In those darker years
Midnight stories guided under winged shadows
From rituals of the crevice in the under sky.
To daylight above obstructed by
Dense plumage headed for greener meadows.
When curious eyes land on
Poe, Philosophy, and Algorithmic Theory
A Raven synchronizes flight and flips over to a path of repetitions:
One, to stir a cast of thoughts overhead in sparse, gray clouds
Two, not having formed the right words from the pall at all.
Three, lounging on a verdant canopy
Black-jeaned limbs tucked in Docs flies through
Concepts, figures, and patterns until the mind starts doing aerobatics;
Mind on matters at hand, thumbing through weathered pages
Weaving through a course in number and lightning by calculations.
Thoughts free like the wind above trees and houses below the hills;
Pleasant breezes would brush past tufts of hair
Drifting along the edge of vibrant flush of blooms across the village until
Series of then secret-coded language ended in loops and endloops.
Sequence of thrills performed into horizons
When letting go felt natural, fewer commands or instructions
When everything felt closer and far from home, it was different from
Trips by planes and tickets to new destinations.
Never mind the ongoing navigation
Those were old rituals of habit, and now shadows fly
By the old tree shade above, tore an opening below the surface;
Things that had not left those greener meadows in a long time.
North Sea in view
February turned into
The month of blue.
An inner song lost below
In bottomless waters
Unable to be heard in the distance
Where coastal tides break
Against grounded shorelines
Once footsteps on sandbars
Blue, drifting in minor notes as quiet
As murmurs to depreciating
Sounds without a voice.
Melancholy does not go unnoticed
By sameness of the night
Searching for value
Located in depths of strangeness;
Inadvertently, the heart of
A distant moon
In forgotten sea melodies.
Sound waves ebb and flow
Under pallor embrace;
Quiet crescent resting upon
Earthly Neptunian face
Tides of resonant sounds in
Sonorous songs of phase.
Seashells and ivory cliffs in delicate
Grains of alabaster imparted years
Of solitary refinement and the spaces in between
And miles of traces on soft sand
Swept by the current.
The lone walker visits the shore into evening
Longing to hear the song again, once more.
Earth-churned mix with
Soot: died-out ember
Remains, make way for yearning
Daydreams grown from the Garden.
Raining hopeful seeds and daisies.
Heavy labor wrought by hefty
Arms and gentle palms delivering
Old and new hurts
Never turned out before
Lifted and brought out like this.
Mild sun grateful of mild-tempered
Lifter, raindrops aplenty on stormy days:
Bouts of tears comes a rainbow.
Spring produces the fruits of labor
Flourishing to skies in soaring Sparrows
Blue jays and Bumblebees and Owls
High clouds and nightly Reverie
Stoked by the fire.
Smoke wafts in hair and clothes
Remnants of star dust for
Send-off to a good night’s rest
A gift for a day’s work.
It starts with a shout.
Vileness, spewing putrid hate.
A byproduct of tension from
Parts of the city.
Mrs. Chinatown’s attracted
A new crowd.
Baring teeth, not bouquets
And there is a window of opportunity.
Her head meets concrete
At the center of attraction
Taking punches to her core
From barren mini-corner shops
Since May of last year
To the pain of blood spilling in the streets
Pummeled by rage
She gets spat on
And they maul, and there is a
Call for help -
Help pretends not to hear
Watches the scene unfold
They, too, take pleasure
Identifying with the
There is no injustice here
In the eye of this city.
To them, it is about
Once finished, they leave her
But they are not done with her
They will do it again the next day.