morning stories: floated evenings


which part of forever will you ever understand

if you never elect to hold my hand while I sink

think
breathe

hold me in the pressured air where I am

such that the me meant to be can float to be known

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

water and fog

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: contentment

well

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

morning stories: pirouette

ballet

morning stories: pirouette

arisen and driven, she alights
her feet, wings, her motions, flights

(oui, her van was licensed Gogh)

staged and engaged, she trusts
the conductor, her paintbrush, her movements, his gusts

(oui, her ship was christened Caillebotte)

whirled and twirled, each pirouette and plie
tympanic applause, sighed grades, each moan, an A

(oui, her husband was named Claude)

bowed before crowd, she rests
settled skirt, fallen curtain, infinite coda, inspired breath

morning stories: the mistress

loch

morning stories: the mistress

crystalline fog drawn by brush of breath
along a loch by dawn of mourning

water slips its proof that even silence has sound

pressed loam plays notes
of steps taken above over tales rested below

a stone gravely tones:
his only mistress was solitude

morning stories: four seasons in a sentence


morning stories: four seasons in a sentence

as winter falls, leaves spring, casting sails to ride tides to summer

(to experience four seasons in a day every day, see above – while days can pass, sentences stay)