Pools

I thought I was finished, but still the waves
Distant me from the shore.
Drifting, drowning, I reach for stars,
But find more water.

Sometimes I don’t care,
And that is the worst.
I sift through emotions that flit like insects
Between the bloody leaves.

We all delve into pools,
And hope to never find the bottom.
The murky, mucky depths
Are the threads of fantasy.

I think I’m done, but I know again
The waves will call me back.
And though I struggle, something older,
More powerful will win.

Returning Home

I found a feather returning home today.
It was snowy, tinged with black on one side.
I held it against the leaden sky
And kept it because I couldn’t bear leaving it for the rain
To clump the follicles together and ruin the silken beauty.

So I carried it across the grassy hillside and down my sandy driveway,
But it fell before I opened the door.
Perhaps it didn’t like the way I twirled it between my thumb and forefinger,
Or maybe it simply didn’t want to go inside
Where the sun and sky are boxed in.

Either way, I left it to be rained upon, or blown by the wind.
Maybe it will be crushed by the tires of a guest.
I would have lost it at some point, or stepped on it accidentally.
Such small things tend to be forgotten.
So I left it there by my door in the sand to return home.

Bullets for a Saturday Night

Folded in triplet
And emblazoned with the bust of War,
You await an evening’s conquest
Loaded with guilt and nonoxynol-9;
The armor of trust.
A mask--
For within are seeds of something more powerful.

Deeper than the breast of the sea is your spirit.
Purity prepackaged and more potent
Than the horns of Aries,
You await an evening’s conquest
Loaded with lube and razor blades.

Wooden Ears

"The reason why we have two ears and only one mouth is that we may listen the more and talk the less." - Zeno

I expected to find open ears.
Eager, or at least willing, to listen to some individuality,
Instead I find sarcasm tinged with judgment,
And skillfully laced with insult.

I recant.
But my words fall on wooden ears
That are too busy with their own language
To ever hear mine.

Dying Fern

Who am I who walks a tightrope
Between the doors
Of Heaven
Of Hell
And that Other that brushes past the unexpected
in libraries filthy with age
and bedsores leaking Neon.

They filter out God sometimes
As something Golden and so pure
That even in the whitest snow Its name cannot be peed..

So rename!

I laugh at iniquities bought through years of splicing
the synergy of proactive solutions. Investments reek
Of unholy Profit and Greed.
Profit and Greed!
P!
and
G!

Suffering in turmoil at the hands of prophets dressed in Velour
And buying into Old New Age scare tactics.

I walk instead through gallant ferns
Dressed in the fertile fluid of morning;
Glimmering at the expectation of coming into
The world.
To die and rot and be the foundation
Of new Life.