twenty-four hours
in which everything could change —
so fragile, so weak;
we act as conquerors, but
in hiding, depose ourselves.
Poetry
waves
amid the heat, we
lay on the floor, defeated —
dry lightning crackles;
new challenges every year,
and our future still to come.
shattered asphalt
we seek to forget
all our broken promises
as the days go on;
now, I wonder if ever
they meant anything at all.
patterns of succession
every day that goes up in flames is a star that falls too early, a star that shines too late; poetry is a metaphor for reality, but they don’t tell you what to do when old metaphors become new truths, when ‘the earth is on fire’ becomes fact, and you’re faced with something – something so expected, so comprehendible, you can’t even begin to shed a tear. every day that goes up in flames is a sliver shaved off of the end of my life, another wood sliver hammered into your coffin; we used to dance to the rhythm of the earth, to the rising, falling tides and the migration patterns of the birds, and now we can’t even hold each other’s hands, we’re so torn apart by these borderlands, and this choking smoke births only bitterness in our mouths, hatred in the place of our hearts. every day that goes up in flames is another soul being lost to our shame, another soul surrendering to meaningless pain; you think you’re so smart but you don’t understand, it was never about evolution or power or race, it was about time and space, a home to heal in without leaving a trace – but the trace you’ve left is a full-body burn scar and the healing ice and cold water have melted away. look into my eyes, and hear my voice on these nights, because it doesn’t have to be this way. every day we walk to save our children from the firelight, to turn reality back into metaphoric poetry, is a day of meaning, an offer of hope and healing, because we can dance to the rhythm again – and it wouldn’t be a miracle. it would be nothing more, nothing less than a simple act of love.
collection
beneath umbrellas
people who gather, alone
now finding power;
because the whole is more than
simply the sum of its parts…
living spirits
waiting for the day
when we can meet again, I
feel the hours pass;
slipping through my fingers, these
moments I cannot regain.
hollow men
ringing in my ears
drives out all thoughts and feelings —
a river made clean;
sometimes we don’t realize
just how empty we must be.
cloud cover
with no storm in sight,
the cloud cover only grows —
waiting for nothing;
we gaze up at our own skies,
searching for a better time.
flux
gradients of light
bathe our nightly memories —
never to return;
I promised to let you go,
and yet the known times have changed.
smoke screens
at this time of year,
the hummingbirds start to dance
and the bluebirds call;
hidden within our cities,
the patterns of yesterday.