We stand
In long shadows,
passing through,
passing through,
they’re silent
Wanderers,
adrift, going where they’re taken.
Currents in the void
have shifted;
you’ll never see them again.
Mutters echo softly,
barely audible,
across the way.
Look them in their eyes,
they will not acknowledge.
As surely as time flows,
they will not stay.
Who are you?
Who are you?
I cannot say.
No one knows,
but they all ask
the same of you.
Winds of change,
carry me away,
I will spiral
as I ride the currents,
to still waters,
to green pastures.
The gale will wail,
but I will not falter,
it’s fury will take me
somewhere new,
I have faith.
I will put down roots,
I will stand as tall as I can,
from midsummer,
through first frost
but, here, I cannot stay.
Winds of change,
I will follow your lead,
I fear no obstacle,
you have carried me above them.
Though you have set me down,
I will not rest,
The sun sets in the West,
I will face East,
and take in the morning light,
no matter the hand I’m dealt.
Winds of change,
carry me away,
I wish to see the world,
carry me away.
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A bait-and-switch,
Give and take,
Fake Out.
I gave the server,
A blank note,
She did a double-take,
And blurted all her client’s
Names out.
That was taboo,
But she never got the memo–
Maybe it was wrong of me,
To do.
It felt a touch exploitative,
Though I assure you,
A hacker never uses
Their sleight-of-hand,
Technical prowess,
And strong communication skills,
for evil,
Unless they feel like it.
If someone told you something in a dream,
did you hear it from them?
It wasn’t the beating of my eardrums,
but the wind-chimes in my mind,
that really shook me.
As clearly as I heard that phrase,
Just like when I’m awake,
I can’t quite place
a name to a face.
Some times my mind,
plays tricks on me,
some times,
it speaks outright lies.
To pursue,
embedded memories,
is not worth the energy.
Perusing,
confusing illusions,
only leads you back,
to the directory.
If it takes two to tango,
Then I must be the hammer to your anvil,
The apple to your mango,
The pan to your handle.
You’re the pictures on my mantle,
The flaming wick in a candle,
The bones in my ankle.
The Vandals,
Have returned to wrangle,
And some things are scrambled,
Dismantled,
And trampled.
But let’s not untangle,
Over just one scandal,
We’re not in shambles,
And it would ruin the preamble.
We played chicken,
Until the plot thickened,
There was some kicking,
And I was stricken,
And honestly sickened.
Then came the blowback,
And backlash,
Followed by attacks,
Without tact.
We acted,
Like brash asses,
In the pool,
But that’s no place for cruel fools,
Only honorable duels,
Which follow the rules.
Only with conviction
To consistent conventions,
Can Chicken be played.
It demands surgeon-like steady hands,
A strong stance,
And some symmetry,
Balance,
And good ground game.
Without those pieces,
The game ceases,
Animosity increases,
For no good reason.
I sigh,
From where I lie,
Chin held high,
While my eyes imbibe,
The flowing sky,
And all is right.
It’s an unusually bright,
Afternoon,
Already.
Leaves of grass,
Are weaved,
Underneath,
My back-
My hair and clothing,
Have dandelion seeds,
Clinging to them.
“The garden returns,
The flowers bloom, the weeds rise,
All from the sun’s rays.”
I sit up,
And feel the light,
Caress my face,
Hit my hair,
Warm my shoulders.
“Hello, Sunshine!
I’m glad you’ve stopped by,
Thanks for everything.”
I once opened an antique drawer,
And found covered in dust,
A tiny burlap doll,
With black buttons for eyes,
Yellow yarn for golden locks,
And a sewed-up mouth,
That stood at about 1/15th my size.
A stand-in,
For me,
Though I was unconvinced,
And didn’t see the resemblance.
I hope there was no malice in this,
It was kind of cute,
In an unsettling way,
Besides,
I get pins and needles enough as it is.
I pinched him,
Just to make sure,
I wasn’t dreaming,
And wasn’t pleased,
With the results.
The spider in theĀ corner,
Of my dorm,
Foreigner,
Hoarder,
With web in disorder.
If I were shorter,
I’d steer clear,
And try not to vear,
Into his hunting gear.
He’s well-equipped,
Works from home,
And quiteĀ strict,
When prey roams,
Toward his crypt.
The monster,
Stands,
A stone’s throw away,
Saunters,
On silken-strands,
He’d be easy to slay,
With aĀ magazine,
But that’s mean,
And I’d have to clean,
After.
He keeps,
His heaps,
Tidy,
And tiny,
So I’ll let him stay,
Maybe.
A collection,
Of skewed perceptions,
“I am possible!”
They beckon,
From all directions.
A glass menagerie,
Not in Versailles,
A view of a gallery,
From compound eyes.
Arms extended,
Towards,
The intended goal.
Fading handprints,
Where we thought we should go.
Knees bended,
We descended,
To the other end.
The File Pile 