Only the moon sees the smokestacks
from that slant, high above and at an angle,
soot covered bricks in a circle broken
by time and industrial trends.
The whistles and engines complicit
in a conspiracy of rusted silence;
the hulking machines frozen into stillness.
Eventually blowtorches will reduce them
to their lowest common denominator.
The flame will flare brighter with each cut,
until all has fallen and the fire consumes itself;
that man-made monster no more than memory,
and the moon still smiling high above.
My shadow is as lithe as the light inside
no matter my faltering step.
I look to an all knowing sky
for answers. The moon greets me
with a grin.
Such communication is unsure;
Reconstructed it seems to prove
that less leaves us with questions.
Even the vanilla scented candle
flickering from my bureau sends
smoke signals I don’t understand.
The mirror returns my stance word for word
with only minor interpretation; even that
might be illusion.
Shine light, shine
Share your illumination.
A moment separate,
and yet not.
No sound encroaches;
the rhythm of silence
unites the universe.
Then a low growl,
a downpour, a deluge,
Thoughts tumble then settle,
a storm, a struggle,
a whisper of sun,
Time moves ever on.
Each second claims its own karma;
each hour is unique.
Live, laugh, love:
Each moment is sacred.
They said it was THE planet
where everything is just right…Ha
just another case of the grass is always
Turns out, it was no more than a star.
I have no doubt that somewhere
in the far reaches of the cosmos, exists a race
that is entertained by our ignorance.
Perhaps they’ve already found the end of the rainbow
and already know that somewhere in the great vastness
of space, there are two snowflakes exactly alike.
I bet they are never fogged in when the Perseids
make their grand display, nor would they ever
be away when that long awaited package
had to be signed for. Furthermore, I bet the phone
never rings when they are in the shower.
That special time that’s all their own.
How many hours do you suppose they waste a day?
Such issues don’t really keep me awake at night,
but they do have me wondering.
what I really care about is their iambic feet
and the possibility of poetry
out of this world.
In the face of the storm
we hunker and pray
We take each day as it comes.
Even during the harshest winter
we call out to spring
knowing it will happen.
Knowing the cold will remember
brittle and sore
our hearts scarred
and still hope never dies.
We are born to survive
never a doubt about it.
Here to beyond, we ascend.
Summer squall or tsunami
we learn early on to praise the sun
and forgive the wind.
in the madness
The river rises
but never quits
The mountains are
testament to the wisdom
of staying true
to the soul
have been surrounded
and survived it
never becoming one
allows for survival
of the self