At the next depot

The absinthe cloud of memory
forgets the sugar
when heavy footfalls approach in the dark,
a trickery of echoes-
when an unlit train flies along a track
from direction unknown.
Blackness deletes orientation.
False terrain tells lies.

Still.
Breath loops, settles.
Hands tremble.

Fear’s got nothing on me,
I’ll take this ghost for what he’s worth.
At minimum,
I can steal his shadow and pawn it
at the next depot.

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Even when entirely alone

Luminaries,
the light-gatherers who bring us ecstatic pause,
the people who’ve cultivated exemplary skill
at recognizing, creating and embodying
divine beauty,
honor the workings of unwanted pain,
their discovery founded on its gifts
of transformation-
that which possesses the hands of a master sculptor
able to chisel the lumpy,
the obtuse,
the encumbered,
into finest form.
What we call,
eagerly,
negative emotions,
these are the tools of our own sculpting.
Strange to dismiss and condemn
the exact movements that take us,
with attention and intention,
directly from coal to diamond..
Fear
couldn’t possibly deserve the power
we give it.
Weighing into unknown,
that abyss above which we think we’d rather dangle,
held back by the collar,
befriends mystery-
a sure-footed way to be a source of light
even when entirely alone.

An Invitation

Skillful communication
is exploratory, juicy, inclusive-
an invitation to scratch the ears of curiosity.
The delicious outcome
of reading lasting writings,
indeed,
the consequence of every artful celebration of life
I’ve been fortunate enough to stumble headlong into,
has been a bodily and spirited hallelujah.
You know those works-
they arrest us, grab, inspire and
open us,
they draw us out, tuck us in,
return stolen tears, stir forgotten laughter,
drop bread crumbs along our path to help us get home again.
Whatever our craft,
our creations allow us to give back
to an ever generous world.
Writing is my way of giving back.
I write to keep love in motion.

Symmetry

Symmetry:
Who ever planted that lie?
Why, it has grown invasively
in our minds.
Imagine
a tree, perfectly symmetrical-
it’d be the oddest specimen
in a lifetime of experiencing trees.
Asymmetry becomes the stamp
placed upon us,
not by birth alone,
but through time,
here,
walking and breathing.
Our bodies,
equally uneven, gnarled,
are intentionally so.
Hearts, lungs, breasts, testicles,
all
marvelously asymmetrical.
Our fingers and toes, like rootlets,
twisted,
play different roles
simultaneously.
Balance requires movement
to counter forces
both inside and out.
We constantly strike deals
with elements seeking
to liberate us.
And, through that making,
like the trees,
we are infinitely more captivating.

Circular song

I can’t breathe
though I’m breathing..
Diaphragm falling
at last
into place,
true place,
and my brain
spasming,
messaging that a vital function isn’t
functioning.
Question the origins
of a wavering trajectory
and gasps of light
will greet at the gates,
beyond them a polished and golden
curve.
I am here
wholly exploring,
willing to sit
with a death mask upon this face
and a seizure of mind-
a dropping off a cutting loose a sightless learning-
in the brilliance of human adaptation,
minus now
the holding of echoes
of voices never invited.
I am awkward,
a toddler taking first steps,
exhilarated
tippy
walking-
it matters not where, walking!-
and happy to plop backwards
onto a soft diapered bottom
because I’ve done it-
In lacking restriction,
I’m finding the breath to empower both
movement
and
circular song.