Look at me
I’m in the sky
On every flower
I’m with the sun
And this is fun
Let’s make a run
To every pistil
And violet whistles
Have some fun
You and me
We’d be free
Just you and me
In every field
Of wild poppies
I came upon a flower that I heard sing a sweet song
It lasted a whole day as I sat there upon a stone
Did you hear me coming?
Did I startle you?
I woke into a soft laid field buzzing of a wild abandon
My mind watched as it bobbed and hummed
A tune I came to love.
I hope my tear of joy didn’t startle you today
Though I tapped your tune onto my knee and whispered my goodbye
As day came on to call my hand
Home I sent away.
Along the ways of window drops
A bird flew out the nest
Cloud came to my very door
And my hair lay flattened down.
Yet every signal
East be at it’s back
Signaled me to rise above
What midnight I had not looked back.
Nor did my animosity
Rumble to a stop
A grinding halting dusty jalopy
My chariot of grim time.
True, each dirt splash lay bare
The deeper grit of sand
Which held my flower to my nose
Thus, bow down low I dearly bade.
I carried your tobacco pipe
Like a diamond on my mind,
Two puffs and a closed grip
Ricochet all security
Through the back door:
And we pass it on
As night songs
From a holy tent with a view
That lisps night skies
Through dreams of a far off land
But hold me, hold on
Hold the flowers
Growing here so wild
In the palm of your hand
Until it stains your closed grip
The colour of my dream.
Where were you?
Alone at last and one day you will see
That my attempts to make things pass differently
Will go un-answered, un-fooled,
Soundscapes passing by my tender touches
In an envelope neatly packed so.
A heavy rain left my sweet flowers
Like pillars of a ruin,
And tapping lightly culls my darkness –
A soft smile about my face.
Willow in the season of dying
Soothes a fog horn off my ragged coastline,
I whistle into the coming darkness:
Where do you lay your head tonight?
There are sweaters I used to love
Around every worn corner I bump,
Loose photographs falling out of
Grandma’s old favorite books
That wrinkle in my hands
Which don’t look the same
They used to look to me
When I stare back at light blue eyes
From behind sweaters I used to love
And a red geranium in my hand.