There is a particular someone
A nobody I know exists
If just in my mind
A jokester and kind, whose pure walk I cannot resist
I bid in vain -live in a new heart
Inhabit another soul’s plans
It’s my own fault I know
For each place that I go, I seek out that voice and those two hands
I will surrender
To the crazy way you say
The concerted, intense
Way you say your nameI’ll first speak it out loud
Clear into your ear
You’ll tell me louder
What that makes you feelI’ll murmur it again
In a nonchalant way
A cool, collected
Nonchalant wayIf it’s the last thing I do
I’ll surrender you will say
I know why you kicked against bone
And keep closing doors
Since forever you’ve felt
The taste of that disdain
The smell of this fear
Your young mouth too green
To know the right words
To ask it to end
So you’ve kicked against bone
And you keep closing doors
I read yellow ink
It’s a gift that I have
Put down your crayon kid
We’re on our way home
I fall asleep
With windows open
And curtains blowing
You’re next to me
Soothing these sheets
I want the way
Your special air
Wafts ‘cross my skin
And weaves itself
Down through my lungs
My life with you
Brings deeper laughs
Plus lines as proof
I’m closer to
The sky and Sun
I’m forced by you
To train harder
Commit longer
Wear certain shoes
And gaze further
I’ll let you in
And lay you down
And sing to you
With clarity
Brought only from
Up here on high
Now feels slow.
And what say you?
Will you be letting me walk right up and peer inside the expanse of your wide windows, all at a snail’s pace to learn?
Are you actually relaxing in there?
I drive reckless at times.
But straight enough to read your billboards on the road. They scream to me Talk Me Down, Category 5, Whirlwind At Work.
How many feathers need I blow?
And in what direction?
May I help calm your soul, pull you safely inside where, at the very least, you can put back on the gloves?
A Great Lake
Beckoned
North West Wind
Suffer for my shores
Your best three storms
And ‘ere too long
I’ll offer up
In sacrifice
My mystic mist
And renew you
The Night has shown favor
But won’t wish to wear White
The Night has its own color to live
Eyes closed tight
White is for daylight
For when scared long enough
We open our eyes to the mirror
White is us
It’s an inopportune time that you’ve come to my door, as I’m making mud pies and my hair’s in curlers.
Regardless…enter.
I’m in the middle of a daydream and I may need your help.
It’s recurring, with stories, songs or poems and from time to time virtues or myths.
At present a fable, my friend, of a man with sometimes paint on his always groomed hands….
I…
Draw me.
Close your eyes.
Lick your pencil tip.
Now draw me. From memory.
…as the story goes, a Poet, a Lawyer and a Self-proclaimed Indian Chief saunter onto a playground.
The Poet drawls, “The truth of childrens’ hearts, the taste of Earth, the magical dance of the stars above. And how all-in is the blood that courses through the veins –This is Love.”
“Your earnestness convinces me.” responds the Lawyer, plopping down onto a swing. “But still sir, you’ll need to prove it up.” she says unapologetically.
“How boring!” the Indian Chief interrupts -as Indian Chiefs often do. “This is a playground.” “Besides,” he nods knowingly to the Poet, “I dig dirt! Plus, when I stayed up past bedtime last night, I watched the stars and fireflies fight!”
“And,” the Indian Chief continued, eyeing up the Lawyer, “Each time I live life hard enough to fall and bleed, you rush right to my side.” “There’s the proof you need, Mama.” he whispers to her.
Digging in his heels and pulling an Eagle’s feather from his pocket, the Indian Chief teases, then runs. “Tag! You’re both it….”
LisaRosier.com 