Swelling Breaths

Minding the time on a deep wind
into the thick haze of a sombre cicada call;
the end days of the season beckon
bridges to be crossed over the
crawling river I have drank in deep.
Let me kneel down by the cool banks
a few more times so I remember the taste
of the nourishing waters that fed me
all through the heat and sweat.
Let me lay under the green leaves
before they fall onto my face,
and before I bring myself to my feet
I will curl my lips onto the dirt
to get a taste of the delightful eyes
that looked into mine but a few times
under the branches.
The sun will be bright
when I come to the muddy ripples
at the end of the water's line,
but do not block the light
as I am basking in its embrace.
I know where the bridge spans
so no need to show me where to walk,
let me sit simply and breathe in the thick air
before it leaves my lungs.
There goes the grass,
swaying in the wind
like dancing hips crooning
to the sound of the time.
Overhead pass the clouds,
somehow always looking
a little like the ones in my memory.

Let me bide my moments,
as I will cross that creaking bridge
when my thoughts no longer
hold my head up to bathe in the sun.

Body's Manifesto

Speaking heavy words of strength,
dropping small change as I smile
to think of where the pennies lay.
Take this photo as I walk
down the sun baked street
on the best of July's golden days.

Talking of clouds
with an unfurled tongue
that stumbles as it learns-
words always fell a little short
as they reached thin air anyway.
I stare at a beast called angst,
it whimpers and coils itself into the corner
biting my hand
as I reach to feed the spoiled pet.
Never mind the rotten animal living 'round the bend;
there are plenty squares in the pavement
to be danced in.
Outside the window
inside some white walls
time is pregnant with its suckling
children of experience.

My muscles have been burning hoisting
a sun baked body from a crowded shore
to a pastoral clearing,
waiting for the right green grass
to rest the limp explorer,
though I rest my creaking shoulders sometimes
to let my skin breathe.
Two feet to hold one mind
and the weight after each
handshake or smile,
but those joints
remain steady still under the weight.

Dawn, always in sight
even in the dead of 3 P.M.
The clock judges too much for my taste.
Night crawls along the ground,
making sure that the morning will not
see its shameless shape shifting on the dirt.

I wish to see the man on the street
with vastness and wonder
even as I age
- but promises cannot be made
than these young jittery hands can hold.
So to tomorrow,
I can only trust
that I will rise from my bedside
and look at the sun
like the old friend it is.