on the bottom, looking up into gauzy folds of water, feeling pressure on my chest, securing me within this green blue garden where light is absorbed above into waves passing overhead, unobstructed, as I observe the other side of looking down
sleep, the back half of what was, leftovers from today, ghosts of the past stepping through an open door without resistance as the sand underneath changes to water, drowning your breath or pushing you from a rooftop sparing your impact, your death, until repeated another night
words on stone as angels pass over where clouds hold tight the soul of belief as winds push back and then forward to the promise at the highest point where air is fresh like cool water filling your spaces washing onto your shoreline the best of all parts
the voice of the river surface gentle troubled deep the warning drifts past stirring desire and fathomed fear water prints, smooth circled twists, suggesting what lies below and out of sight the flow is a deliberate force to the ocean slow and continuous, unmatched, unchallenged
satin breezes like angel wings glide over the soul of water a cloud of mist, rarefied air, drifts within classic circles of style creating a message within motion, a language spoken without words
one a great force the other invisible both unrestrained resistant to change regardless of seasons constant as gravity seconds move the hands clouds possess miracles comfort eases the pain of the weakness we fail to overcome to change either one lest the gift of each be wasted
it begins to rain heavy without warning, an ocean of water descends from the sky stepping around broken glass in the gutter, reminds me of fallen stars and broken wishes I am soaked through, exposed, feeling shirtless as the cold clings to me water gathers then runs off abiding to gravity … More BROKEN WISHES
trellised words, vined thoughts, labyrinths watering misshapen clay under the eyes of what was hidden invisible, releasing messages from years, unstoppable, like the warmth of a calendar welcoming summer during the search for me
the house was a fire of voices a child on the front porch sang a song about water and boats floor boards language inner travel from room to room burnt evening skies brushed the house with setting shadows as night breathes out a deep sigh of quiet
mercurial breezes stirred the ponds surface creating a water print with soft twisting sounds of irregular disruption forming ripples without direction soon breaking apart returning the surface to smooth glass, reflecting late afternoon clouds
Roger Singer 