during her first steps
she cannot see through her eyes on the wings
thus she cleans her inner lens from magnifying –
with every other step she listens to her soles
See three smiling cousins,
around age eight,
spattered with mud, after
an afternoon spent playing
in the sodden, low spot in the yard
A tiny, pale blue dot,
is all there is,
it is not such a lot
but it is everything
We share this speck
of dust in a void,
and what we are,
what we were,
and what we become,
is all because
And should a child make it
To the densely packed production line,
There are no lifetime guarantees
No best before, or after birthday dates
Supply outcries demand.
But demand increases should you move
Within the factory floor,
Be placed onto the packaged line
Or stamped and wrapped:
“For Family Wealth”
I hum, and life is found on a new planet
A melody is created but they only see me walk
They see my curves but not my angles
She departed in a flurry of wings, took flight.
As a child I saw faith
in fragments of color
First Communion white
blood red martyr Sundays
the altar draped in purple
Gripping writing tools like vices for the future,
Avoiding full eye contact and solidifying closure,
Running up ramp ways and giggling like it’s pleasantry,
Bells ringing like Notre Dame ignoring all the travesty,
The waves would echo
And we shall be lost in one in one.
His lips were made of paper,
Unkissable and cold,
But his hands were a sonnet
So beautifully told.
Like a village beacon lit for a celebration,
The mind’s halls are lit up, all by music.
Each note, sustained by that intuitive
Leap of faith, restores doubt with rock-strength
As the virtuoso hand trembles and resonates
On the chords of our innermost essence.
She asks for forgiveness from Mrs. Magician and
her dear one, the sunbather at Finnegan’s wake.
During the cruel war, the idol with the golden
head felt a little bit lied to
on the dirt road by Susan Surftone,
so it went away and brought plague to a place
where a pounding boogie put
candlelight under its thumb
On a voyage under nights-roof darkest, aloof-alone,
only stars atone with a glowing harkness,
Would, by knowing which one I should follow,
be an escape from the agape of sea and dark to swallow?
Be showing a way as I drift astray?
May the chosen star in my nightmare dream – gleam a light – beam as I pray for day,
Beaming aglow, it would brighten my dream’s darkly plight of a woeful night,
Longing quantified and articulated
yours is the touch
that lights the forever fires
seethes the trembling earth,
I search and see a foggy future
in clear Waterford crystal.
It shatters as seconds cease
to tick tick on.
A fabric to weave in and out of the one mused most
Enveloped in a theory of strings and mindful news posts
Set up a series of lyrical hosts discovering the deepest cognitive coasts
Visually experiencing the tides of thought in the eyes mind and believing in
Sending messages of safe passage over seas
Weathering storms, disease and all liquid creatures swimming about
Destructive demonstrated dance dialect positioning translation
The days are long, hot, and maddening,
the nights cloudy, starless, and sultry.
Sleep withheld behind a heavy dark veil.
Spirit weary in its empty aloneness.
Fleeting visions from happier times,
refuse to project, on the silver screen within.
Joy from dust-covered chapters, dissolves in decay,
upon the sagging shelves of remembrance.