Tag: personal

time

time
things are unfolding

flower buds appear
then petals open

time keeps unfolding

now
everything moves toward dust

time seems to unfold backward

am I becoming the dust
just a petal

time

somehow

These are fragments of life;
I’m not sure any of this makes sense;
Still, these pieces seem to fit together somehow.

Somehow.

And what of it?

How do we connect the dots?
All of this,
every bit of it!

We might call it life,
But how do we come to accept these pieces
And make them whole?

So what does it all mean?
What are we supposed to make of it?

Have you seen
My thinning hair?

I have too.
I know you’ve noticed.
And,
My wrinkles or my tired eyes?

“Ok, yes,
these are pieces.
I understand.”

Somehow,
We’ll keep insisting,
that somehow,

they all fit together.

 

 

colors

My body holds memories.
I sense time slipping by
through my fingertips.
Sometimes I lie awake
and trace the lines
that reveal my story
in the thickness
of my gut.
or I wander in
my dreams
looking for colors
that belong to things
I’ve forgotten.

ink

i dreamed last night.

i couldn’t find my pen.

wait, that’s not quite right.

i didn’t really lose it.

it was just hiding from me.

that’s different.

i couldn’t write anything.

my fingers felt tangled.

and without it,

nothing made sense

at all.

maybe this sounds confusing.

but it isn’t.

in my dream, i woke up

and saw the pen

was in my bed, and it had burst

now i was covered

in thick ink

that flowed over my body

and eventually into my mouth.

when i tried to speak,

i gurgled

and jumbled

and tangled thoughts

spilled out of my mouth.

the old tree

A tree stands and waits with patience.
Its trunk is full of gnarls,
like the fingers of an old person.
It stands, faded by the sun,
having seen many years go by.
Days and nights
move around it.
We look up at the blue sky,
so rich and clear,
and sometimes forget what we truly need.
We forget to be patient

Get out of the way
old tree!
I want to see the sky.

But the tree remains patient.
During the day,
it marks the earth
with the movement
of the sun
across the sky,
never rushing,
just letting things be,
moment by moment.
At night, it stands
almost like a guard,
keeping watch,
waiting.
It never complains,

You are gray today,
bring back
Your blue sky!

If it cannot
mark the earth
like a sundial,
it simply waits,
gnarled and old,
just as it did yesterday
and as it will tomorrow.

time

This is time.
Cedar shingles
tell the story of seasons,
weathered and gray.
an unasked question.
a hint of passion
left unresolved.
Time heals
in scattered pieces.
Small fragments
of a face
once kissed and
now forgotten.
Time is a name,
one called out
in a dream
and unanswered in
waking life.
This is time.
a boy full of innocence
becoming a man
far too soon,
holding steady,
offering shelter,
holding words.
Time hasn’t moved,
only the distance
from my fingertips
to yours,
from my mouth
to your body.
This is time.
a face
aged by life,
wrinkled and worn,
with eyes
that burn with
fearful intensity.
a gift given by time,
Only by time.

a word

When I was a child, I copied
the way you moved
and I would ask,
What should I call you?

I tried to find
a word I hadn’t
learned yet,

a word beyond
what a child could understand.
It was something unfamiliar,

Now, as an adult, I still
find myself asking,
What should I call you?

There are no gestures now.
I don’t understand
That’s what it means to grow older.

This is a shadow,
and this, too,
is part of life.

almost memories

i have not entered the room

where

we devoured each other.

where our

bodies feasted upon each other

with desire,

and hunger.

light enters

and casts shadows

that shift across the floor.

a gentle breeze, soft as breath,

stirs up echoes.

i hear faint sounds

that are almost voices,

almost words,

almost memories.

bare branches

how far do bare branches reach?

i sometimes think about whether they remember where they have been.

they reach out to touch the moon.

it must be a long journey,

farther than the wind could ever carry

our human stories.

when the branches return,

they come back changed.

they never come back the same.

their limbs point out,

reaching for something they cannot name.

they reach out toward the stars

and the scattered bits of light.

they stretch into the darkness,

into old memories.

and when morning comes,

they are changed.

never quite the same.

their bare branches have witnessed something sacred,

they have brushed against the divine.