O’ Our Stars

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Not obtuse
Not acute
Not Hell-bent for the stars

I must go
I must be
I must give what is ours

If you look
If you ask
If you promise what’s true

You will find
You will learn
You will become who’s you

The Bend

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Was the water as fine a host as your story told? The global position as true? It has been some time, and I’ve navigated North somewhat, bring me back.

What shifting of the ground beneath your feet? What compromise refused? Oft’ the sands of time serve us, some act as cogs, and some as polish.

Seek with me a patient balance. Find the urgent, too. May it be our paths have merged, when this day ends, when ‘morrow comes.

The Fates

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Why did you act like water and feel like hands

And I, born thirsty with never a progenitor to touch me

Why did I, the reluctant saint, concede nonetheless to True North’s tug

And you, the only lesser god ever worth worshipping

Sullivan Sailed 

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He blinked
Lifted his eyes to the skies
Cast them down
And jumped ship 
So she would save him

She cool waters
Buoyed up hope
Smoothed the rocky shores
And slowed to a walk
So he would catch her

One dreamed this
Called by unspoken voices
Imagined as they were
And Sullivan sailed
So as to prove it 

Found Lost

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This water 
Why has no one before written warnings
Charted out the crevices filled with lore of the depths
As if we we born old-soul seafarers
As if
We should walk on water together
A little 

A Poem Found Me

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 What?

I wait motionless in silence, hearing nothing but the brush of my hair against the pillow fabric and the casual whirr of traffic beyond the window glass.

I expect the Earth to shake.

Or that waters will well up.

Shall fire sweep in with the wind?

Even still, I prize the void.

(Art credit: “Sacred Rectangle” rock formation; Tiger R., age 7)