in i is contained modest and unassuming
although not when i will talk about i
or pretend that i am nothing, wanting
to be everything
or vice versa too, i suppose

i will not compare i to they
which is so much longer and collective
and heavy in its labor
even though it is lighter
being stripped of personality and all
which might make no sense, but it will
when i say something, perhaps nonchalantly,
like "they pillaged my land"

but who can keep loving modest and unassuming
cause they both say the same thing
and make boring, boring

so in i is contained the grandest mysteries of the world
that keeps the ants crawling in random patterns
prevents the sky from dropping unceremoniously on our heads
and causes ice to sometimes douse a flame
while a flame can sometimes thaw the icy shackles of a heart
with love, or its beautiful twin,
hate

but who can forever tolerate mysteries
for they are designed to keep us awake
as i forget that i will not be i
when i am fast asleep

still, someday i will become sleep
even if the day is not done
and i will become you
when this reverie will break
this reverie in which
it is you
i cannot be

your thoughts
come in snippets
like rusted red leaves in the fall
and the air between them
reveals a windy sky

so i corral your thoughts
into a bushel
before they run amok in new directions
and paint the fields yellow
like sunflowers in the spring

i stare intently
as they change their color
and as they alter their flavor -
they nudge my sides
asking me if i understand
that mere staring
has never moved a speck of dust
let alone a mountain

your thoughts
come in snippets
reminding me gently
of the paradox
of dreams

where goes the light
of the sun that never sets
does it circle the world
in one long swoop
or does it wrestle with time
until time gives in
because it can't keep up

it has been six months now
six thousand, six million
maybe more
but not less

will we please
kindly keep dreaming
(for we always aim to please)
until we get devoured
by a word

in the corner stood the jester
(or was it his shadow)
playing tricks with summer's rays
making what is transparent, opaque
by bending and curving
what is straight

from the corner of his mouth
came out "lilium longiflorum"
obviously he wanted white,
but i wanted blue
i like them with some hue

the lily bloomed
even though my hands were on my hips
and gleamed in a brighter white
(the lily was not blue)

and after a brief display
of shimmering pearliness
it quickly folded back into itself

my hands were off my hips now
and on again
and off again
but it was as though
it had forgotten how to flaunt
or it had never known

i, of course, will never know
because the jester, or his shadow
(whatever the case may be)
was laughing
expectedly (of course!)
with his mouth open round and wide
and his tongue sticking out

soulful words
words of wishes
words spinning
wistfully in the wind

i have words
to reach you
words that reach out
and touch you

but the wind
has been so wild
and the winter
has held so steady
and my wisdom
is a candle's wick
woven by wax
and running thin

i have words
to touch you
to whisk you away
and wash you

these words i have
now whisper
in wakeful silence

for silence means
that words
of gentle weeping
of worlds whirling
of a love not wavering
which remain unspoken
but never unknown
or unwanted
will always follow

everything that begins
is accompanied by time the traitor -

at the precipice of the universe
a melody is a memory
and a memory
makes the beginning a mystery -

for everything that begins
would have to have been born
would have to have danced in circles
would have to have fallen
in and out of love

and then there is time
treacherous traitor, amorous lover
that knocks in the silent darkness
that begs
without restraint
or reproach
to set it free

and i wonder why the sky is gray
the atmosphere dank
the clouds thick and heavy

and a silence yearns to be broken
by the frozen creek
its ice refusing to thaw
the only sound is made by winter boots
marching carefully through slippery terrain

still
there was a sensual summer
when the rain was soothing
when the trees danced in tune
when the flowers giggled in color
and there was
a glorious sun

and a sun that tries to shine
brighter in the snow
has forgotten how to rise

and there's no sense
in sorrow
or in joy

Thank you, to all of you on gaia (zaadz) who have stopped by my blog.
Without your support, this would have been impossible.

the miles always seem longer in the summer
maybe it's the heat
rising from the highway
maybe it's the corn fields we pass
that grow taller under the horizon
or maybe it's the sun not setting -
can i blame the seasons
for my driving in circles

i've been thinking about
what i should tell you
about how the roads we traverse
seem never-ending
if only the dreams we dream
could be transcending
and make sense
of promises
that come from nowhere

before the tranquil echoes of uncertainty
disappear into the quiet distance
they tell me why
the whispering trees
endure the changing seasons
and how their rustic roots
keep them standing still
for far too long -
why their leaves change color
before a ceremonious fall
and how the breathless wind
carries their thoughts
forever unencumbered by time -
they tell me
to run overground, overcome, understand, until
i'm there