Call it a wash

People were like soap operas—

So when I could,

I’d turn them to sonnets.

And when I couldn’t,

I’d call it a wash.

Cheers with my Moose Mug. Dec 2020

Awesome—

I don’t need reassurance

to know I’m awesome—

Denial’s just too much fun

and if I actually had the drive

I’d be off a cliff by now—

inspiring admiration, apprehension, or fear.

It always hurt to admit, but what doesn’t?

Our Gestation Period

When I found her like

a set of lost keys,

it was a mystery even to her

where she’d been hiding

or who left her there—but

I knew that look, as I’d worn once—

and it wasn’t me anymore.

So I let her sleep.

And I let her eat.

Then after her strength regained,

I walked her to the wood,

and watched her twirl with the wind—

of all that remained,

and all she’d forgotten—

like a dizzy spell I’d soon be too.

Eye of the Sea

It all just felt so dull sometimes

Uninspired and too common place

That I’d do anything it took

To convince them otherwise

Mixed up I believed fire could walk on water

Then became the fool to my own dirty tricks

Until she told me the eye of the sea

Could never be lost or found, but that

It was always there, brilliant and dazzling

And that, it was waiting inside of me

Wind Chimes

Wind Chimes float—

With effortless ease—

It’s something we—

Could never quite be—

Two souls swirling

In the restless ear of want.

Wind Chimes, Florida, Dec 31, 2020

Huckleberry Heels

Silence falls like snowflakes

Covering the field

Where birds like statues watch

My huckleberry heels

With frost left underfoot

The hallow ground revealed

Where doe tread light as feather

And sun spill bleeds me home

for John Fante

Perhaps I’ve said too little,

perhaps I’ve said too much.

Whichever be the case Fante,

perhaps I’ll Ask The Dust.

To understand one’s suffering

To understand one’s suffering

Is to understand our own,

Knowing causes pain—

But still with hope we try

To understand one’s suffering

Is to be on their side, regardless

Of the awful many cuts

Through the tenderness of night—

Their aim is (not) to heal

But still with hope we lie,

To understand one’s suffering(…)

Like fruit picked from a vine.