memories I’ve already forgotten.
The winds shift.
I rearrange the sticks to assist their demise,
wondering how many revisions — how many
editors’ notes — were born before the news
fanned out to a half awake audience.
The flames leap from twigs to logs.
I stare transfixed at the graceful movement
of the blaze (so gorgeous as it spasms
on this log, then another) effortlessly
transforming timber into trifling confetti.
I find it poetic.
My stomach screams an idea, an ephemeral epiphany
I must immediately share for art’s sake,
enthusiastically published on pulp
and eventually catalyst for another fire.
Let’s play in dreams tonight among
fanciful half-drawn adventures that
reflect reality while sharing
a majestic illusion that feels slept in.
I think I’ll fly through a world
of my own making, one great
with clocks that don’t tick but
houses often dance like jumping beans
on a record player I can’t turn off.
You’ll be there – or at least
my mental image
of you – to share an expansive world
of fantasy and sweeping lands
of rolling reveries.
Let’s get lost in dreams tonight,
entranced by enchanted visions
extending before us while we share
this queen bed barely slept in.
The sky is clouded today with jolts
of curiosity curated with awe
by admirers looking up
with reverence, reveling though remembering
limits are a manmade conceit.
How could you not marvel at what you
don’t know, as if counting to infinity
on your fingers
is as natural as the nuclear fusion
we ignore hanging just above us.
Why aren’t you fascinated with forever?
The perplexity of perpetually trying
to perceive that which is above us,
beyond our understanding, clouds
my mind too often, obscuring the blues.