Stepping Stone

Roaring like a muffled whisper speaking
A secret falling on deaf ears
What’s perceived as wind or a warbler
Singing is always so much more
But English is the only language I know

In spring buds begin to enunciate
From birch boughs frozen plateaus
Shout free flowing water this barrier
Doesn’t prevent an ear from trying
To interpret,
So it’s Friday night- band practice
Sitting cross-legged in the living room
Margaritas sitting adjacent
And we talk wholesome
Skin flaps pinned to panel boards
Rib cages splayed open
Reading our cicatrix
Laughing mad at circumstance, persistently
There exists
Silence between tongue movements
A razor breeze though the window’s closed
I can’t help at being distracted like
I’m constantly being left out or always
Longing for a family member that doesn’t exist,

Now it’s summer
Flowers dancing to cricket choruses
And we’re on a lake buried
Deep in deciduous forests, far away
And only out of context are we lost,
Daylight surrenders to lullaby evening
Sleep takes hold and I am alone
Basking amongst an open forum
Breathing and not a human speaks
And for a little while there’s an understanding,
Clarity coming through darkness
It’s not loneliness,

They’re calling me from home

Advertisements

Restitution

On the hem of a river
Behind the glowing lights
Of a ‘54 Bel Air dashboard
The constellations glisten
With barn owls and reclaimed wood,
Rusted to earth
The ferns have replaced frantic minors
Staring faceless into their hands
Drinking the stagnant sips
Of watered down whiskey
Hiding beneath the backseat,
Silhouettes project
Themselves over skin
Almost a match,
A body between
Memory and transitioning
A feather falling
Believing itself to be a leaf,
The car doesn’t move
Yet we are stricken motion sickness