Awake Seed (day 2450)

Who falls awake at night
Who lets the dreams stay away
Who brings the evening deep inside
Furrow brows some more

Who has time to wish away
Pine tree growing on the land
Little death beside a hearth
Rose denied its breath

Let wisdom become silence here
To tired awake at night
Needles upon the forest floor
In a hand, a growing seed

Still Life in the Window (day 1970)

Raindrops set the mood
On an open Thursday night,
Songs reverberated callusedly
Against a faint rattle
Hardly heard under the crash
Of elephant hoof raindrops
Where the marksman’s twang
Nearly captured,
Patiently awaiting amidst a
Two pane dust memory
With a perfect view
Of empty hopes;
A thin cobblestone path
Weaves its way
Amidst falling whitewashed fencepoats
And tufts of sheep fodder
With eager gumboots
Avoiding eye contact
With our token warrior
Next to a thimble and needle
And a postcard received yesterday.

Opacity (day 1366)

Mist hovers around distant peaks
In layers of varying degrees of opacity.
This romantic gesture of nature
Elegantly caresses the rolling edges
Of Oceans’ depth,
Lapping in anticipation of condensation,
Of erosion, of a life ready for swimming
And torrents swiftly moving debris,
Leftover madness,
In a slow waltz towards decomposition.
For life in its continued cycle
Sweeps all amongst its grip,
Heaves and blows, wisps and snows.
And goes and goes between distant tree tops
Of deep hidden green
Where damp darkness within hallows out
Moss and lichen’s dear nest,
Amidst fallen giants, long ever lasting,
With hearts of true desire so deeply brown
That all surrounding colour forms a perfect match,
Like needle covered ground,
Healthily swept clean of fungi
By the little nature cleaners,
Bacteria and organisms alive in depths
Scarcely observed in fleeting moments of daylight,
Heavily felt as clouds consistently continue
Rolling along distant peaks
In varying degrees of opacity.

A Calmer Pursuit (day 1189)

My rusticated bones have a hard time returning to
Honking cars and attitude
And hipsters looking the other way.
I’m not used to it and I don’t like it.
I want needles of every kind of bough
Littering my path ahead of me
While squirrels and chipmunks and
Birds sing at me with unending stories.
I want spider webs tricking me
Into little games of cat and mouse
While Helios slowly arches
Along the edges of my mind
Preparing for Selene’s calm pursuit
Around and around again.
I want fallen giant cedars to block my path
And to offer a brief respite
With ferns so tender my mind shall wander
To the clear lake I’m heading to.

Dram of Poison (day 994)

A needle digs deeper guiding the well worn thimble on
Scaring dogs, singing and howling like Big Momma John
Like she’s snaking about a pale spotlight covered in sequins
Singing the whole time about a blue moon kissing her empty bottle
And filling each patron of the evening with wonderment

A quiet lady, sitting idle at the bar dressed only in pink
Clinks cold bricks slowly about the smoothed edges of her glass
Pulling at her soul for every single bit of truth she has
With high hopes that this very night will reveal all that could ever be
And harness her abandon like the piano pullin’ Big Momma John in

A mood envelops the patrons, sensually gliding from table to table
Touching far reaching itches only elation and jubilation can satisfy
Like the silver lining on a red velvet goblet
Deadly for all those unaccustomed to these desires
And final, like large Gothic keys hung around the undertakers neck