The wringer

time's hands have

wrapped around

my heart to clamp down

and wring it out

it had soaked so much up

like a dirty kitchen sponge

so much doubt in myself

so much doubt in others

filled to the brim with

sarcasm and snide comments

mere mechanisms to adapt

and deal and shrug off stress

had taken on all the alcohol,

cigarettes and other intoxicants

to turn off everything outside

just infested with words 

that were never mine, just words

others thought belonged to me

even the elusive trauma I

hadn't even realized absorbed

was adulterated in the muck

time finally popped the blister

that was my heart 

so I could bleed the past behind

Pause ability

looking out into

all the possibilities

the endless night sky

scattered with stars

all the knowledge 

enclosed in the smell 

of old books when 

you were young

the bare turned soil

in the warming April days

a glimpse into what

the subconscious needs

to unload after eyelids close

what's said or done

after lips have met and parted

the next step after 

the last one is taken

 

Throwing daggers

an ambitious fiend

by the name of Ire

carries around a 

fistful of blindfolds

he loves to use on

so many people who

are standing on the edge

his brother fiend

by the name of Scorn

carries around a

fistful of daggers

he loves to put in

the hands already

blindfolded by Ire

their sister fiend

by the name of Maim

carries around a

mouthful of lies

she loves to whisper

into the ears of those

holding daggers from Scorn

AM rains

morning rains 

in the darkened sunrise

on stilts of spikey spruce

silhouettes in the dim light

the world outside

blurred by slow running

splatter of morning rains

on dirty windshield

and side windows

a pause before the begin

a stall before the labor

a moment to take it all in

and sit with both 

disappointment and gratitude

in the morning rains

 

Let it be written

whatever has been

written on my skin

is an old story

they are words

that have passed

scars that have

outgrown their lessons

wounds that have

long since healed

whatever has been

written on my heart

is the current tale to tell

they are words 

that belong to me

people that I'll

always have a smile for

places that will

always make me tear up for

whatever has been

written on my soul

is vague yet so familiar

they are words

I have yet to understand

doors I have yet

to find the keys for

and moments that will

turn my world upside down

Oh you can

you can play the violin 

of my soul 

gliding your fingertips over 

the inside of my elbow

you can melt the entire

iceberg underneath

with a swoop of your hand

up my leg and then down

to my feet

you can u-turn at anytime

when you pass my way

you can ask me anything

I might surprise you

in what I might say

you can do all these things

and I hope even more

and I promise I will

do some things

you won't be able

to ignore

 

Vacant beats

early morning conversation

with the heart

my what it has to say

at three thirty three

what it will entertain

what fantasies it will weave

into the fabric of the sheets

gladly am I its confidant

in these wee hours

let it bellow before sunrise

the pillow sopping up

the river of tears

the regrets and the fears

and the lament over 

what was lost

or never achieved

in all those previous years

Tempest hag

the gray hand

stretches across the land

it knocks over

the trees and power poles

as an impatient reach

across the chess board

downs a pawn or knight

the tempest hag screams

upon the howling winds

her cackle booms

in the explosive thunder

the dark skies flash

when her electric hair

whips through the clouds

her multitude of arms

wreak havoc on everything

she passes over 

yet the only relief

is that she bores easily

and flies off to the horizon

with her cackle echoing

off in the distance

 

Mid-life cry

mid is only if

the intended target

is still equal to 

the amount already spent

the miles already traveled

the years already lived

the friends already known

the seeds already sown

so ninety seems possible

though not sure how plausible

and if I keep it up

my rhythm will need

a dance instructor

because I have the skip

of an afib count

the vision of

an astigmatism lens

and some bursitis swagger

that will surely give

the rest of it some style

Sync again

when the rhythm

of your heart 

beats out of sync

with your soul

it's like touring a house

once known to you

the rooms have changed

but the bones

they're still the same

you see everything

as memories bending

to current reality

the life you had lived

within those walls

seems relevant

but just out of touch

cherished but no longer

needed for this

and all you hope for

is for those beats

to fall in line

 

Spruce priest

towering spruce branches

must have scratched

and torn the sagging clouds

the stratus blanket

wrapped tightly around

the midday sun rays

and played peak-a-boo

with the Helios crown

the tiny spruce needles

took their own aspersion

as divinely ordained to 

and the sacred water 

floating through the sky

cast downward lightly

momentary in blessing

in a rain that questioned

if it really happened at all

Catch me up

I was lost 

in the eyes of the sky

I was told

if I let go you will catch me

but you already have

and I already have

for this moment isn't now

it's a distant memory

somewhere

sometime out in our futures

that we relive

over and over

until it touches these shores

we rest on in the present

and until then

I will swim in the eyes of the sky

in those oceans

looking for you

 

Fuss over fusion

the sun's the

chandelier

we've danced

under countless

times before

we've waited

to give rise

to four hands

and four feet

to make this

dance a little

more colorful

a little more

a challenge

for perhaps

we grew bored

though not sure

why that was now

really wish that

wasn't the case now

but anyhow with

two brains and

a list of lives

though we might

be surprised

we can find

the one heart

that waits in

it's own rhythm

and two souls

that have danced

under one

Wafting woo

musky perfume calling

out in the air

a silent message

with a loud voice

out in the air

resting in the heat

of the blatant sun

the serpentine scent

rides the currents

of late Spring breezes

coaxing tiny iridescent wings

luring silk paper wings

through the same currents

out in the air

in silent messages

loud and clear

 

End of Gemini

Spring catches its breath

and Summer blows in

and the young grow fat

on young tender growth

while everything new unfurls

under suns that chase

the elusive wisps of clouds

buds break and blooms burst

changing a sea of green

into the diversity divinity 

has cherished for all eternity

and it is at this moment

in the encircling year's twist

the twins link their golden arms

to escort each other out

on some sultry solstice eve

Numbered crumbs

it may be just a one off

and often it is

but then a double take

and it's there

clear as day

a little token

just something 

to bring a smile to my face

a small reminder

a bread crumb

while I'm on this path

wandering through the woods

of shady oaks

that what is out there

isn't going anywhere

it's just tarrying on a cliff

waiting to take flight

and for now

the bread crumbs suffice

 

In passing

in the sight

in the slightest

moment of that sight

the shift of the world

pulled at its own gravity

a war for knights and kings

to surrender to

in the sight

brief passing and

momentary reflection

the world turned differently

the pavement turned around

turned slowly and suddenly

to give into

the sight

June scene

the hummingbird

made sure it was seen

when it flittered around 

the corner of the house

sure it could have been

a large butterfly

though it didn't

float like a leaf

caught in the breeze

sure it could have been

a piece of litter

though it didn't 

continue its drift

caught in the breeze

its movement and

direction was intentional

a suspended and grand display

floating in the glory

of the afternoon sun