Music first of allSky Askew
Where is the what
or the Who that explains
the oft’ fruitlessness
of my overall mess and the how I say yes long before I have said I know why?
When my proclivity
to touch humanity’s
innate toxicity
brings my doom, what is it that lauds me and steals the sharpest wits gifted me?
Miss the Forest
I think I comprehend the incomprehensible, the reprehensible, I think.
I guess the fog plans to stay and behave as more than a mere misbehaving vapor, I guess.
Certainly courage or cowardice or the wordless touch of one true friend will keep me from certainty.
Wasn’t The Woman
Samaria
I live on a lonely block
Hope and Delusion my only neighbors
They never talk to one another
Something about a falling out many millennia ago
So I, the conciliatory soul, am the go-between
And am making much progress
Sometimes they loan me sugar
All-too-willingly, it seems
But I gotta pay it back quick
Else they threaten all-nighters
Dissonant music at full volume
“Is it worth it?” I often ask aloud
They reply in unison, of course
Cultivator
May someone cause you
The calmest touch
May someone draw you
The deeper still
May someone hear you
The never before
In Wait: A Haiku
The lull of my breath
My sometimes staccato-cry
Devilish details
Less
It would take ten thousand tyrants, a village of villains and one hell of a heartless hedonist
To tread where you trod
To do what you did
To throw away this
It would take ten thousand tyrants, a village of villains and one hell of a heartless hedonist
To tread where you trod
To do what you did
To throw away this
Certain Genus
Find me in the reedy, agonizing greens and violent violets I never thought would hold my wings again.
Breathe with me, I beg you, as I flail, purposely so, deciding between the strange new Summer air or the viscous depths that would welcome me.
Pray for my soul, please, that the beautiful others, lost or prowling, don’t know I’m a threat or delicious at all.
Endangered
“Believe,” he admonished, five times again and again, from on high, living on bugs and breadcrumbs, singing some other language to me.
And speaking of crumbs, of fallen-food not given, I knew I’d better believe in something, since such was my fate.
He stopped then -they always do- and took away his scraps and sweetly sung psalms -they always will.
So she, a magical historian of a thing, in sweet song too, recounted, “Disappear. Disappear. Disappear.”
Photo Credit: Tiger R., age 9
