No. 01
Water is wet and the breeze a motion.
Love is a circle and friendship devotion.
These are facts I know to be true.
In that vein, allow me to say
That-
-when words fail, come what may,
In the face of terror,
Beyond the scope of rage,
In darkest night,
Sung beside the crisply turned page,
We will trust and whisper, unceasing-
-and kind.
~
No. 02
It starts with a look-
Temptation teasing the tongue,
Sly grins soaring on sordid winds.
-and it ends with a sigh,
Empty wallets and too much powder;
Regret giving way to cowardice.
The world moves on.
~
No. 03
The fawn runs away,
Chase is given between trees.
Progress kills them both.
~
No. 04
Suicide was a cold comfort, suffusive and heavy.
Numbing.
Today, with his boot turned to lead, Jessie raced along the riverside road of their hometown.
Night had fallen behind their brow - the too-young adult was drowning.
For ever and ever, they’d felt the air was acidic, scorching past bruised lips to fuel the wrong kind of engine; that water was a balm just out of reach, forbidden.
Today, with her boot turned to lead, Jessie raced alongside relief.
~
No. 05
Information suppression and oppression go hand in hand,
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The tools of tyrants and bullies the world over.
They’ve no care for your triumphs, your ennui, or your rage-
Die and weep, laugh and smile, we’re all the same, just another cog in Their machine of conflict and capitalism.
-there are always more children.
A vicious cycle repeated throughout history - We the People! - given life anew.
The answer is obvious; the right and wrong plain: Black Lives Matter, among other equally clear issues.
Yet, people have chosen a side bereft of love.
It’s a migraine - a growing pain and self-surgery more so, this division
where sons and daughters and those undefined rail against ‘tradition’.
Mayhaps that’s the due,
The price of our condition,
Borne burning beneath uncertain skies that scream for us to run.
~
No. 06
Whispering leaves dye the forest,
Twilight falls and dawn ascends,
Winter’s howl sounds ever nearer,
Dragon fire breathes again.
~
No. 07
I see constellations of stories untold and unknown and yet to unfold,
In every household, on every corner, they sit.
Among them, an epic lies close, unfolding,
Burning bright above long felled trees and stinging bees of summers past.
The quiet click of a painted door, of conciliation and love never past,
A woman whose bones bare rings of ubiquitous kindness,
Of misunderstood strength spent on guidance, patience, and weary smiles.
The innovation of a timeless classic, an aurora of life that stretches for untraveled miles.
Words fail to encompass the depth - the debt of a lifetime, incalculable in worth.
Thusly, Mother.
~
No. 08
I remember being twelve and angry, six and scared, sixteen and anxious.
I remember you being there, wise words freely shared,
As if they weren’t shaping goodness from fraught emotion, words a masterclass on the truth of real devotion.
I remember books and laughter, reading chapter after chapter.
I remember proud smiles, subtle and sunny, inevitable like the dawning of day,
At twelve, six, sixteen, all stemming from the eighteenth of May.
I remember the scent of safety, old tee-shirts labeled Heinz, sweatshirts Old Navy.
I remember confrontations, raw and unnerving,
Gifts in hindsight, worthy and discerning.
I remember and remember and remember - the theatre, accents, and the radio, too.
Everyday, in ways big and small, you make me glad such an act is possible at all.
That love is here, presently clear - my luck is astounding.
Thusly, Father.
~
No. 09
Salience is a point of contention.
The point of contention is time.
Every word is a lie, and neither-
-we nor I, do decide why,
The loss of freedom stings.
~
No. 10
Laughter flutters like lilies on a summer breeze.
Tickling the ear, it tugs a brief smile from tired lips.
Gales sing into cries, broken hearts a product of youth,
They start driving elsewhere for company, drunk on love.
Eighteen hits and the nest is empty, the heart is full,
Like a four-day bender without any of the fun.
Days rinse into months, months sprint towards learned years,
Coming and going, they’re never not home.
Then they’re present, filling the holiday with talk of ownership,
Lilting ideas and subtleties with unfamiliar confidence.
There’s a wisdom now, in their thinking,
And it’s beautiful, fluttering-