Cyclical Motion

the trickling stream is

destined for greater things;

poured into the sea and into the bay,

tripping into the ocean and then

upwards to the sky,

only to come back down to its

humble, bubbling brook.

so are we, destined for greater things,

always meant to come back

to where it all began.

She Was Like the Sun

the flower nods to the

illumination of the sun,

its head hanging low

with the weight of regret

that it could not bloom

fast enough, and its petals

could not be bright enough,

and it could not be vocal in its

gratitude for those nurturing rays

before the sun, falling into

its crimson slumber, closed her

eyes and fell asleep.

----------------------

I think the hiatus may be over.

I'll love and miss you forever, KG.

I Would Live Underwater if I Could Only Manage to Survive

my body is like the sea,

undulating,

changing,

controlled by an invisible force that i must obey,

lest i cease to exist all together.

my soul is like the tide,

an oscillation between high and low,

between calm and tumultuous,

between black and blue,

constantly morphing

and constantly adapting.

my heart is like the gull,

perched upon these galloping waves.

it can sink and dive and break this

sometimes halcyon surface,

but it prefers to stay afloat,

letting the rises and falls lull it to security.

my life is like the oceans of this earth,

each body a different chapter,

each world a new beginning.

common threads run amongst them all,

as all things are connected, you see,

yet they are different all the same.

which chapter am i in?

which will i end up in next?

paddle, paddle,

and see what surprises await.

Deep Inside, They're Still Just Shouting "Mine!"

they line up as though
nature told them to.
they are mindless.
they do as their instincts
tell
them.
such form to such a lack
of function.

but perhaps they are
smarter than we know.
perhaps, stripped of these
crippling thoughts and
ridiculous apprehensions,
they exist in their purest
form.

perhaps they are more
human
than us all.

In the Lingering Ripples of the Fourth of July

stillness.

only the rushing of the

unseen waves(or is it the

blood

in my ears?)and the

de

layed

thunders of

far-away explosions lighting

the darkness around

us.

our meandering gazes

along the horizon

catch sight of

these brilliant,

radiant

microcosms in

dozens of

far, far aways.

but i am not concerned with

the eyes enraptured

with

their own frenzied(man-made)light

ning.

even with the distractions

overhead and to my right and

to my left and behind,

i focus on him.

his features are faint in the

soft, quiet glow of the

orb above us,

but i have memorized them by

now.

i hear his breathing as it

matches the tide.

i feel his hands as they

pull me closer.

i smell his scent as it

mixes with the salt on the breeze.

i feel him there.

i feel me there.

i cannot contain the ardor

that bubbles inside of me,

and the only way it

knows

to manifest itself is in the

murmured sound

that comes from my stomach

and has no description.

he responds with his own

mumble, questioning

the intonation i

could not

control.

but how

on earth

can i speak

when he has

stolen

my very breath

away?

UP Isn't Just the Name of a Movie

it was like a

mos

a

ic

of light,

formulated by the haphazard

organization of Mother Earth's

extensions.

gazing up,

i felt the

warmth of that

Morning Star

bathing my skin,

caressing my face the way

my mother used to when i was

small.

some utterances about

the bliss

and joy

and love

i felt in that moment

attempted a faulty escape

from my lips,

but were seized and

held captive on the

brink

of freedom

at the precipice

of that plump, pink

flesh.

perhaps there was

no need

for those mumblings.

perhaps simply feeling

was enough.