Turtles and Humanity

Creatures with shells
make me ponder
my own vulnerabilities

I recall toddler trials, mother’s coddling,
griddle-hot Iowa summers, the sticky pavement
barefoot dares, whimpering
garden hose relief

every scar is a waypoint, every wrinkle
a latitude and longitude line, I’m
still exploring, still mapping

emotional upheavals and angry words
are the spewing magma that must be released
after subconscious quakes, tremors
sometimes linger
for days

I stumble on through life, sometimes
I crawl, sometimes I just sit awhile and watch
others pass by, yeah
I envy turtles
with their bone-hard shells
and stoic stares

as I rub my aching calloused
hands and feet
releasing the day’s woe
in sighs.

No More Chicken Curry

“Let’s try that Indian restaurant,”
I said, you made a funny face
simultaneously upturning
a corner of your mouth and
squinting an eye,

you gasped
after the first bite,
I asked the waiter
for ice, placed it
between my lips and cooled
yours, as you sighed,
“No more chicken curry.

The Veneer Of My Soul Pulses

 

There is a melodious tapping

as I close my eyes, like

a boat oar

loose in its rigger.

Undulating jade waves

lazily lull me as I touch the veil

of a dream, rhythmic breaths

transport me; I am adrift.

 

Distant car horns are seagulls

scent of exotic salt air

fills my lungs

I sense a tangerine glow

through my eyelids

 

perhaps I will write a message

place it in a bottle

and simply release it

with a sigh

as warm waters kiss

my fingertips.

Whatever Will Be, Will Be

You lie far away where

wagon wheels and babies once squealed

and after the bustle, tall grass

grew, swaying in breeze

echoing the peace

you now know.

 

I will journey there

where those hissing grasses

now hush the chaos

where green rolling hills

yet whisper secrets

where I imagine humble Angels

prostrate and praying.

 

Perhaps, autumn bending to winter

will be the setting, with

gunpowder clouds swirling

but nonetheless, I will sing, ‘Que Sera, Sera,’

and spite the gloom

with red roses.

 

No Regrets

There are circumstances and

there are best laid plans,

there are needs

and there are

desires.

 

My soul has interpreted the runes of life

though I may not have consciously

perceived; all battles, stumbles

and falls, all misjudged calls

though such brought me

here

 

to the sanctuary of us,

to zen words whispered, to

adoring tears, to

your sacred touch that

stirs me from nightmares

 

I am only relative within your embrace,

I am a scarred and tatty Goshawk

that now resides in green pastures,

worse for wear, yet

adored

 

your beating heart and caress tells me,

“It is here, that you belong.”

Mother’s Potholders

Dandelion and tangerine blooms

on a quilted field of

neon green, threadbare edges

were testament to

countless labors of love

singed here and there

the only moisture those flowers

saw, was her sweat

and tears.

Gestalt-psychology Versus Existentialism: the heart’s quest

I beheld you gleaming

in tangerine tendrils of sunset,

an ivory altar long obscured

within drumming canyons

and I made my way.

 

Pleasantries were the birds singing

at dawn, when I reached you,

dithering notes slinking cross your form

and through your raven hair

whispered, “come, you doting fool,

indulge and worship

 

when I arrived,

I dropped my reason and

the trail behind me disappeared

as I fell smiling into your

Shangri-La valley.

The Veneer Of My Soul Pulses

There is a melodious tapping

as I close my eyes, like

a boat oar

loose in its rigger.

 

Undulating jade waves

lazily lull me as I touch the veil

of a dream, rhythmic breaths

transport me; I am adrift.

 

Distant car horns are seagulls

scent of exotic salt air

fills my lungs

I sense a tangerine glow

through my eyelids

 

perhaps I will write a message

place it in a bottle

and simply release it

with a sigh

as warm waters kiss

my fingertips.

 

You Will Reckon My Spirit’s Song

I will be there

in the paisley dust patterns

riding morning sunbeams,

in the worshiping of words,

in the tabernacle of fond memories,

in holy moments baptized

with tears

 

I will always be there

between wanting sighs, amidst

white noise of life glaring in your thoughts,

caressing your hair with

whispering breeze

 

in the chlorophyll green of spring,

sweating with summer’s frolic,

sighing amongst fall’s adagio

with crisp sage breath

and remembered verses

bled from my heart

will echo

 

you will reckon my spirit’s song,

you will smile, thankful for the years we shared;

a mix of sweet and bitter.

 

Sometimes We Just Sigh

Fingers brushing, feather light
with an occasional
shudder

from pure Zen breaths
to moist nape is a small reward
even a respite

sideways glances with near teared eyes
are pleasure poses

heart to heart, skin to skin and
sometimes we just sigh.

Beyond the Darkest Nightmare

“There’s imagined monsters invented in backyard tents, then there’s fiends walking on two feet wearing smiles, nice as can be, getting hints from the devil himself.”

We had our stories and monsters as kids, sitting mesmerized in tents with flashlights under chin trying to outdo each other with tall tales. Seems like silliness now, but times change and minds can rot like a bunch of bananas slowly turning black.

Who knows what starts it all maybe a drunken abusive father, touchy-feely uncle, neighbor or priest but values can dissolve like the top scoop of ice cream dropped from a cone onto hot summer pavement.

I see them in crowds, their eyes darting to and fro like someone real interested in a fast tennis match. Yeah, they’re out there alright, quiet plotting ogres who breathe deep sighs daydreaming about twisted fantasies, living vicariously through history’s villains, chomping at the bit to one-up them all.

They might be your next-door neighbor, your convenience store clerk or even that city or school bus driver. You can bet they’re out there sniffing the air, drooling like Pavlov’s dog. True evil sports a grin while figuring misery and death like a gourmet chef plans a six-course meal. Yes, there are jackals out there with thousand-yard stares, lurking, seeking to satiate a sick appetite; with motives that are beyond the darkest nightmare.

Friday’s Cold Rain

With forehead pressed against windowpane,
I watched drops coalesce and slide.

Warm breath fogged the glass.
I thought of you, wrote your name
and smiled.

Time respects no sentiment or deed, that is why
I live in the moment, with sighs
that disappear, eventually to blend
with ashen clouds.

I felt a poem growing from fertile plot
deep within my soul, where conversations and
emotions trickle down, quenching
growing words.