The Perfect Day

The Perfect Day

He used to stay,
awake, so late.
waiting for
the perfect day.

Wishing on
the rising sun.
to lift his loss
and right his wrong.

To take away
the liquid song,
that lulled his soul
and made him strong.

To the blackest night
he surrendered as friend.
To the bright of day
he could not defend.

The light could not
wash out the dirt.
Or the things he hid,
that made him hurt.

So alone he washed
his insides clean.
A lullaby,
he could not wean.

Waiting on
that perfect day,
to bring him rest,
as he quietly lay-

Like a child
at the foot of his bed
curled up tight,
with the voice in his head.

Afraid of the choice
to open his eyes.
And from his sheet,
he'd silently cry.

Until he was saved
from those things unseen.
And the day, it came,
When he set himself free.
























.

First Dance

First Dance

I remember my first dance,
Sweaty palms
heels slippery inside
the pointy shoes
that looked so perfect in the box.

It wasn't fear of wandering toes,
that rustled nerves
inside my throat
it was a look, or breath
that might touch my soul-

or not, if I failed to feel
what I thought I should
or taste love
like the pretty girls
in movies.

I was never drawn to holding hands,
confining myself to another-
though my bones knew,
that was the point
I couldn't bring myself to like it.

To dance felt the same,
my young skin growing red
veins pumped with dread,
and uncertainty
as I drew close to someone else.

Sequence shuffling
loose and sharp
against my freckled chest-
calling for a rest
though I couldn't hear the music.

Standing in the flickering light,
our fingers sliding between the cracks,
as we made fists
that fit like sandpaper
itching at my core-

It was then that I first understood
how to lose yourself for someone else,
and let go of fragments
raw and stagnant
to make room for things we don't yet know.

The Windowpane

The Windowpane

From the bed I watched the dust
turn from gray to white.
Amid the pane,
as if to pass,
Right through the
crackled glass.

The backlit walls,
now black and dark,
A swallow to
the passing through,
The lost,
and those
Looking to
the Moon.

So easily,
the night took day.
A playful fight,
at horizon sight.
To which I watched,
the color swatch,
Grow distance
from my thoughts.

What I was taught,
of grief and loss
Could not stop
my heart...
so lost.
The lonely parts
left alone.
To drift like dust,
with lust across,

A mostly empty room.

Until the light
consumed the night,
And brightened cracks,
took the black,
Bringing back,
what wandered off,
Restoring sight,
and making right,
From inside out,
my soul,
and clothes


Washed from gray to white.

The Climber

 The Climber

We should seek the mountain peeks.

The end of all
that sets before us.
But vastness often
quells intent,
And renders those
With driven souls,
lost and sullen
At the base.

Above the grounds,
The clouds abound,
The smudgy sky,
defined by height,
The presence of
The light to guide,
A knotted rope,
Thrown with hope,
That most deny,
Afraid to try.

It seems our fate,
To hesitate,
The rugged climb
To horizons light
Where jagged peeks,
Wait to greet,
Our savage palms.
Though silent
And calm-
Drenched in sweat
cold and wet
We hold onto
What we regret-
A slippery grip,
A bitten lip,
Chapped and raw,
We trip
And fall.

The top beyond
our weary grasp,
Our past we can't
Seem to outcast,
the picture fades,
An ashen shade-
Of charcoal lines,
A distant sight-
Of sky and pines,
Slighted paths

And rusty signs-

Hope in the Wonderer

Hope In the Wanderer

There is hope in the wanderer.

A restless romance
Of passing cars,
Empty overlooks,
And lingering lovers.

Dusty tracks
Through acres of dirt,
And climbing trees
Just to see
The glowing
windows In the city.

Different doors,
With similar couches,
Crouching behind
picket fences,
And shadows
of bright white houses.

Farther from roads,
Than stars and clouds,
At rest on on the rocks,
With linens of moss,
Washing with dew,
That drips across
the forgotten
feral paths.

Blistered toes,
Gripping stones,
seek shelter in the sun.
As it rises red,
More familiar than blood,
Rising higher than
the flood.

But the cold
Has a way,
Of taking hold,
And sinking those,
With Decembers snow,
A blustery rush
And frigid touch,
That reminds lost souls
To turn their hope

Toward home.

A Sandpaper Soul

A Sandpaper Soul

An image forms the words-
A reverb of verbiage,
one ear to the next.

In motion, the thought becomes text-
A vortex of language
In sequential rhythm.

Criticism and reconstruction,
Will its perfection,
With purpose and substance.

Lip to tongue,
A singers song,
A poets pen

A spoken dance
Rehearsed
Across the page.

The ideal image
an inside sketch
Rough to the touch-

With a sandpaper soul,
Grinding outward
Biding time,

The final rhyme,
A floating line,
The mind has yet to find.