What can I yell into a void
that scares the bees away
and makes pollen turn into dust?
What can I write into fiery ashes with my bare fingers?
Let’s throw on another log and sit around-
I don’t want to play with fire…
Let’s throw on another log, and
wait for the summer.
Am I moving? Or my shoulders detach flowing
with a tune heard through my bones,
and just for a minute, in this clueless world
I’m not alone with my joy, with my pain.
I paint it in words; I paint it in colors,
but better I paint it in blood or gold
because it’s real.
Like a child,
I lay down on the porch to sleep in the sun
- as if a silent tribute to John Lennon -
the skies are blue.
Maybe, a psychedelic storm is what's ahead.
Live, as if you were to die tomorrow -
Maybe death is a silent breath.
Maybe some of us are already dead.
Maybe it's really all just a dream-like they said.
It’s a quiet night and I thought I'd write about nothing,
and carve that nothing deep into the void.
Another New Year arrives at lunar-lunatic times
all neatly calendar-defined.
We count the days
and count down
and count on new beginnings
yet life remains a constant flow of rivers,
the constant change of days and nights,
another wrinkle, another bite
of a piece of existence.