When I Look at a Flower
When I look at a flower, I see it for what it is. The stem is a stem. The petals and the colors they hold are just that. If I look at it long enough, I see its life and vibrancy.
When I look at a flower, I see it as it is now. I don’t carry any desire for the flower to change. It’s beautiful and I love it. There are no expectations.
I look at you like I look at a flower.
Tired Eyes
In the delirium of the early morning, through half-opened, foggy eyes, I thought I saw you in my room. In here, a coat hangs long near a peach colored, wide brimmed hat. For less then a second of time, the hat took the shape of your face, and you wore the long, black coat; standing still and staring at me.
I blinked, and as the fog cleared from my tired eyes, you cleared away too; transforming quickly back to the clothing that hangs there, close but lifeless. You: full of life, but nowhere near.
“The” Poem
"The…" An intro to a poem I never wrote, but then decided to write anyway. It seemed, at the start, that "The" wasn't going anywhere. But then it went: it went to the next word and then to a fully formed sentence. It persisted, and eventually, "The… " became a complete poem.
One Regret
I once walked past a dying cockroach: its backside pressed against the concrete and legs toward the sky. It kicked its many black legs feverishly, but lacked the length and flexibility to turn itself over. Fear, anguish; I can only assume. An imminent death.
Me? I kept walking: my own legs moving steadily while the cockroach lay there expiring. For a few slow and thoughtful steps, I contemplated returning to the squirming bug. If I could find a stick, perhaps I'd return it to its proper form: back upright, legs down. But soon enough I was too far. The cockroach and my idea of helping it left to the past.
What would be different had I returned? Perhaps I'd reach a state of deep sleep much quicker and more often. Perhaps my grandchildren, or their children even, would be one step further removed from the suffering of their ancestors; one step closer to enlightenment.
Poet’s Paradox
Words flow from mind to paper in a seamless transition. They materialize, and quickly, like raindrops forming and bursting in tiny splashes against the pavement. Idea and then reality.
But this phenomenon seems to present itself most fully in moments of sorrow; longing and weakness are the impetus of creation.
A sick, twisted play? Might I be gifted a poem in a state of peace? Might happiness present something to transcribe? Perhaps in a parallel life, someone else’s joy becomes the poem I’ll read when I have nothing to write.
Soul Dance
I only knew you for a time. For that moment, it seemed our souls were floating above surface together, in a delicate dance. That they were not they at all, but really one soul. That my humanness was suspended and, briefly, I became part of a greater awareness with you.
That time has passed and we no longer exist together in the human plane. No more touch. No more words. No more eye contact. Perhaps our souls still mingle above without our knowing? Perhaps they continue their dance while we mosey along down here, separately?
This Evening
What would Hermann Hesse say, and poetically, about this sort of evening? The type of evening where the soul feels heavy; the light has dimmed. Maybe he'd write about the motherly watch from the moon, or the protective cradling of the earth below. The way the soil beneath his feet, hidden below the concrete, still says "There, there." He'd write, maybe, of the old-growth Redwood and how it's charred bark is an homage to suffering that's long since been overcome. That this evening’s suffering, too, like the flames against the ancient trunk, will be lost in time. "There, there little one," he might write, interpreting the eternal wisdom of The Universe.
The Cafe
A dozen sets of eyes each peer into another. The cumulation of conversations is a wordless, musical roar, like a chorus of squawking seagulls hovering the beach. A sip of tea, the scratch of a head, removal of a sweater - no motion and no sound in isolation.
A well dressed woman leans across her table, thinning the space between her and the man she observes. The space between her and I fades too. Her hoop earrings and conversation are my poem. The cup of coffee in her slender hands accessorizes our scene.
Freedom
It comes to me in the dark of the night, when I’m awakened from a haunting dream. When I’m removed from the confines of the city, released by the cooling mountain breeze.
It comes to me when I lie in the heated sand, or under the clouds as they dance together. When I’m swallowed by the ocean waves of a morning swim.
It comes to me when I’m warmed by his masculine embrace. When he gifts me his entire being, and again when he leaves me to my solitude.
Sweet freedom. You come to me in fleeting moments. I hold you while I can, but by your nature you cannot be contained. We’ll dance again soon.
You
Who are you? Yes, you. The one who keeps my heart perpetually burning. The one who aches me, feeds me, fulfills me. Are you, you? The ethereal figure of my dreams that dissects me, knows me, needs me. Nourishes me and neglects me. Who fills the deepest gaps and yet replaces the empty space with desire.
What are you? Yes, you. A man? A child? Your relentless grip keeps me caged. Your gentle release keeps me sane. Next to you, I am nothing. With you, I am everything. What are you that can keep me in such peace and anguish simultaneously?
Where are you? Yes, you. I reach for you, but I don't know where. I call, but my voice is weak for you. If your majesty could only be traced, I'd find you there and stay to be eternally quenched.