Just A Walk

Placing the straw stick in my mouth,
Bending my neck slightly down,
The sun pours over my form in droves-
These earthly things are pleasant ones.

I have to admit,
My walks would never be so fine
If they didn't contain just a little bit
Of everything. Of swallows in the hollows,
Of turtle shells shaken by the
Steps approaching.
The goose, the water lily,
The plain old limestone dust
On my soles,
The honey bee thrive
In a field full and fountained
By throes and rushes of thistle
And wildflower.

I realize some things when I walk my walk.
The both of us, like two little goldfish,
Chase each other in the muck,
Daring and comparing,
But the truth is, we're both stuck-
Stuck to be
The same color, the same ardor,
The similar nature, capable enough
To plainly, simply, easily
Love one another the way that
Two goldfish do who play in the waterfall.

I will take my strides,
Eyes wide, and realize that the fall,
The great leap into unknown drifts
Has got to be the very best thing.
I'm not going anywhere special,
Not driving towards anything specific;
I'm just going on another walk-
Just going on another turn of the pond,
Going to find that other goldfish,
That other lovely dusk of hues
A thousand fold in multiplicity;
I'm just takin' a walk your way.

Stride For Stride

Stride for stride, my bosom breached by a frozen spear of former summer grass,
And left unchecked are all my boyish manners, now found lost to me in morning mirrors.
Drizzled days, both flax and fluid, apart of the same good and bad that turn the check in countenance resume my parched and wilted valves and pipes in their inward and outward lulling hymns.
For a product of a heart that feeds on wayward longings; I draw on memory, when the sun birthed weeks on end of simple sunlight. While I slumbered softly stricken with thoughts and dreams so made of countless yesterdays and smiles, no longer fondly found beneath such pleasant prisms of glowing silence.

For what I see, of blues sky prisms and poetry- resounding woes out far beneath the dim-lit sky. The blood of fall in the form of leaves everywhere beneath my feet; moments made by the parch and pardon of lovers’ lips beneath star-lights; these are things for which I’m made to do and do without. O holy maiden of the morning, leave me warning of such tribulations I can no longer beguile of resolution’s pangs and longing aches.

Fresh Flowers (Versions 1 & 2)

Version #1

You are fresh
Like a summer field flower,
Lazy and sun soaked in the
Afternoon hour.
If you were a flower,
Would you find honor in the touch-
In the picking of you?
Or would you rather
Remain untouched,
Smiling wide through the day’s stride,
Until your winter wilt and fade?

Version #2

I think you are fresh like
A summer flower.
Lazing in the field, a sun-soaked
Spectacle jutting in the breeze,
Birthing by the honey bee’s brush
The multitude of your breed.
Sleeping nakedly in the sun,
And folding over with the evening’s turn.

As I sit here listening to Chopin I find myself lost in the hauntingly beautiful notes pressed ever-so delicately down like drops of rain. I find, that nearly nothing I have done these last few months has granted merit of significance to my existence. I am absent of a calling, and as the years keep falling I feel failing in the fleeting of time from my youth, where everything is deeper, truer, more vibrant and newer. I always envisioned myself dying young. Is that strange? I guess its very hard to fathom so many years ahead. It would seem much more fitting to die young, while the life was at its fullest; while one would be remembered lively and happy and busy and full of such stuff as all creators find continually jealous of and longed for and strived towards.

Don't misunderstand, I have no death wish, no want of breath ceased merely because I am young. To die young is doubley hard on those that continue to live. I have traced this by my eyes that have measured the end of a few friends, too soon taken so that it would seem even a crime to occur.

I'm misguided is all. I suppose I need only obtain a destination and I will make it. For even if I fail I succeed, as almost all endevours are never fruitless. Stick your neck out there and you've got the right idea. Still- its that choice that I dwell on. That one little destination I have not yet answered that I fear. It could nearly be any-which-way. I'm awfully scared of what I am capable of doing with myself. I have a certain moral flexibility that enables me to find myself in some seemingly quite uncomfortable situations which I would find quite the opposite. We'll not delve into that at the moment.

Maybe I just felt the need to write something. It's been a while since last time I put anything in this blog and it is losing a pulse more and more with my frequenting it less and less. Ah well, changes will come, and soon I'm sure. Until then, be good, little friends of mine.

To be quite honest I'm almost absolutely certain no one enters this domain any longer. That's alright by me.