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Sidewalk Chalk
Find me where the sidewalk splits--
Where shadows stretch themselves
down the pavement; forming outlines of people
with eyes like tunnels and hands so wide
They could hold the fear of centuries.
I speak fluent poetry and hold cups
of coffee that I drink only half of.
The lanes are wide yet I feel as though
I am driving on a wire.
What is this you call comfort?
Words of Lead
Forgiveness falls from parted lips--
Parting are we, but for short a time;
A time that chills your finger tips
Tipping you over the unforgiving line.
(This love is yours, you are not mine)
Loose and lifeless hanging your head,
We're heading for fault and fear.
I fear your words have turned to lead
I have led you to disappear...
Deep in the shadows all is clear
Your breath is short and hollow
footprints never to be followed.
Lightly Follow my thoughts.
I've never felt the heat of
so many raindrops
before
Wounded
Drizzle dip trip
slipping on pavement
Drag me under,
This is love
Hit Grit split
Me open and tear
The beauty from
My skin
Lift Lips drip
Pull me through
Your loop
And encage me
Bruise bite break
Bind me to your
pattern Watch me
gasp for air
Dream Stream scream
Watch your coral lips
As they say,
Trust me
This.
Is.
Love
Before You Can Speak
With ease, he runs, breath puffing,
Lungs fighting, going nowhere in particular,
but it's somewhere. In that direction--
he points beyond the window with a fist
full of purpose and knuckles that have
sucker-punched life right in the stomach.
He walks onward, outward-- toward
the camouflage forest that burns
to tell the world it's alive.
“Pay attention!” it says.
He talks about poetry and his eyes
look like they could hold galaxies,
not in the way they shine, but in the way they speak.
So much to say and I'm afraid to read them.
He's the boy you want to keep up with,
chase around the corner of the block just to say
You won and watch the way his mouth moves
when he talks about a past love.
You wouldn't care if he caught you staring
but you wouldn't dare kiss him either.
He's not the kind of boy your lips want to touch,
so instead, you touch him with your heart.
You'll see him everywhere. He smiles
with warmth and all crooked teeth,
with the same eyes like stars and you
count the constellations on your fingers.
Then lose count and remember
you only have two hands. Two hands that try
to hold everything.
You are already carrying enough, so you
look at him and try not to fall in love.
Your heart hardly knows him, but
your mind has memorized all of his pieces.
The rain stops.
You are looking down the
Wet stretch of pavement,
Helpless and hopeless,
for he is already gone
Before you can say,
I love you.
Until the desirable hand is played.
The pianist manipulates the piano. The drummer manipulates the drum. The trumpeter manipulates the trumpet. The cellist manipulates the cello. The violinist manipulates the violin. The flutist manipulates the flute. The harpist manipulates the harp. The conductor manipulates the harpist and the flutist and the violinist and the cellist and the trumpeter and the drummer and the pianist. The audience manipulates the conductor. And the song manipulates the audience.
All those hands, waving and pressing and clapping, symbiotically, simultaneously manipulating each other, plainly and mainly manifesting manual magnificence and all her manifolds - maniacal magic mandating more and more and more mana until the desirable hand is played...