LET’S DANCE

spinning, parts of being together, captured grace defying gravity, bending with sound within the dance and beyond in steps and turns opening all sides to a place achieved of unspoken language transcending seasons with hope and the chance you’ll always be there

BURIED

pressed under dunes are ancient paths, rocks and skeletons lying beside evidence covered and then recovered, preserving the voices where they remain absorbed within disorder and perfection, uncaring of seasons, while forever protected within ancient layers

PARK BENCH POET

he sees ghosts and speaks to clouds while sneering menacingly  at people and dogs church bells nearby ring out praise and guilt clouds knit together, breezes circle salvation walks backwards sometimes retrieving the innocent while rejecting the poor

COUSIN

oh cousin, I know the depth of your heart as the tides swirl within life’s indifferences, as you salvage a smile, with two steps forward, shouldering strength in the evidence of good works, blessed to you to give away, with so much more stored within the engine driving your soul

UNBIASED

gusting wind greedily formed unsettled air, flexing its might around corners and curves, breeching walls attacking great and small, creating mayhem as a signature of unfathomable strength, unquestioned and free to disturb.

DREAM DREAMER

we stand under a moon gazing upward at its silver face from our earthly spinning diorama of cities and oceans where we silently gather, leaning on the uncertainty of our place, questioning without answer, the miracle suspended in a dark sky

BURIED

under dunes ancient paths pressed by sand rocks and skeletons lying beside, evidence covered and then recovered, time preserved, desperate voices absorbed, disorder with perfection, void of seasons absent of sounds protected within ancient layers

THE PARTS WE FEAR

his face, locked in the evidence of a traveled soul inner sufferings surfaced as disturbed currents threads from his past acted as an anchor, pulling him back from the edge of his unknown parts

BEAT THE DRUM

there’s a raising at the French quarter with crowds dancing and colliding like changing tide waters crossing streets drinking with passion while cable car singers and corner horn players beat a noise under a dreary humid mist as the sweating and smiling, celebrate for any reason without a holiday