Comfort

Could there be more heav’nly sounds
More clear-cut answer to prayer
As these wondrous crickets’ songs
Bless the lonely air

Tear-stained girl, lovesick boy
“Keep the hope,” ’tis said
This night, they’ll keep you company
Their concert voids the dread

June Will Be Okay

Deciding this morning whether
To be afraid for our weather

For this Earth
For its Underlings

I noticed triumph
Its and Theirs

I saw green, cold tears
Gladness!

There was little left to do
Open wide the window

Cry out
Three cheers for a cold victory!

Extol

Saying, “Shave,” seems sexier
Whittle is what it was and is

These troubles
These worries of war within

Away
No more

Summer has been here
Shrouded all along….

Original thought credit: David Houston; “Gonna Lay Down My Burdens”

California, Again

It’s Winter when he does this, so I buy myself time and find flowers somewhere. Color-filled, with thorns that draw my blood which proves I’m alive and not here to stay quiet and blind. These flowers, I cannot help but clutch them in desperate remembrance that it’s Summer somewhere. I was born in the Summer.

Miner’s Pick-ax

We wonder about whether to pursue the gold, giv’n to many of us as our birthright.
What of the cost, where ought we place it for safekeeping?
Sometimes wisdom begs, shouldn’t we be satisfied with silver?
Eureka! I thought this morning so loud you surely heard me.
Is the gold we claim our own? Increasingly we learn…it’s all somebody else’s alloy. An alchemist had been before us. Pouring trickery, then pulling heartstrings.
I, myself, thank the illusionist for that sweetest Summer. Warm, golden, nothing but refreshing theory. I laugh now and see the moving, invisible hand.
Take we back our minds and hearts. Go forth to the drivers seat, the miner’s pick-ax in hand. Seek silver!