falling sun
for
getting these moments
round round round like merry go round
stop and think : it's not electricity
just leaves on leaves on leaves
don't leave
spotlight sunstreak witness moonbeam
planets spinning spinning spun
letting it go
-
-
-
drift into cloudfall rainbows somewhere
and the road is dark
i'll run toward the falling sun
just
whisper my name
Six ways to be a butterfly
Land gently and linger among the marigolds and asters, snapdragons and lavenders, daylilies and sunflowers. These buffet of flowers are yours to savor.
So don’t settle.
Play.
Strut. Twirl in eddies because you know everyone is watching.
Flit between sunbeams. Let light filter through your splendor.
You are beauty.
Be careful where you rouse your wings. You are power, rippling exponentially.
A creator of hurricanes, you change the world.
Emerge backwards into your cocoon. Disassemble each scale in your wings and strip.
Be cozy. Stay cozy. Invent cozy if you want to know it intimately.
Love your furry plumpness. Caterpillar, you are child again.
Unfurl yourself. Let them see you. Let them see your whole self.
Then fly away. Follow the tail end of summer with your brethren.
Let the wind guide you.
The sky is home.
Never be one thing. You are a child that flies. You are an adult that never leaves home. You are the essence of metamorphosis. You survive for sanctuary.
You die to live.
The Shimmering
A single drop of rain,
falling, gliding,
twisting, stopping,
turning.
How special;
oh, so fragile.
A single tear,
clinging to the eye,
afraid of leaving,
falling, sliding,
until its salt creases lips.
Bittersweet,
oh, so lonely.
Each different,
with a sadness.
Each touched
by the hand of life,
learning hope.
How curious.
Oh, so quiet.
heavy weight on my chest,
this reality holding me under
hands clutched tight at my throat,
claws digging in.
a strange sort of feeling
tinges my vision with soft greys.
perhaps grief, perhaps panic,
or perhaps something foreign.
Peace
My paddle at rest,
distant ducks call through lapping
waves; the dawn is pure.
.
shaped into your hands
nothing really fit into place
until there was you
before it was just others,
trying to fit
my bruised shaped heart
into a square form
Cracked
my words in poems
are disjointed
cracking on bad structure
the hinge of the meaning
hidden in convoluted phrasing
whereas stories seem to be
more open ended
a way to put together thoughts
without losing sight
of the end result
a poem is merely
a single thought
crushed into uneven
stanzas and presented
with nothing but love
but stories are easy
to follow and lead
us to the very spot
where we left ourselves
the most vulnerable part
of prose being the telling
of how we find our way home
A stifled stoem for your meter’s ’furiation.
Poems can be stories and they very often are. Not so much out on display, more like a door ajar. You fight, you flee, you stay, for that glimpse at who you are, whilst sweet madness ’long the way keeps you laughing at a star. Writing’s an attempt to flay, or ’very least to mar, whereas rhyme’s an ink-blot test they say, though not at all on par with an ambushed jay worth two in bush, so near but oh so ___.