i had not gone fishing that night

i had not gone fishing that night.

the sun was down, with dark clouds hovering low.
me, in my rudderless boat, staring at the sky.
was i thinking of fish? I think i was just lost at sea.

i was thinking, (well, i don't remember exactly)
caught up in a brief break in the clouds. the stars
were out, shining their shining. i saw them,
but didn't. i was looking for the moon, her full, hovering
beauty imprinted still on my mind.

but this night, the moon was but a sliver of light, and i...
i was without remorse. i had come to that place of understanding
that the moon's light neither waxes nor wanes within the confines of
shadow. she becomes invisible in this shadowland, and perhaps this
is for the best, for who can take the beauty of the moon on a starless
night and call her their own? she was not mine to have.

and the tide, it pulled me in, it pushed me out; this motion set about
by the moon. (oh, my moon!)

i looked out, saw the waves come lapping gentle onto my boards.
the crash and turbulence, the rocking of my boat, shook me from
my reverie. i looked down, saw these dreams gasping at my feet.

oh, beautiful dreams born of moon and tide, how did you land here,
and why? i saw your gasping, your grasping at calming waters.

who was i to return you to your sea?
i was only a lost and rudderless boat.
i had not gone fishing that night;
i was no fisherman.

yet i took you home, slipped you into my
warm, salty waters and called you my own.


--bruised orange

convection currents

i'm reading tea leaves again.
this comes along with counting tiles, i suppose.
conversations carried out to their inevitable conclusion
inside my mind always have the worst endings.

when did i become so insecure?

i'm wondering at this point about the wisdom of wearing
hearts on sleeves and all that jazz. it would be
better for my mental health to be more stone-like.

i am a rock, i am a rock, i am a rock.

too late, i realize,
i am rock candy,
and you have me in hot water.


--bruised orange

can't find the off-switch

oh mind, your whirling dervish dancing

leaves you dizzy and reeling. do you not

know answers fly apart in the centrifuge?


--bruised orange

float on by

a crack of light shines into the dungeon of my heart.
i see the dust motes float on by.

this too shall pass whispers across my room,
and the dust motes float on by.


--bruised orange

walk on through

as you walk on through your dark night,
remember, love, your pale shaded color
will gleam again brilliance in morning's light.

i have no answers for you, and cannot pull
you from your sadness. yet i fly in circles
surrounding you, these slow tracing wings
feather soft and fluttering nearby.

if you can hear my words whispering quiet
calm upon your tender, broken places,
listen now, and know you are loved.

walk on through to me, love. i will wipe those
crystalline tears from your eyes, and cover over the
torn places of your crepe paper heart.



--bruised orange

cheers

a woman sits and drinks alone at her table tonight,
in remembrance of all loves past. in her darkness,
glimmers of chance dance across the room, for
these are things born apart from the bottle.

hope, that slow gasping fish of dreams, makes eyes at her,
and she raises her glass in a toast,
but the lights come down, and he swims away.

the future is a place for young lovers
with stardust whispers and moonbeam glances
she reminds herself, and pours another drink.


--bruised orange

bo whines some more about writer's block

the words i write now have no good flow.
these child like stitches, clumsily holding together
pieces of fabric that don't even match.

knotted cord of words, tangled in my throat.

but i remember days of butter soft verses
sliding off my tongue, creamy smooth and luscious.


--bruised orange

exclusion, self imposed

so i'm standing outside the coffee shop
staring through the large plate glass windows.
it's one of those intimate, quirky little places.
pressed tin ceiling, art (originals) on the walls, pieces of
furniture that look more like they belong in a bedroom
than any public place. maybe that's my problem.
maybe it isn't impersonal enough. because i can't
seem to get my feet to move over the threshold.
i'm just standing here on the street, staring through
to the other side. on the other side sit the group of
poets i am supposed to be joining. they talk easily
with each other, they share their works. i'm wondering
at this point, what sort of poets they are, these smiling,
laughing easy talking people. these are definitely not my type of poets.
i'm wondering what kind of poetry these easy talkers have inside themselves.
what could they possibly have to say? probably poems about flowers and
butterflies and trees and stuff. this is not the group for me.

i turn and walk on down the street.
a dirty, crumpled sheet of newspaper bounces along the sidewalk in front me.


--bruised orange

boredom spread thin

People keep telling me I have a sense of humor.
I look around and wonder what drugs they are taking.
If this is funny to you, please get in the line on the left,
you will get a booby prize.
If I am boring you, go shoot yourself now, as this is downhill from here.

And speaking of boredom, I read a quote the other day
that said that boredom is rage spread thin.
I've never really thought of boredom as something soft
and creamy to go on toast, but I can see it happening.

To the waitress at Jim's: Yes, I'll have the eggs over easy,
and wheat toast, boredom on the side, please.

I'm trying this next time. She will probably give me that look
that reminds me I am from a different planet. I need this sort
of thing in my life.

nanu nanu


--bruised orange

on losing words

i seem to have lost words again.
the sense of desperation i feel over this is palpable.
i wonder, where did they go? who can i blame?
and will they ever return to me?

oh muse, you are an unfaithful lover
i gave my heart to you and you've taken
it and skipped town.


--bruised orange

remembrance

alone in my stillness, i wait to see the flowers dance across the meadow,
for then i will remember the joyous ways of our togetherness, how we moved
across the vast prairie of a greater love. now, it is a tiny mouse who hides in
the tall grass, trembling with every vibration of the earth, afraid to move.
yet the sun shines down each day, whether we are alone or together.
i see the beams of light fall upon your face, and remember how we danced
together across the vast prairie of a greater love, how the dew kissed our toes,
and the meadow flowers sang our hearts through from morning to eventide.
i remember you, i remember me, and a song we sang from the union of our hearts.
this song echoes through the dark night as stars wink across the sky.


--bruised orange