Undefinitions

A page
A look
A spoken sigh
A sage
Some books
An undetermined lie
We search
We find
And think we're right
A lurch
Defined
Beware a time of night
The sun
It flies
In spirals without corners
Alone
Reside
In your mind as a foreigner



I think words live invisibly in my journal. I scrawl at the page with my pen, and when I turn around I discover poems I've never seen before.

Rambo

There's a funny sort of world
We might have found again
A leaf, a word, a thought unfurled
Beyond our little ken

We keep our hands preoccupied
To keep our hearts from shaking
Because although I've tricked and tried
Sometimes things won't stop breaking

Return again, familiar face
My signs I cannot see
The once-lived truths in an embrace
Now fray the seams of me

So suddenly, the space is gone
No nothings more to fill
But when it's all out in the sun
Shadows keep moving still


I ramble... Don't know why... words keep tumbling out of my head every so often. Please stop.

Piel

Your words wrap around me
   Seek the sky with new vantage
 How we flicker, rise and light

          So many broken... parallel lines

    Searching out a celestial sight
      
      But I am still more of earth

           Riding along your flight
     Marvel at captivations
        A circling dance, snipping together and apart
                                                       pieces of sunlight
          You will find a whole



"Why does hurt of heart inspire so much?"
"Because you're bleeding... letting out."

Piece of Eternity

I met someone today
Heard him talking away
Somehow I knew he meant me
Before I ever saw his face
He ran away when I looked
But felt bolder when a bit fatter
Momentarily distracted
When I looked up next, he was standing there
I fell into his eyes
Asking just one question
Once, again, then silently
But so completely taken
I could not think to answer
And he went away
Leaving me wishing to follow
Never even told me his name
So I call him Mr. Bushykins

Gray Musics

The rain hushing softly
Are you picking up where my heart left off
Yet not beating
Gentler, please we are
  So the petals of the rosebud don't bruise
                                     And the wings of the hummingbird won't tire

The last of a generation
               Sings a forgotten song to furry ears
   So familiar

          But my lips cannot find the words

    For this minute, I am quiet

                      Stirring, stirring
     There is no recipe
           When life becomes nothing more but onions steaming

  Forget your questions for a moment

         All too soon they'll return

    No longer  can  I  write  in  rigid  lines

          They grow akin to raindrops

                   Here and there

               Hushing, hushing


This is almost exactly how it ended up in my journal (do you see your influence, Cearra? Forgive me for seeming to imitate... but it could take no other format.)
Speaking of which, my journal! I bought a new journal at Borders, finally. After muddling and musing and giving up, on my way out... I spotted it. It's not pretty to look at, or perfectly lined, but it is mine. Big, black and unlined. Because one cannot ramble in small spaces.

Fourth Wall

The air is alive
The ropes quiver under damp fingers
Catch your breath, one one thousand, two one thousand, three
Get away from the curtains, fool
Violins starting up, there's the cue
Take one last look
Our world is about to be born once more
Curtain

See how productive I am in field service? For some reason this came to me as we were driving between calls.