The sails ask not the ship's mast for a sense of place;
the sails tell not the thermals which direction shall find land;
the sails know not the winds that drive their presence;
the winds never wonder why the ship, the mast or sails
need to reason for emotion.
The winds are an existential relative for all things
that must have movement.
We wildflowers - are connected to earth
and to nature in ways that can only be understood
by a lone blossom stating its indomitable presence
while sprouting its beauty from the crack of a cold
and unforgiving boulder
in a series of timeless reoccurances -
Wildflowers shall note our last place
was our beginnings.
Her eyes delivered change;
An imprimatur
of life itself
New and forever-
Shameless
in passion-
Hopeless
In love.
Two of the hoariest souls
(an ancient mariner and an old dog)
found themselves estranged
from their youthfulness
and so, they shared their only possession
- the cold
pavement in each other's hold.
Both too venerable to lie
yet, vulnerable to die.
While being April -
can a miscast fit
in May blooms
and yet, remain artful
throughout the frugal
days ahead as gossamer
blades that need the wind -
Why not in the third person -sitting
there alone with nothing to say - thinking
memories are narratives - remembering
and verse vague in the first and second of reason...
However, reminiscing happens in the first person.
The long day's last light
offers the soul a place
where to sleep the night
until awakes the dawn's new face.
Green is hope;
purple is passion
and the yellow is existence
of a rebirth of Spring.
Gliding along the reach of all her
renditions;
The expanse of ice forming all plausible
ambitions.
Her stream of art sweeps across the
glistened mirrors
With nothing but a smile - to mask her
terrors.
With a whisk and a spin, she laps along
the ledges
And then, pivots suddenly to keep
centered on her edges.
The translucent scene a dream of Elysian
fields
Where range and destiny are resplendent
in good feels.
Turning and spinning; sweeping, leaping,
and yearning
– yearning…
Riding along; time and place note a fracture;
an unevenness.
No angst; a minor bump or two; mere tests
of cleverness.
Skate on skater! – Skate on! The forming clouds shall pass - too?
Those gossamer cloudscapes will move on; will
it not be so?
Oh! the promise, in the long horizon, has
refuted its vision; denied claim?
A gray cast has crept in and befallen the
eye; driven by a name.
The days of yore (no longer clear) a hazy
sense; muted by mist
That portends that the blue-skies will be
set to a dark twist –
Turning and spinning; sweeping, leaping,
and yearning
– yearning…
The once smooth surface and glide; a treacherous
scrum.
The fall, a precipitous disengagement from
hand and anchor
As life’s pillars and pedestals cascade by
- in bewildering abhor.
Ropes and clamps and ties plummet down
the fracture’s face.
Racing thoughts and notes of the whyfor -
fly off without trace.
Scattering about like small birds fleeing
the hawk’s breath;
The weightless fall a dizzying tumble to a
certain death.
Turning and spinning; sweeping, leaping,
and yearning
– yearning…
The sloping surface, smooth as glass,
without a hold to keep;
He grasps; grappling, clenching at
survival he reaches his deep.
Ah a fracture! A break found to stop and
hold from the perilous descension.
Now a breath; a long respite and contemplation
to seek redemption.
The trek back will neither be a climb nor
be a return - but be whatever is forth.
Gliding is no longer expected nor even possible
– simply follow north.
Whoever makes it back at the campfire –
they are survivors; friends
Who seek test and pursue life-quests to
the very ends.
Turning and spinning; sweeping, leaping,
and yearning
– always, yearning…
