Unfolding Under the Trees

The sun drops a dusty screen,
a curtain through
the window in the tree,
a wall of leaves, wood beams
thick as winter
and summer and fall.

I lay my heart down
(the roots rise
to meet my eyes)
beneath a blanket of ferns,
shadow puppets swaying
a silent chorus- on stage
a lighted sky.

Then the whole world forgets
I am me, dressed,
washed in another light-
little hairs on my legs, my skin
treated with another fantasy.

Here, I wear slippers of sun
on peasant feet-
I've no claim to truth
but a life, a whisper
beneath my cracked toes.

Here, my flat eyes common
see the concrete scraped away-
all I've known
a little, hard creek running off,
a kite string
light as my sigh
bound to a heavy heart of green.

A Struggle of Dimensions

My thoughts were once fish, yet
Stretch legs from bare bones,
From weak, unceasing whispers-
A destiny called forth.

Fledgling ripples, unrelenting blooms-
They peel away at the subtle veil,
Rising, unstoppable, tangled
in the ancient shadows, the stranded light

dancing on the surface,

crumbling in mild conversation-

All but the movement of a subtle line;
Still is the pale night, above and below.

Full, clear waters fall glassy, now blue,
The sky, just another surface on this one,
Now gated hastily too-
Shadows and bowlegged trees stand,
Twisting in locks of oId.

How impossible it is to stand still,
to take the living ghostly candlelight,
cut its seams from the water,
wish it free.

To Claim the Sky

The cathedral of sky empties of prayers
When a pilgrim is wary of the ground again,
Who tiptoes its echoing vaults of wind,
Arched solid as the rains descend.

In the halls of sun, the houses of days,
With twilights burning along the wall,
All is drawn behind the night,
Storming, should one faithful fall.

The darkness is young, wiry of wit,
For raindrops pass in hoods of mist,
Lusting for the gold, the grime
The faithless donned in shadows kissed.

Felled phoenix, daunted in the clear,
The steeple appears long-painted past,
Who is to know the bells still toll
Lest a neighbor lends a feather, at last?

Early Morning Dreams

It's overblown world, etched
In ink and graphite
Miracles
Of endless avenues of dust.

It's never night, never quite day,
Blooming yet faster, faster as
The world draws upon itself.

Oh, to dream, to walk on lines,
Drawn split seconds, pushing
Every which way- up
across, and even in!

Someday, all will be drawn
As for the past years,
Into the waiting, the hollow
Pillars of salt and sand.

Friendly Monster

Letting go is simple, why
The thing falls up, clawing,
Shredding gravity, screaming
At rare, questioned mercy.

It climbs, beyond the trees
With curlicue written love,
Black as the day it first drank
The brilliance of the sun.

Your name, in unending lights, now-
Ugly black tears, unsmearing
Where you didn't swallow them,
Such shallow, shallow agony!

Your name, an old vow
Sworn and signed all over the sky-
Unbroken, unfulfilled, gone,
It's still yours.

Beyond Giants

A small person is gifted,
Sparingly, the biggest secrets-
Lying awake, in his small space
In his small soul, in his soul's soul.

It becomes a journey, a fight
He wants and needs- he is lithe,
Tipping, walking the line
Between glory and vanity.

This world seems to big, too low, up
For anyone on that tightrope,
Dangling between
The man next in line and
Too many means and ends.

Dream

Plummeting mischief,
Her wings spread wide, feathers dust
Sleep, a valley soft.

Daydream

The heart does sing a prideful song
That waltzes on the tongue,
A pittance, that the sweetest air
Jumps down a healthy lung.

Such joyous things, it sweeps and sings
When parting with the mind,
Sipping from a sweetest dream,
A tired road behind.

And yet, it knows, as it grows and grows
That hopes have far to go.
It did get lost at journey's end,
Its story yet to flow.

Diminished Discovery

The dreamer with her palette stay,
Blind with color, peace of mind.
Struggles in their cradle lay,
Their anguish not their own to find.

Shimmering rows of gladly found
Enjoyment, their unsaid find.
Who is a novice, loud to say
They'd know their skill in quick rewind?

A foolhardy price, for endless dreams
That dangle in their dust,
For a heart so wound in lines of silk
Should forget metallic lust.

Dreamers

Usually I have some idea of what I'm going to write before I write, but I think it might be more interesting if I just type whatever comes to mind. I'm supposed to have a creative mind, aren't I? That statement alone shows how cynical I've become, which really does worry me. I almost miss my dreamy self. I'm still dreamy, but I've become needy of someone to dream away with me. Anyone want to volunteer? Activities include staring at clouds, talking irrelevantly and yet deeply, and staring at the corners of the night sky trying to see a bit of hope here and there, with the idea that our dreams actually lead somewhere.

I especially would like a companion for the last one, because it seems unsafe to do something like that alone, even if I feel safe in my community a majority of the time.

The night sky really does interest me. I mean, how far can we really see from where we are? And yet, just by trying to look, we see farther than most. It's one of the few things in which one is so easily rewarded just for trying. All of the right words seem to fall out of the sky, bouncing on the earth and whisking away if one's hands are too hesitant. Speed doesn't matter in this equation, for there's no competition, unless everything absolutely must be a race. It's quite a glorious thing to witness, even if perfect peace must be given up for safety, and peace cannot be achieved without safety.

I wish my mind didn't have so many shadows of its own, so it could find shadows elsewhere and fill in the blanks where all of the dark spots are missing. One's own imagination seems bright, at best, even if dark imagination seems to go farther, like the night sky seems to hold so much more weight than the sky of the late afternoon. At whatever time of day, each moment spent in the sky and about the sky is a new mystery, a gift in the seas of the mind waiting to be stumbled upon whenever one is lost in that storm and needs some refuge. It'll never be an island like some things are in life, but it will be that little connection to home that makes one go forward, like fair winds in a bag.

I almost feel like I could have written a poem or something on this topic, but perhaps it's better to leave the mysteries where they belong and my thoughts to rest. They've already been solved anyway, so there's no point trying to pin them down. They're just not like that.