Poetry

Grove hands

It cloaks me sometimes, the dark particles of ether.

A life stream in reverse, doll eyes reflect the world but not within.

 

The trees whisper my name, leaves touching my fingertips

to call me back from where I am, the sun aiding them with warmth.

 

The clouds are bright.

I feel the air and hear the movement.

There is so much life around me.

 

It tinkles like a bell, and when it’s sweet enough,

I can stand.

 

Poetry

Brilliant morning

I see the edge of the world as the water spills over and falls

splashing my fingers as I turn on the tap

 

The mist in the house smells of everyone but me

I suppose it would, for who knows their own smell?

 

I watch parts of myself spiral down the drain

no longer needed for the travels ahead

 

I hum as my toes sink into the grass, morning frost

making it soft crystal needles

 

I am awake now

Poetry

Nice Trip

I’ve been known to trip on air.

And not merely stumble,

but fall headfirst into

 

a tree, lamppost, grass, concrete.

 

Some times are more painful than others.

 

People tell me it’s lack of attention,

that my head

is so far in the clouds

I can’t see what’s right in front of me.

But I promise you,

it’s just air.

 

How can I avoid air?

 

Now don’t be silly, even if

I hold my breath,

it’ll still be around me.

 

My theory is a little different.

I think I get drunk

on the vibrancy in my head

and the earth gets jealous.

It believes it can never

live up

to such standards,

and so seeks to jog them

from my mind.

 

What it forgets

is that in order to think

such wonderful, impossible things,

I must first learn to appreciate

the real, the possible.

 

Otherwise, there is no foundation

for me to then sculpt with.

Poetry

Water Nymph

Sometimes I think I’m water.

Well, technically a substantial portion of me is,

but I’m talking about,

you know,

free flowing water.

The kind that freezes when it’s cold,

or pools in shallow dips when it rains,

hangs around in the air

to fluff up

that girl’s neatly straightened hair.

Except it isn’t my form that changes.

It’s my mood,

my entire attitude

to life.

I’m not complaining, just

observing really.

Once I thought it’d be good to be fire.

Then the wind caught my candle

and blew it out.