Idle eyes

19 Nov

Do they, when the sound is thin

Fawn around the chaise in the room?

Words that I couldn’t say,

Oh, I will paint you things.

 
Today, when my lips were thin,

Palmed my life around, golden hue.

Thread pulled, usual way,

Oh, I’m a saint, a king.

 
Do I, in retirement

Shuffle toed ‘tween nick naming the commune

And remember every choice I made?

Is remembering the better way?

 
My age, pulled like a string

Lost body, it’s sound a plucked tune

Meandering across space

Oh, I’m the fish of Kings.

Ocean Flames

19 Nov

Everyone knows the time’s run out.

Braced knees on the downhill jaunt.

Timid toes too scared to want.

I see the golden scales, the feather.

I know I’m heavier.

Braced claws with teething pain.

Careful canine rupture game.

Climbing ivy, driving posts,

Scuttle scrawling through incense smoke.

Kettle’s hot – embrace it anyways.

Sail’s taut – riding ocean flames.

Calm hands and a folded mind. (Pt 1)

19 Nov

When I looked up I knew the moon,

Just as if it asked me to.

This simple orb string spun of glass,

The eye inside a photograph.

 
And in my den I dumbly stood,

Smelling every scent from childhood.

The crisp air from a leaf orange pile,

The nectar floods in apple aisles.

 
I looked again and saw the sun,

A symbol for work to be done.

A time to set aside these thoughts,

I’ll burn the wick, I’ll burn it hot.

 
Return to sill after the day,

To find the clouds clouding the way.

A loon I long the moon to see,

The dream I find’s indifferent to me.

Hover

16 Sep

And now it’s the future and I don’t sit beside plastic leaves and steam. It’s a busy road, it’s tops and toes, birds and trees. If I pop a lid there’s still steam but it’s rising unmajestically from a paper sleeve.  I wanted ivy and leaves, I got rocks and onion stalks. These days I talk and I don’t talk. They’re killer waves, these conversation saves, shaking earth, breaking things to elements. People reduced to common sediments. Stars shine to remind that we’re insignificant. We live to live and dying is a period.

Another Mistake.

30 May

It feels good to fall down.

To come up empty handed.

A life fulfilled

Has already ended.

And when you make

that sacred stumble,

wear that mistake

like a stony mantle.

Feel that weight

with the fury of opera,

close your eyes repeat

that half breath mantra.

Work that rock

with the voice of the season,

Tom or Mike or Will or Stevens.

A life aglow with sideline voices

who play out all your unpicked choices

You’ll run and run

and run much longer.

And in the end you’ll be

that much stronger.

At least that’s what I whisper

into my pillow’s feathers.

Dive Deep

20 Jul

 
Topography

She said play it again

and did not understand

that that sea was not all that deep

my heart only

it only has so many beats

when it’s you

I dive deep

and this sea’s not mine to leave

I said not this again

the same argument

my mind’s competency isn’t

only a sum of femur rings

because you I know me

and my sea’s well known topographically

I’m in places from when

I was not who I am

the memories I pick at the seams

this part of my life

well it feels just like a dream

when I’m with you we’re rewriting

these spots belong

to you and to me

Tracking Dirt

24 Sep

Tracking Dirt – SoF

I sewed seeds and their harvests reveal,

the need to retread,

the paths in my head.

Ruminate while tending to plots,

I forgot,

oh, I weed a lot.

Captivate me quietly,

and take me to that place,

where the past leads the way.

I can’t slow down I am jumping between,

a bay side town,

and a swamp and a frown.

Culminate can I stop the clock?

I’m backed up at the block,

a metaphorical clot.

You can fake me perfectly,

I’ll talk about today,

in my regular way.

Step outside to a luminous shock,

with my feet in the grass,

and my eyes at half mast.

It permeates and by the time I can see,

cool grey sky has arrived,

tornado inside the eye.

Jar this ghost reality,

and take me to the place,

where I lead the way.

Rain falls down and this drought is repealed,

and it’s flooding my fields,

spring forth a bountiful yield.

I cultivate and I am present again,

you’re a delicate wind,

and you’re taking my hand.

Image: Lotus Carroll