Make your sounds!
Let me play a word
Off the noise
You’ve made and heard!;
Though a thousand
Times repeated,
There is much
Vocabulary to proceed
Until the throat is dry
Or eyes stay shut one
More minute than should be;
Ah!, what sanctuary!
Doot-da-aaah-doot.
musings & scribbles
is it worth
the time to be
everything to everyone
but me?
i never saw myself
as anything more than
some writer you learned of
long after i ‘d expired.
maybe that’s the hardest part
of knowing/not whether you’
ll see these words some day far
or they’ll be recounted at gravesite
and forgotten soon after, like
a tombstone’s sentence and time’s
embrace, a dissipation of
all that once existed, seen
, but memory is only so that
even it gives in when loosened
hold, holding fast, slows.
I can just imagine:
Singing the same song, two-three
Times a week, wailing away in
Practice between performances;
And all over someone that still
Matters when counting blessings
And thinking of what once was;
A sad song being lived by a singer
Who can’t forget the lyrics, no.
She looks right through
Whatever facade I use
To hide a lack of preparation.
But, you learn by action
And never know until
She looks right through you.
I want to end there, but
Some force calls me
To be righteous for a change.
Without a chance to be
More than me, I
Lie awake and seem to fall.
When in spiraled dream,
I slide amongst rain,
Seeing the world tipsy-crazy.
I can’t stop thinking of that night
We danced amongst the dishes
And used the kitchen as a ballroom;
A couple twirls and attempted dips
Bringing the freshness of your smile
To our feet, firmly planted while
Floating on a tiled floor that didn’t
Know it’d see the laughter of dancers,
Or their follies.
Looking back as though
A good friend wrote all of these
Little memories, allowing me
To appreciate the small things
I may one day still forget again.
I once forgot myself at the counter of
A convenience store, remembering
Only when I was halfway outside the
Door leading in to where I once was.
I never amounted to nothing,
Much to the chagrin of those
Who knew me when I wanted
To be something– amazing
How the one can lead to other
When enough force is pressed
Against the first, making
A bit of positive reaction possible.
I’m the type to work on Friday
Before Monday morning comes/
That way of thinking lends a
Way of glossing over the troubles
Leading to the perfect day, Fri-day/
And I begin to look back on
all the hours bringing me to
Here/there/then, when I
Rested amongst the shades
Of leaves, leaving me to speak
With the humble bee, and they whose
Homes, tree’, made me sing;
I followed the breeze to turn and
Help those in need, or provide
A simple acknowledging
Of they who surround me without
Knowing me or Who brought me
Here, Friday.
Before Monday morning comes/
That way of thinking lends a
Way of glossing over the troubles
Leading to the perfect day, Fri-day/
And I begin to look back on
all the hours bringing me to
Here/there/then, when I
Rested amongst the shades
Of leaves, leaving me to speak
With the humble bee, and they whose
Homes, tree’, made me sing;
I followed the breeze to turn and
Help those in need, or provide
A simple acknowledging
Of they who surround me without
Knowing me or Who brought me
Here, Friday.
Monday Morning Setbacks
How many times,
How many ways
Must I tell you
Before you stay?
A hundred years from now,
Whether we prolong life
Or continue to die, somehow
I will be where you are.
Led by breathing, my presence, I,
Will find a way to be anywhere–
Where you are.
Brought on by fitting bursts of madness,
His hands shake as he walks, cold
In an otherwise sunny atmosphere.
Eyes, wound like clock, tick his steps
To see where someone with no one around
Goes to be alone.
…and the furry monster transforms landscapes
as he crashes down, amongst the mountainous range
…of tan, lifeless leaves Fallen to be
in places they never thought they’d see
when ‘ttached to limb of tree.