You Can’t Cut an Apple with a Spoon

You do, and then you don’t.
Are you one of the few brave?
So many say they want to know.
And the Universe, she begs to tell.
Tales of Wonderment and beauty.

Secrets are made such, by fools.
Fear pants shallow breaths.
What shadow stalks your step?
This absurdity is asinine!
An angel donning a blindfold
The toad ensconcing the edge,
A pool of utmost dreams.

A knife is needed, not a spoon.
You do not choose the task,
But the tool.
Ahead of their time, a heretic.
Centuries dead, a saint.
We all embody the present world.

How many rounds must I venture,
Why do you ask me to return?
The people desire placation.
And to this end, I am done.
My patience wears thin,
If you really want to know, listen.
Truths whispers, are everywhere.

Neon Tetras

There’s no right way, and there is no wrong way. And sometimes, you just know. It’s hard to be neon pink in a sketch book of black and white. It takes true courage to be yourself. Real strength does not mean you don’t breath fear, it means you exhale fire. There are dashes of color dying inside everyone. Maybe, just maybe…. your choice to live chromatic, might inspire others to play Fantasia too.

My heart aches, but in the most delicious way. Societal rejection doesn’t mean I am not worthy, gifted or beautiful. It means that I confuse people. But, just because I confound them and challenge their norms, doesn’t mean they don’t like me. The more solidly I can be who I really am, the more they will believe the tale I tell – You can be anything you want to be; you can be happy; you can be joyful; you can be love….. you can be…. you.

Sometimes I say inappropriate things. I get fired up and angry if I feel injustice is being acted. There are weeks where I wish I could disappear into the trees and dirt and not see another soul. Days rise where I weep for no real reason. I hope that nights of too many drinks and barefoot moon dancing will never evade me. I am really sensitive and that annoys the fuck out of me. I am also extremely tenacious, patient and driven. Noncommittal is my middle name, but on that rare occasion when I do tether myself to an idea, my bite is that of a bulldog. It’s been a long time since I have ridden that crazy train.

I have always trusted the impossible. Tell me I can’t do something and I’ll be damned if I don’t show you that I can. For years rage boiled inside of me. I tried so hard to keep it under wraps, a pretty satin ribbon knotted around a hurricane. This year, I finally understand why I have been so angry. I was the one clenching the leash of my diamond studded collar.

I have spent this first thirty years of my life feeling like I would be alone if I didn’t blend into that brown that bleeds when colors die. And you know, I might be, until I find my neon tetras. Tetras are schooling fish after all.

Homing Pigeons

She is a crazy cat lady, I hear. The fur and the trimming of nails and those wagging cat tails. No, no, no, silly merfolk; she is an absolute fish friend. They are so contained, captured in the web of aqueous solution, all their hairs trapped there before they can begin. Dr. Suess and the Cat in the Hat had it all wrong. It is all about the mermaid twirling in the flower vase don’t you know. Pretty purple pentagrams.

Or perhaps she is an ecstatic houseplant fan. They too abide by the rules of confinement. There are no messes or imploring looks, expected attention and tracing of footsteps through the halls. Those doors in Edgefield that lead to mysterious ancient rooms. The pregnant stories history tells. You see, the sublime lives in those pets that you can visit at your own will.

Even better yet, the friends catch dust upon their leaves. Stories patiently waiting to be told. Pick me, pick me, PICK ME! They scream their silent plea. What better ally than that which waits twenty, no forty or a hundred years or more to whisper its secrets to your ear.

Companions are there, all enigmatic and abiding in patient expectancy. Watching and waiting as you implore from others, seeking a truth that no one holds but your own heart. We all come home in the end.

Time Forgets

I like how time forgets
Remember his truck?
White, wheel wells, Chevy.
After he was gone, dead.
Whenever I saw that truck
My pulse quickened,
For years, seeing that pickup,
His hair, that dark skin, Modoc.
I know he was ready to go,
He stops by less frequently now.
But once in a while….

This pocket knife in my hand
The sentiment rather than the object
We change, grow at alternate rates.
Yet, that second love was so pure…..
His is the trust that begs to be duplicated
A dog kennel, Punch, first kiss, farewell
No man has been able to touch that
Until now.

My babies cry silent tears
Dry rivers run their cheeks
I could not save them.
Disconnect, survival, fear, petrification.
The world I left them in
Each soul has a chosen journey.
He beats her,
She would not welcome my rescue
What does family mean,,,, do?

The hour that is left
History is a mine of gold.
Quirky little memory trails…
Dotting the line that is the future.

As They Come, We Go

Romance culminates in pragmatism
A solitary stroll at sunrise
The bee dipping into a cucumber blossom
Slipping through murky water as a Beta
Liberation on the underbelly of a cloud

Beauty is found in the nonsensical
We yearn for poetry because it is obtuse,
Meaning vague and altruistic
Words are born for their sound alone
What I speak, is not what you interpret.

Changing the rules of the game for fun.
I need no savior, as no one does
Master of my wits; but I like to make you question
The I Am is deeper than the Inner Core
And what is love, but a desire to know oneself.

Playing with shadows and light
As any artist will declare fervently,
Neither can hold ground without the other.
Yet, I think they are blind too
Seeing is limited by what we think we know.

So what is it that you think you understand?
Your vision is clouded.
I cast a spinner into the ripples of your consciousness
Gently reeling you in, just to see if I can.
Life is a playpen, and my grin mischievous.

Floating on Dust

Beautiful creatures dot the sea
You as they; thee as we
Do you know the beginning?
Really, there is no end.

What is truth but an enigma.
Pieces fall where they will lay
Dripping across the landscape
You are me, we are they.

As feathers blow in the wind
My soul craves simplicity…
The lies humans tell
Tales of a fabricated identity.

My set of rules differ
I see magic in the spark,
The breath that is between.
Do you know where you really live?

I do. I feel you. I inhale you.
You are gorgeous beyond expression.
I attempt to do you justice
In my death, may you flourish.

Slain there, goblets of burgundy.
Insanity they will say.
Ending is an illusion, weep not
Little friends of the sea.

Paint me, stroke by stroke.
Release of imagination, containment
Pretty penny pleasure.
Things that cost are free.


Trace your fingers through my past,
The taste of pain heavy on your tongue.
Ashes of burning dreams piled high.
There are no more tears,
That river has run dry.
Furious winds –
Hate, rage, hope and fear,
Have died down.
A statue of emptiness standing in the middle.
One blade of sweet green grass,
Sprouting at my feet.