Still Tongue

Shaken by minute minutes
counting concrete blocks on town sidwalks,
words melting out the mouth
passing through ears like
the fraction of sight
carrying a nameless face.
Dirt once was alive too
and for those seeds to grow
a log must rot
and for these foot to move further
my words must die
as my footsteps tread on fall blanketed
paths to a view
of sublimity where the rough rock edges
smooth over the cracks left
by sharp respite of thoughts
that always fell short.
No need to speak;
the river babbles below
telling me a gentle story
where I need not know
any proper noun.
To dark green pines and sun drenched fields,
you give me your grace
and I will give you
what love never was received
by flesh and mind.

Autumn Notes

To try and push back the autumn air is no goal of mine. Summer air always is thick with revelry and a madness that sticks to the sweat; now that the days are cooling and the wind swirls through crackling leaves, a haze of familiarity and passion bathes in a cool river of melancholy that aims to calm the burgeoning senses that run through a young body and mind. Again, this becoming sense of romantic intrigue covers my thoughts over with warmth and delight. I wrestle with my romance though, fiddling with delicate fingers and tinkering with my own predictions for tomorrow. Nevertheless, I still smile knowing that my head will lay on fair shoulders soon again. Down the town streets I'm found, watching the clouds as I consciously catch the feeling of my feet hitting the pavement.

She holds open the door,
both walk up past the convenience store
minding the four swaying hands
feeding off of passion's demands.
Town street lights
glowing fuzz of those nights
now with a body pressed against hips
ever nearing desire and gentle lips.
Hear comes youth swelling
conscious taking all thoughts, buying and selling.
Leaving with a touch and fulfilled sentiment,
time has been youthfully spent
under the glory of dark clouds
and without cover of charcoal shrouds.

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.

Memory

From a jumbled thought, inscribed in pen.

Not too long ago (or at least as much as my mind can put the pieces of the weeks back together) I could see the side of the mountain ridge from my windowsill. Out past the wood and glass framed box, trees strung themselves in my vision as the mountainside crept into the forefront of my vision. From what I can remember, it was about late May. I could feel the haze of summer growing on the little hairs on my knuckles, while my fingernails gathered dirt from days spent under sunbaked skies. Youth collected itself and set out onto a journey of its own. Careful to live by some principles which I sill hold close (closer maybe); I followed. Springtime, though beginning to paint daylight green, left the branches bare enough so I could manage to see the thick belly and stout neck of the earthen giant sleeping outside the town. July is coming close, everything is still flowing! Without trace but with doubt the branches have filled in the gaps where the mountain could be seen. A wall of exploding verts trembles against my vision and instills vigor in my blood. Passion boils and yells like a tea kettle inside the season. Long walks, pond gazes, and the conversations that sleep beneath the folds in my brain come to mind as I crane my neck to try and get a glimpse of the mountain. All I can see are the low hanging electric lines, the usual cast of oaks, pines, and maples, and a few songbirds that dance to their own music. June is almost over, no matter that the mountain cannot be seen. Let the green make me weightless so I can float amidst the midsummer night.

Birthday Wish

Sweet golden field of my youth
(the only life I have known)!
Today the flowers are brimming with
insects' grace and travelers' leather feet;
both are walking into the day without a thought to drop.
Never have I chained myself to time but occasional that devil
has liked to lock me in a cell.
But a year has passed to see
another regeneration rising from
the cool waters beneath the spring leaves of passion.
I am thirsty, a bit undernourished,
and often times I turn my back on joy.
To be young is to be walking in a thicket of thorns
while searching for a single rose.
To realize la jeunesse is to run
into the forest with open arms as if
to embrace a lover.
Meditation draws on me this morning.
Fresh air of a new dawn
crawls out from the bedside clock.
The calendar blushes with the date;
it is unfortunate how it must tell my age.
On a night raft as the moon will rise,
my smile will rival that big glowing rock.
And for at least one "day",
a thousand hands will grab my arms
to run through the warmest fields I can find.

Humid Dive

Arms, fingers and eyes!
To you I call to awake
from your earthbound sties
to give solace to this life which the thunder did shake.
Storms hold us together flesh tied friends,
this rain treads lightly on our window sill
as each drop meets its own grounded ends,
yet the wind still beats on my head as all words begin to spill.

Dark and humid is the taste of Eris' thrill.
"Why" these eyes ask "must you look to your feet?"
To this I turn my head up and see how the clouds always do move,
all outstretched like the river past many imprisoned street;
the trio too much for these feet to behoove.
Wonder passes through periodic walls,
a dawn for every dusk does prevail
like the sparrows rainy calls
which from all twitters do stories entail.

Young and silhouette eyed though one day frail.
This mirror knows only of portraits in its sight,
but the horizon always is between these tethered hands,
while the looking glass rests in human despair or delight,
in its sight I nonetheless drink in joy knowing this body makes no demands.
The sun peers out now over heat kissed shoulders,
in its pensive light I do not stop to cry
for all the moments that in its light will smoulder;
nor need I dare to ask why.

Reflection melds into the star hewn night and ferns will soon curl out to dry.
Friends of this torso and damned conscience,
they now run out of my front door,
out of the garden's fence
and need they not another reason or moment more.

Into Endless Reach

Days I have sought before;
where dirt would pour between young fingers
to take delight in what will come to ruin.

Now no longer do I seek
rather gain, gather, and always look
beyond what the dirty words of 'good' 'bad', 'strong' 'weak'.

A Sunday sun once called my name as
its heavy hand carved Aztec faces into rock walls in front of my face.
I sat to watch and when fixing my gaze at once my mind fled;
left only with the world before me.

The mountainside where all I knew rested
was breathing heavily and its mane
showed signs of the Robbins-egg sky.
Past the branches which have bent before wind and snow,
hazy light flickered between valleys where no body
could be made seen by towering beauty.

Too much to see for a young mind just yet,
I then turned to the ground.
Yet again was the mountain too much with me.
Ferns and rocks all cried of their tales and
danced in their natural sublime delights.
What had taken place amongst the dirt
showed me as many of my own wondrous tears
as the view over one hundred forests.

After many hours spent with my feet against rocks,
it was time to descend the mountain
(the sun blushed with purple and took the clouds with it).
Emerging from the earthen towers I took a look over my shoulder
to see what I was to leave behind.

No more days will I spend eyes closed.
No to only touching the ground.
Only listening to the birds will leave one wanting.
Only speaking will never leave one satisfied.
So with the mountain in mind,
I will walk with my self open and flowing like a river.

Into the woods of joy, hermitage of present experience I go,
holding the hand of all that is my world and the one
I have yet to know.

Drinking from the Blue Sky (Written on a Walk, Among Friends)

Words all but too soon depart onto
the sea of misconception from the
harbor of bright vision.
Only as much as masts can be raised
does the tongue turn towards lands unknown to latitude.
The wind blows freely today
(fortunate for those looking
to move across the water).
Smiling spring air carries youth with
its world of spiraling truths and rejection,
the sun perches itself on its daydream throne
staring at us as all else breathe the orb in.
As all ships pass through such kingdoms,
as zephyrs sealed a flowing present;
the day held me within its arms and said
“Look, look at the sights before you!
It will always be 'too late' if you only where
to choose to indifferently wait;
those who balance on their heads too long will oft declare
'Too late! Too late'”
I listened close to the sun's rise and fall,
in its blushing orange light I found the voices of those whose words
take their visages' shape.
Moments past became shards of looking glass
as my body became smaller as night grew on its thorn laden vine.
For a moment,
my reflection was cool and clear in the waters of the sky.

Farewell Clouds

Desire in the blue sky
covers whole the tracks of the day.
Raining down comes the sun
reminding me that the world is
only the shape of how it is seen.
Stone carved hills come to mind
when notes of poems and the river
are breathed into a tree-shrouded head.
At both ends of the day burn a present
that at once embodies all the dreams of
a future and past once thought to be no more
than time.
The river below beloved friends' faces
flows at once beginning to end,
like the life amidst the spring air and smiles.
Birds and falling water fill the air,
singing softly the notes of forgotten beauty.
When the footprints of the day no longer linger
the wind will still blow sweetly through new leaves.
Yet, as long as a life remains in the hands of nature
time is but a river;
beyond the burdening walls of time.
At once it begins and ends,
with new life flowing at all times;
remaining all the same to the eye that never looked deep enough
and to the mind that never held the truth close.

By the River

Desire in the blue sky
covers whole the tracks of the day.
Raining down comes the sun
reminding me that the world is
only the shape of how it is seen.
Stone carved hills come to mind
when notes of poems and the river
are breathed into a tree-shrouded head.
At both ends of the day burn a present
that at once embodies all the dreams of
a future and past once thought to be no more
than unbending rocks.
The river below beloved friends' faces
flows at once beginning to end,
like the life amidst the spring air and smiles.
Birds and falling water fill the air,
singing softly the notes of forgotten beauty.
When the footprints of the day no longer linger
the wind will still blow sweetly through new leaves.
Yet, as long as a life remains in the hands of nature
time is but a river.
They dance beyond the burdening walls of time.
At once all days begin and end
with new life flowing at all times;
appearing the the same to the eyes that never looked deep enough.

Splendor of Hills

Past the highway
over the gravel
into the blue.
To the splendors of pensive youth
the fruits of spring have left lain.

Idol love stands still in growing trees
as some soft faced girl stares forward in her car.
She drives nowhere you would like to visit anyways.
For you, onto the green hills
that hold steady with flooded grasses at their feet.

You set down your bike to watch
all the clouds go by over the hills.
The grass feasts upon your eyes,
clouds watch as you are drawn in
onto the point of infinite shut-eyed young dreams.

It is nearing evening but the afternoon
never seems to have peaked.
So the bike falls over while your own body
tumbles onto the grass along with it.
The sunshine feels sweet, there is no reason to move.

Forget your age,
feel it inside your bones instead.
Cars pass by with speechless faces
who all have their own anguishes and joys today.
Biding the time, you spend what sighs you have left
on the passing clouds that are fed into the sun's mouth.

Skin is turning from sallow winter to
the refreshed brown that those by your side
came down to kiss.
You have been lying on the grass for nearly two hours,
not knowing what you are waiting for.
It strikes you then,
there really is not anything to be waiting for.

So under the comfort of the freedom of angst
you throw yourself some questions that you would
never actually ask her.
Nevertheless, you think the feelings will all pass.

It is nearing seven in the evening as the sky
begins to explode with deep blue.
You are wondering if she thought about the way you walked today.

Hopping onto your bike to climb into your room again.
The ride home is hard, you are choking on a breath full of hanging words.

You cannot fool yourself, you know why.

Body and Storm

Passing heat rises from black earth
yet soon the day will die in its own visions;
as night will soon give birth
to all window-sill thinkers' sunlit inhibitions.

Laying softly to shut heavy eyes
the rain still knocks on the front door.
When waking from harmonious sleep, nature truly reveals what it implies.
Though the mind takes place all but once
the wind will still blow after all flesh has dissolved from the core.

All is changing in a constant realm,
even when the eye only can guess what it sees.
Be it not body nor soul that is tonight's pensive helm
for the clouds' wrath will illuminate how they please.

Song from Alongside the River

Beneath ambition lies a bone ridden corpse
tossing around in its cell.

On the tree of empathy there are
the parched roots below it,
reaching further into the soil for its
share of the earth.

And inside the windows of these hundred houses
are faces I may never see.
Comforting like the warm moments called “spring”;
I know that I may never see the whites of their eyes
or know the first letter of their last name.
It is not that we all have forgotten,
rather we have never known.

Tomorrow the sun will rise.
Clouds pass through and go above
the town's rooftops and low lying visages.
Luminous glows and untouchable words
will turn our heads even more the day after.

When footprints are washed away
more will wander on the same path
as it has done for the thousands of human summers.
The prospect of lost steps does not vex me.
I walk now for my own way forward,
knowing that those who walk after will
know their way back.

The Breeze Feels Just Right

The day rose and the skin on my arms
was beginning to boil as the magnolia trees
opened themselves to the gracious morning.
Distances and words are busy
being shoved into my head,
but the burning inside my chest
is screaming with a sown mouth.
Stumbling into the sunlight,
thinking that she is right around the corner.
No,
it is only my shadow that
had caught the side of my eye.
Riverside bike rides are making nests in my bone
as midnight paces in my mind leave vacant space.
Full again with patience,
waiting for a day that will not be seem.
Merely dancing to a song that
nobody can here.
Still riding my bike
trying not to look out of the
corner of my eye.
Walking out the door on the brick patio
means more than a breath of air.
Among warm days is the laughter
that makes me open my window.
Birds fly above
flowers grow below
and the river flows beside me.
My eyes never gaze into vacant space;
there never is truly any to be seen.