Bird

Outside a rainy day window
is a bird perched on a power line.
Pinkish hue on slick feathers
while rain drops cut fall upon its beak.
Staring straight into my room,
it wonders who is inside these warm white walls.
The window gazer sings his songs about the human,
asking why he sits on a chair inside.
It turns its head left to right,
and back around to look at the orange sky.
Amidst conifers, phone calls
water and temperate breezes
it turns again to look at the same tree
I always turn to on days of worn weather and
dead thoughts.
It could fly anywhere it pleases,
come and go alone or
with another song singer.
It could stare through any window,
feast its black eyes upon all the trees it could reach.
Long neck, bright beak, flushed feathers;
it chose the view in front of me.

On the Way Down

Falling down face first into the dirt
while the wind brings the fog into an early spring heart.
Brought deep below the surface from
wishes held too high above a head,
he only wishes to hold his dreams
in between sun-kissed and sweat soaked arms.
Impounded by thought and long sought stares,
his eyes never met the light at the end of the
snow storms and blank gazes.
He forgot how to forgoe forgetting,
knowing that it is never really possible.
Falling off the cliff and
the rain was coming down slowly.
Out of the gray fog came a reaching arm,
only to pull the broken son from the rocks and
canyon cliffs of tomorrow.
She too knew,
it was all too much.
And knowing this, she knew what strength it took
to lift a heavy soul up from the depths
of the emptiest riffs in a life.
Staring into the words he gave a soft soul,
both arms and voices pulled each other up from
the past's ashes as the young man
was falling through the cracks.
“Just do not let go,
remember what you said.”
Recalling plain and well that
he still never learned to forget,
both walked away from the ruins and canyons.
The sun began to rise,
tomorrow will be coming soon.

Worn Away Veils (Through the Water)

Waiting besides brick walls
has finally set into brimstone.
Watching her eyes fall into herself
as she smiled with the sun shining upon her,
on a cloud freckled spring day.
With laughter she revealed what is behind
the faint painted morning veil that I myself
carried with me.
Breathing in flames and bleeding green leaves
I pass her voice over my tongue to taste
the words that cannot reach my throat.
She laughs somewhere;
in her sneakers buried into the dirt
eyes submerged in what holds to herself.
If only I could see out of the decrepit old veils
and into her eyes.
This old mask in front of my face only
turns my eyes back into my head.
Time has come to lift so I can see
what she has been gazing at while I have been
staring too long into the cool waters of
warm days to come.
A mask will be too much to bear as escaping heat
will again crawl from my skin.
Hot blood is rising slowly
my pockets are being emptied
and all that is to gain are
visions clear like long awaited water.

"What Are You Doing Tomorrow?"

I saw the picture of us all in the sunlight. It was faint, but a remainding reminder of what was once everyday life. The warmth of summer air was a gift, and as I would wake up with the sun shining on me I was always reminded of great moments to come. It is getting close to a new spring again. I wonder where all the old phone calls have gone, where all the heat stricken roads have finally led to, and to where endless nights have found themselves. I looked back down at the picture on my phone. It was hard to swallow all the nostalgia as it tried to shove itself down my throat. Sighing was no good, and all that came out instead was a mute breath. My head ended up in my hands as I thought about everyone I spent a night with, all the places seen, everything that has been left unsaid. All the smiles inside me lit up the 8 P.M. dusk. I closed the picture, and my eyes followed suit. My window was open, and my room was warm as sweet notes were reaching into my ears. Beautiful days were in the back of my mind. For a moment, I was timeless.

And the Walls All Fell

Sleepwalking for too many hours.
Shaking hands in a tremble of scarcity.
Only walking to be lifted above by
familiar faces.
Small rooms, large laughs for a night.
Wind for another day I guess.
To think of a summer spent like so,
it would be too much to look out the
window.
Hope is a boundary.
Merely a boundary that should be broken.
We will wake up soon.
Or maybe,
it is just me.

Two Days of Wind

Word have wrought weight
off your teeth and into the center of
one year and multiple mess.
Early spring,
and the mud breaks free from
traps set by ice.
Vestiges of blank stared days
send messages in the night.
“Come down up the stairs,
do not fall,
your thoughts carry anchors.”
I never find the time to say
anything in reply.
Fingernails are still down to the skin.
All the pens on the dusty desk are lined up in neat lines.
Sleeping still when clouds come to
sweep the day away.
Amidst ruins and broken trails
a smile lifts my head off the floor.
Having a head in the clouds only
ever makes one blind.
Wandering makes for the merrier
with a beautiful face holding up
a map for me.

Taking Back Time

Through my window have seemed to have
found their ways again.
Like trails of strings of an instrument of six,
a morning unbeknown to me sings for the
flowers that it births.
Counting colors on white walls will do no good
as menageries beyond melancholy branch beyond
old snows and dead leaves.
Maps tell of shores in mind while
bare legs tell of stories of familiar trails.
In voices and night time whispers
the sun again becomes familiar with skin
while the soil begins to take shape underneath the feet.
Beds have become to warm to lay in.
Nevertheless, the earth is perfect to stand upon.
Delivered from wishes;
the warm air is now a gift for choking thought.

Past the Sky

The sun was too hot
to let the snow stay on the ground today.
As long sought footsteps made their way
through my door,
I found that it was
warm in January.
The blue sky would not allow
shadows to pass me by.
Subtlty, the light found its way into my
gliding body.
Hand in mine,
I found my way towards the sky.
Though warm on our backs,
the sun was not hot enough
for us to keep from reaching
past the sky.

Pour Ceux qui Se Coucheraient sous les Étoiles

I love to speak and write in French, and today was no exception. Here is a short piece of prose en français I wrote today. Help with grammar, syntax, etc. is greatly appreciated, and I hope that those who are familiar with the French language can enjoy this.

C'est le jour finale d'un long mois. Je peux entendre l'hiver mourait comme le printemps frappais sur du mon tête. En voyant un jeux du hockey sur le télévision, il commence a pleuvoir mais la neige commence aussi tomber avec la pluie. Les États-Unis et le Canada s'essayent pour gagner la médaille d'or, a la fois je m'essaye voir la scène dehors ma fenêtre. Quand je tourne aux face du mon télévision je vois que le Canada marque un deuxième but, et la pluie s'arrête au même moment. Quelquefois, je me sens comme ni langue ni personne peut rendre raison aux moments comme ca. Les petits moments qu'on peut souvent oublier; quand on se sens que tous les choses dans la vie son complet. Pour une seconde ou une demi-seconde comme je vois le printemps entre un nouveau mois et quelques milliers de personnes sourient, tous les jours et mois d'hiver se sent complets. Demain je m'imposera aux visages des murs qui sont blancs et stériles, mais celui ne sera pas grave car je m'en vais souvenir d'aujourd'hui. Les jours comme ca, ils sont les jours qui embrassent mon sourire et me fait un plus fort.

Flocks

Ruins have since wrought creation.
Snow knows no more than mist,
as dark windows
fill black bile veins and clouds
cover a head bursting with ice.
In the interest of selves
words have been raised but with no further thought
than justice that skews itself.
Relics now lain upon perverted dogma
have rusted under deep sheets of sleet.
Now clouds will wait to cook souls
as screams now only sigh as
courage scampers to mere survival.
No hope is the sturdiest backbone of hours
spent to self,
though it is seldom seen that a visitor is not only
those who knock at a door.
In the dark night there is little to see but colors
that only exist in memory,
so let a candle burn until the day
that memory no longer knows itself and thought
is but a page in a book.

Langues des Tetes

Pulling back the blue sky on some Sunday
while bouncing black ideas of of withered white walls.
How a Saturday can fall reminds of me of how fast
I burn.
Can tongues paint a heart whole or is it merely
the spasms of muscles that make a home
true to its name?
Often times a word can comfort but for a night.
Daylight or clouds for better measure call for stronger action,
for the blood that pumps in veins and the thought
in movement.
To know where two feet walk require one to walk,
not just to know where the sun sets and lines on a map.
Skylines will one day be destroyed though for now
spires will climb to the moon and streets will stretch until
they drown in rivers.
My own walks always end in where I find the air feels best.
Dancing comes best when bare-feet bleed on beautified ground.
Truth is the ultimate flower, though mirrors may say that
ugliness is no more than a dark spot in the eyes,
it really is just another piece of the world to look
further into.
Walking into the ground,
walking into the sky,
walking into the sun.
I am here and so it seems where I want to be
is still beneath my feet in some distant dream.
In the back of my voice I sometimes find
where I have breathed deep and swallow the breaths
that I still have yet to exhale,
that is my home for the night and where
words still speak fresh from our throats.

Meditation 1

Have I not written words
sung of fires and stars?
I would like to think so.
The world brings smite to shallow slumber
each time I begin to close my eyes.
Yet it is only in my sleep,
that a quiet night can
finally come to rest.
Dreams cannot run from a nightmare though.
A light somewhere in my doze has sparked embers
in the midst of snow.
Poems have gone past,
well into all my nights
and wood burning breaths.
Until the calm of an embracing
orange glow set into my pen,
did I know the strength of a breath against sparks.
The the shrouded gaze I finally hold close to my eyes;
the burnings of hopes and desire
were only for the days where trees were scarce.
Dessicated spectacles have shaded old growth.
Plenty to burn,
more light to see the shadows
that engulf the ground.
The very dead branches I once let rot,
have come to illuminate
all the dark nights.

Where Feet Walk

Floorboards beneath my feet never seem to rot,
rather find themselves growing roots as if
they were still the trees they once were.
And on them I have believed my feet to be dust.
But no;
my own roots are the soil for what is beneath me.

Told from Time

Spitting back the heavy hearted
faces floating in my mind;
I have turned to the stars.
I felt my own eyes in her arms,
swallowing into pieces of a body
that used to just be a mirrored dream.
The smell of my pillow brings me to
the sunset where I at last met the eyes of joy in mine.
Looking from afar may feel good,
but only burns with the pains of a
lost tomorrow.
Being in the open arms,
with a weary head on a
strong shoulder
are more than enough to hold me
to truisms in time.
The floorboards are still warm
with the thoughts of an endless afternoon.
The glowing gaze that I see myself in
and a voice that
I have called for,
is finally by my side.
Alone at last,
hand in mine.
The sun sets a little later each day,
maybe because it is now mindful of
its own time.
By January I figured that old light would have
figured how to find itself in the night,
as I have myself.
In the endless days there is a sprawling night.
Swimming feelings in bright stars through
curtains drawn.
The triumph of joy has came to see forth the gorgeous
mind that has found mine.
I could never lose the beauty found in this room,
in the bliss of bodies and exaltations colliding.
No one can never let go of themselves
as long as there is
another morning to wake up to.

Avec des Nuages Gris

Melting into my own anger,
with frustration that I never felt
on a back porch.
Inside it all multiplies;
the subtle feelings of impatience
and finite hope.
Stars dim and the rain
never stops but only continues
each night;
it falls into my face
while I take in deep the feeling of each cold catharsis.
I know these drops are real,
the cold awakens the restless
senses inside of me.
With water onto the scribbled lines;
these papers can grow into the trees that they are.
With the cold feeling of exalting assurance;
I can sleep just a little easier tonight
knowing that these bits and pieces
of me are falling somewhere
into the world.
I am rain today.