smooth, green bench frozen in cement rectangle,
like memories that scare, scream for attention,
lodged in crevices of file cabinets on lobes,
creeping forward to say hello.
tin trash bin containing yesterday’s debris,
today’s discontent, stationed at curb,
ready to descend.
seagull licks ice cream puddle underneath pay phone.
man in purple tie clips by.
a cloud observes, cries, floats forward.
at least gravity isn’t backwards.
smell of cat urine
white pills, pink pills
orange cylinder capped white
rain, inside me.
baby crocodile spit up
eleven hundred moons
hopscotch sidewalk chalk
mountain’s taste buds
twig waltzing with wind
coral’s Saturday afternoon
wrens frolic with feathered wings in freckled fields
as gold papery leaves, cut and curled, reach
as wooden hands stretch
toward far, floating cotton
tectonic threads woven in earthen
shifting, shaping, becoming.
baby star blossoms,
chick tinkers with her wings,
light breaks night, shatters dark, develops
one click and stark, charred film
one tock tick and yesterday
to new volume.
kaleidoscope wonder world.
She hushed stars to sleep,
tucked Moon under covers,
folded fleece dew,
and pruned black hole residue.
Fiona, the hare-maid: hopped ocean for sky, shined Sun’s glare and polished cloud reflection. a mystery and a whim, she lived in watery wordless still small of day.
I love you times smiles, germs, and cents. I love you times miles, moons, and dents. times ages, awnings, and atoms. plus every booger and star ever formed, and each laughter note. plus yawns, pebbles, and fur. times each thread, molecule, and memory–I love you!
fire bulb bursts,
blossoming in the east
like frost-licked crocuses
majenta, violet, floral
dripping and dreaming
crisp, pure tweets pierce solitude,
calling dusty sleepers:
enthralled with her beauty
with His bride.
and the king will desire your beauty.
A poem prayer for people today–people you and people me. People us. People not us. People all. Singing together to the Maker of people. People: Designed to dance. Made to praise. People = lost outside the original design. People us cannot be found until we’re lost. We find our life when we lose ourselves in the Conductor of creation.