Driftwood Amongst an Open Field

Ardor or Orphic
What wheat has become
A blanket for a beating heart?
Not rushed but suddenly
Sewn in this

Sweet cacophony of impertinent rhythm

What roses, mad and pure,
In mid-efflorescence hide playfully
Amongst flax-strung tongue figurines such as these?
Effort wrought brought stars to skin
A celestial proposition in Morse Code
Blinking with summer’s language
Batting eyelashes light up saccharine
Skies of humid veneration

And the gardens before us,
In all their fervor
Cast heat deep into Evening’s cerulean ocean
And the gardens before us,
In all their fervor
Cast heat deep into Evening’s cerulean ocean,

And our bodies reflexive
Rippled and dissipated in a breeze
Of delicate liqueur almost as if
We were nothing at all all along

Seeking Physical Presence In A Stock Photo

Teenage intuition seeks alternatives to baring witness
Conversations  delayed till no longer relevant

Legs run
Tracing root systems to river’s edge
Flames whisper from peripheral’s blur
Time capsule’s accordance
Flesh is buried
Trinkets sewn of heart string
Reunite with hand prints on hinges
Pulling heavy breath through narrow openings
Stumbling still abled
Safety in knowing but not showing face,
Translated shoe laces missing
Tied a knot somewhere
Stopped the bleeding for a little while longer
Scrapbook sheets left behind
Licked a stamp as last chance exit
To be returned anywhere
Except every moment not shared

A picture framed
Gravel roads kaleidoscope stained
Porch light projecting a phosphorescent montage of letters kept
Context shown as postscript flashbacks
Narrated by voices in tones of bodies present,
Pressed together pen under skin
Wrote in cursive slender yet elegant,
A signature and hyphen followed by
A smile with some numbers added
Replaced the thought of never seeing you

Asunder

Sleep within us Great Bear
Ever shifting as we wander, oh beautiful
Land of unknown pockets and
Crevices brimming with innumerable
Narratives passing passing by,

Not a minute before ten
The car speeds seventy-five,
Landscapes and hands collapse in cacophony
Speaking a crossbred language of consciousness and abundance,
Stopping at a river coloured meadow unassuming
Stopping at a crosswalk downtown Traverse City
Nursing cups of tea noticing that familiar feeling
Of being somewhere previously unexplored,

Fervently kind, comfortably gentle
At sight this trio of denim and nylon would be
Placed in a coffee shop cloud cover casting threats of rain,
A map would have us be bountiful-
A brilliant constellation dotting the state,

Every footprint or photo taken
Becoming another piece set free still to Michigan’s wilderness-
A story a few years from now
Seen in a valley deep down a field
Between monoliths Dwarf Iris blooming
With the colour of our laughter

Driving home felt like night turning to day

There Was A Place, Then There Was Nothing

Thin sticks snapped in half
Plucked purposely as if our beating hearts
Were special, souls ripe and fragile,
Beneath what heroes is this moment owed to?

For long tomorrow, cloaked in razor’s mist
Alone, out beyond where crickets dance
And fish become airborne,
To what celestial bodies are responsible
For the placement of you and I here together
Cradled in cedar wicker baskets?

A swish of river water, a toast
To concord finally, breathing so gently
We are where we need to be
But like birds’ nests our presence will only be noticed
Long after we’ve fucked and flown away and our children are no longer crying

Evidence existing simply in decay-
A ragged collection of once life,
Amazing how skin cells
Become the epitaph for happenstance,

Foot prints leading to soot
Hiding within them an abstract
Pattern of context migratory diagrams
Synced flying straight to smoke
Signals sat broken
Under oh, great blanket of missed opportunity
Warm and comforting
What have we done to deserve this?

Gap Year

Make the most of it they say,
As if that’s not
What we’re already trying to do
Though definitions vary between late
Evenings and impending sunrise,
Watch night sky glisten with match
Sticks striking skin, a glimmer of pointillism
Find our way home by connecting the dots
Taking time holding onto consequence of being
Together under assumption that if these eyes
Never close dawn can never come
But it does and how sweetly significant it is
That the day can end in reverie against such
Sullen cries of waning innocence

Pulled awake with thick honey beams
Shrugged off residual suppositions
Lingering still a soft pot of moral support ready
To mitigate existential insecurity waits eagerly
In the kitchen or outside painted as neoteric
Portraits of wash-town forests
Take a break decide course of action
Stretch and listen leaves whisper hymnals
For the day’s intent, sing along
A chorus of vibrant arrangement

To run or wander is always
The question the Great Mother Moon asks,
To rest or mend is what’s requested when
Our eyes open, revealing again an opportunity
To repeat or start anew

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

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