At the End of the Day

just before we begine, meditation:

uncharted island
of somewhere in-between the
right and wrong

where can I find you,
queen mystery of it all
that hides, unseen?

don’t find me a fire
a berating sun-drenched love
who follows my tracks

don’t find me the steel
or windy night time blue,
but some cool temperate:

I think I’ll just bathe
in the medicinal sway
of unfailing breath.

xxx x x x x x

an afterthought

yes, that’s it
she eases into a chair
her bones ache and she
finds that the view is not as lovely
as she thought it would
be.

A ticket or the house key
is misplaced
but the train station still finds a way
to make it’s contents drip in an empty thickness
depositing the worker and civillian,
the unceasing drama that
plays at the day like a child with baloons,
too soon bought then let out of grasp
floating higher and higher
and up to the sky:
watch it fly
watch it fly
watch it fly
watch it fly
At the end of the day,
And it passed me by

Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry

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the Swan Piano Contemplates Her Existance

taking on the form of a piano swan, we leave in the earlyness.
why have we returned?
we do not have a choice, I think
the swan inside us is floating,
the piano is just being plucked.
the movement is stifled and unstifled
it is a pain to return, to arrive.
In spite of ourselves we were just budding
and closing in on ourselves again
like newly oiled playing cards.
what is a swan?
joy.
what is a piano?
rage.
or maybe, they are both
or maybe more.
We can think of adjectives ( both of us)
and maybe bears will think of verbs ( they like to lumber and bumble too)
and birds, onomonopea:
taking on the form of a piano swan, we leave in the earliness.
returning is like feeling my mother’s absence.
coarse, paining, unhinged.
lightening striking and no thunder
fire and no fighting and no blunder.
the other swan would be my lover,
but I blame his faults on magic, or his naughty brother.
( well, I blame our faults always on magic)
feeling the swoosh of the seaside
and my soft feathers brushing against my hand
unconsciously playing chopin
my lover is playing a jazzy serenade
from a play no one has played:
taking on the form of a piano swan, we leave in the earliness:
I don’t complain.
Sometimes i hear the ticking of my strings in the middle of the night while we sleep.
but I think it’s just me
singing an unconscious lullaby
to an unhinged, unstifled creature
known as me.

Stream of Consciousness #9

I don’t think my hands have ever typed so fast! the rhymes literally poured out at a rate I was not sure to keep up at. i was possessed. utterly possessed. And I have just finished reading Joan Baez’s first autobiography, I don’t know if that helps…

 

Stream of Consciousness #9

who was who was pooh was greatly appreciatledy do

like whispers in summer

you were my love

like bouncing balloons on a string

you were my everything

like balls on bells on a summer day

you were my grass to my hay

my laugh to my chuckle,

my seat to my buckle

my trough to my stream

my laugh to my scream

my tie to myshirt

to my button

to my skirt

seam

you are were is my everything

like free lancing on the street

selling things so you can have food to eat

like strings on ropes and cords and strings

like my heart that constantly sings

whatever you do

you know you is my everything

like money in your pocket

like a chain of golden locket

like springs on balloons

and like the harvest moon

and like the trepidation s

or our silent meditations

and like the wind blowing at your feet and like having the stars to meet

like the wind blowing through the dust

like your mind saying, no , you must, you must

like this itch in my head that says you might prefer me instead

like this shallow of sorrow

that says there is no tomorrow

what’s the point of living,

I find myself saying

when everyone is already dead?

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry