could dream, could stay in curls and drift
back and forth, forth, back, lift no finger, lift no pen
halfway between satisfactions, halfway still.
yawning shiver, mind and eyes
the darkness not enough
tired not enough
sleeping not enough
this is the day of my eyes in the sun
my mind drawn and right in my skull
tired, content though there's nothing yet done
my head and my dreaming are full
there then is the stricken form the line runs blazing through
the tense and tangle slowing, starting, stopping, start anew
the brilliant of lightning covers up the world with blue
this is the days of small dreaming
the half-waking tilt of the mind
the roads swept up after each heel
the shadows of what might be real
the colors one can't help but feel
the moments of silence to steal
this is the days of small dreaming
to small things and others, be kind.
in the month of spinning tales
I find no wind left to my sails,
no rudder, engine, oars, or crew.
what's a writer then to do?
far, like focus. another pit to wade through
another rope to gnaw at
one more stumble keeping me
lest I become real.
close, crisp, the sad air
lonely, frosted, pale in light,
bright and fills so clear
it's too late for autumn. fall. heavy eyelids, weightless sleep. mumbles, warmth, the wind. the muffled soundless snow.
no.
a fool's journey, error, errand.
cobblestone lily pad hopskip
jumping joy and juniper leaves
listing lightly in the wind.
as the fool does on the cliff.
touches tongue, lingers, tingles, little dots, to bursts, to trills
tantalize and turn away. it scorches. it melts.
a hailstorm, a needle, a twig
a trick, a prick. the thorns that go down your throat.
the heart of close to tear, the tongue odd-weighted by the teeth
spinning scar(ve)s for heads
heavy dizzy light
slides sideways, slips to sleep
paragraphs come of rage, written calm in seafoam
green ripples, undergrowth, falling towards words and worlds above, below, between
a page and pen
blue of distance, night and smoke,
greens of glass and curves and dawn
what could you be waiting on?
what could your words now invoke?
this is the window with colorless glass
that all well may venture a peek as they pass
and here are the curtains to block out the light
and keep what is secret from casual sight
and this is the door I keep locked day and night
I gave you no key; your knock caused me fright
and sure, you probably mean me no harm
but still, this is why I installed an alarm.
no sight there is but that alone
which lies inside the adder stone
and lays bare what would not be known
the thread with which the world is sewn
closing the gap. making small the space between, within.
clearing the dust, the air.
smaller still, smaller still. your hands. your eyes. your hands.
what I hate on the hands, I embrace on the tongue
the gentle resistance, the sense sweet-stung
so this is the bottom; the quarry; the mine
the rocks of the soul where the waking dreams dine
the seeds that grow hidden, and push through each crack
it's time to climb forward. there'll be no climb back.
it is, will be, has been enough
it eases by the day
hand on hand, the sky lifts up
the ocean fills; the grass is warm
the stars are brighter than the sun
it eases by the day
I do not have it in me to write some p(r)etty bullshit that others might call art
I don't know anymore
how it is // you wake
midsentence, as in // all the oddest hours
where the rivers met // having been
parted // soul-stuck, bound and twined
again, to the sea // but found no sleep
the curling moments, simple, small
fuzz and fur, hum and purr
running forth and back, again
ghosting presence by my side
in the song among the books
magpies, ravens, crows and rooks
numbers bow to start the dance
caught by logic, caught by chance
caught by iron and its hooks
clasped hands raised in quiet trance
the blank, sometimes. nothing more.
nothing less.
oh, what you will, do with the light
that now at last is meant for sight
eyes are open, vision clear
held fast by love and not by fear