You were destroyed last night,
but today you can be remade.
Pick up the pieces,
and if they don’t fit,
make new ones.
It’s a hard puzzle,
but that’s the difference
between making life
and traveling towards death.
Making Life
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Category Archives: poetry
Clipped
Motion sickness
living between worlds
newness amiss
freedom unfurled.
Spread your wings.
Fly up high.
Past defy.
You forgot the sky.
Spread your wings.
Betray your past.
Nothing lasts.
Nothing lasts.
Rest
When I stop,
time when the dust settles
streaming through the sunbeam,
is when I can’t hold my
hopes up any longer.
Rest.
All I need is rest.
When the chase ends,
when the sweat settles on skin,
I feel cold, icy burning to run again.
When I’m working
there is no shame if I’m
not yet there.
I’m moving,
even if it is in circles.
The what ifs cascade into silence.
I must keep moving
with the babble of the brook,
the river of time,
for there is no time
for rest.
Instead I shall humbly plan
for all the things I’ll never do
and forget to enjoy the
moment of stillness.
Never still,
never silent,
never stop,
never rest.
Never.
Last Bliss
Bliss dressed for eternity
take off your mask.
Let me see
what never lasts.
Lying in wait is the weight of age.
The story of things past take center stage.
I bow at the curtain, eyes down in regret
For the encore I’ll try to forget.
Everything in its place, I thought it’d be far
but the only by traveling did I realize what we are.
Statues stand in our poses of hopes
never moving a muscle to pull the ropes.
The reins of change call to courage we don’t keep.
The complacency in our souls is set to steep.
Comfort is calling and it’s easy to answer.
Only when looking back I see the daring dancer
that never was and could have been,
would be the same if we’d tried again.
Live It
Stagnant.
I wait for the universe to unfurl for me and
nothing,
blood curdling, sitting, watching
trying to see the moment,
but it’s gone.
Seizing pretty sayings,
trying to remember what or why
so I can make it come back to a
‘if I knew what I knew’,
but I’m only hurdled forward.
I know I was forewarned,
but I still thought that mortality meant
I could do it tomorrow.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow is never today,
is always a blank page,
a clutched fist,
an active mind,
unsure how to hurl itself onto the page
and make something worth making.
Take heart while you
take your bliss.
Write fiction as if you
don’t live it.
Live it.
Exacting Angel
Just last night
I heard love mutter alone.
A bridge down
been around
where some need ever time.
Stories-life-of-us-now together
not even one night.
Let him go,
and already I could feel
each of us pulled tightly
as if exacting angel.
Be said or done in truth or pretense
to soften grief or give joy to this dream.
Easy time, the relief of work hindered
thinking only with my fingers.
Oh, transforming the breifest glimpse-
artwork I can feel, shape, turn,
and God help me hold.