Tracing Steps

I walked down
To the poplar forest
The small singing leaves
In a dusk breeze
Time eloped, mutated
Time was me, eight years old
Head up, feeling the wind like a dog
Hair streaming behind
Careless, elated under a clear blue winter sky.


I walked down
To the poplar forest
I saw the tracks of memory blow away
Dusty, dry, easy to erase
I looked down,
Waiting to see your footprints
And wished they had solidified in the rainy season,
And wished you had stayed.

night song

the keyboard is my piano
singing against the night
the long tunes melt into the wind
holding my tears, easing the voices
they cannot hear my night song
they cannot touch my flingers, as I play the chords
or understand my lyrics
their drunken distressed singing
falls away as the notes I compose
soar into the night sky.

Dwelling

The mountains curl around me like cushions, 

Pillowing my tired heart

A lone loerie goes about his daily routine

Habitual, non invasive

He is unaware of me as a witness

Remmebering after months,

Bird activity, sounds of small living

Life matters

homeward bound

dreams float in crystal balls
foresight of splinters
memories peel away
like desolate leaves
charred as burnt toast Sundays
four walls barricade
the deceptive sand storms
the light blinds
the ocean screams,
dream washed dirty water
the mind turned around
to a gentler sunset bound.

reckoning

every day I wake up
waiting and wanting the night to come
I drown in the empty tides
wordless tears
Every day I knew
somewhere in another remembered space
was my real home.

I stayed silent, treading water
it was your face reflecting the disconnection
showing the sickness of homelessness
the emptiness of longing
and not belonging
it took your eyes drowning, fearful
to make me turn around
and start the search to find our real home.

Return

she called out
She realigned the stars
She longed for legacy
She lined up her heartache
And asked me
Can we please go home?

The roads of regret wash themselves in the rain
They are the same, washed, maybe cleaner
They belong to her,
Her kingdom has been made of new grindstone
Her heart has held soldiers
She is history informing memory,
Whispering, I know the ridge of sunset
I stay.