morning stories: handwritten

morning stories: handwritten

see image

and imagine the sea

of possibility

when herds of words

are heard

silently

morning stories: oscar’s ashes

morning stories: oscar’s ashes

tossed, they twirled

hurled history

of the he whose fur

cured parts of me

that soften still

as I heal

from the burn of time

his ashes, swirled

mine, still settling

morning stories: one to none to three

morning stories: one to none to three

On the day of departure, I’ve arrived.

There is nothing more to give away. I’ve shed my scales that made me a chameleon. I’m colorless now, a colorless she. See through though the who that is here is one I cannot see. To be, I have to give. To give is to live.

To give is to live. It’s prescriptive. The colorless me has a sense she’ll see where her own power lives someday. Like a hummingbird’s wings, there is a way to isolate invisibility. There is composition that conducts infinite motion.

There is composition that conducts infinite motion. With no home in the now, there is only the now to know. To grow without bounds with no roots to the ground is to be found, hovering. Hovering is discovering how all that is colorless, too, can be.

All that is colorless, too, can be. Two can try yet by three, we’ll be. The ark has a name and it’s possibility. The turtle without its shell. The porcupine without quills. The zebra without stripes. Vulnerability. All becomes obvious when there is nothing to observe.

There is nothing to observe. Distance deserves proximity. To see is to be still. To serve is to stay. To say that today will favor what it is to savor all that one cannot see.

On the day of arrival, I’ll be.

morning stories: floated evenings

morning stories: floated evenings

which part of forever will you ever understand

if you never elect to hold my hand

while I sink

think in the pressure that I own

and, by that compression, let comprehension float to be known

morning stories: eternity in quiet

morning stories: eternity in quiet

wherever forever lies,
whether in view or in you,
whispers rest

morning stories: oops, it’s evening

morning stories: oops, it’s evening 

somewhere
some wear words
via woven webs that speak
stories of living fictions
via linen dictions
that flap eerie aeries on bodies
luffed by luggage wheeling
on whirled winds caused
by footsteps falling
on moving sidewalks stalling
emotion in motion
such things arise
in airports
lifting air poets
rising

morning stories: there

morning stories: there

what if there is no there there? what if there is only here which is where there should have been but can never be since here is where there was?

a wood chuck would know so if you know a wood chuck ask them if they could chuck the answer our way since the wood chuck should know what only a wood chuck could know and should therefore share the way a good wood chuck would.

but then, here we are, seeing the wood chuck there, asking them to come here yet there is no here to come to from there. darn it.

wherefore art though if you can’t be there to hear the question?

morning stories: envisage

  
morning stories: envisage

just so you know
i envy age
this baby sage was born to flee
the life she knew to be meant to be
so what now? and how?
hung left – right? – halfway in the house
of grown misunderstanding
a vision of dissonance
that, silently willing, will play
yet left – right? – without words by which to say
that i just don’t know
this baby sage envies age
just so you know

morning stories: movement

morning stories: movement

in the music of silence
stillness of motion
rests

morning stories: contentment

morning stories: contentment

sometimes the stories we write
are not ours at all
but cries called into echoes of lives
as narratives paving ways to traverse
the curses that curve edges into the drips of our seconds
as semantic lifeboats, they float over mysteries below,
lily pads printed to provide trampolines for leaps
of gravity-defying sticky foot feats
to strive high above hollows of anonymitys unknown
such are stories
and the ways they are told
as offers, called audibles,
into the season of discontentment