The weight has come to rest on the eyelids. They refuse to close for fear it may be the last time they see movement. Lately the days aren't reminiscent of time spent sipping from cups. Not even the fancy cups my grandmother served to the ladies with embroidered handkerchiefs in their purses.

The fingerprints then were small and didn't have many secrets to hold but were full of expectation. Mischief was ordinary and leaving before one hundred years were filled was out of the question. Of course, this type of longevity requires daily renewal.

The prints of sin can hide the value of the heart like bad abstract art. Still it isn't as easy to avoid as once believed. It stands on every corner waiting to weigh in.

Everlasting seems so far away yet we try to seal time in a jar like the preserves we have stored away for when the snow storm comes and there's no escaping for food. Time is moving quickly it's hard to imagine a day seeming as a thousand years. Even when the days seem longer the quality of time does not compare to what can fit into one day. Wasted moments never to be tasted again. Meaningless mundane chores dictating whether or not you can keep the lights on or the belly full. Purpose seems as if it turned the corner without you and you try desperately to remember the beginning.

Moving is more complicated than it appears. The act of motion one would first imagine as being propelling. Until you realize you have passed the same landmark yet again. You gave up counting because it reminded you of how gullible you really are. Markers in time or maybe little stamps placed on the soul like the tasteless mementos we purchase at gas stations when we are on road trips.

How can now be so present and timeless at the same time? Forwardly thinking, hoping--propelling to the next stop on the road. The journey has no script and whatever notes you can find spread between the intersections may have been edited to mislead you into thinking you're headed in the right direction. In fact, you can't even trust your survival instincts at this moment. It's all subjective and the notion of faith in surviving has all but dissipated.

The letter failed to tell who it was from and to whom it was addressed to. But the words were unmistakeably between two people who were acquainted with one another. The tone pre-luded the words and the aroma from them filled the mind as it was being read and the lips on command began to move to give them the voice they called for. There was no date. Time didn't seem to change the significance of the message.

Folded back up it now lay in the bottom of the chest leaving it to the mind to conjure up a tale for the next verse and plots to fill in the time that has surely passed.

This like so many mysteries can leave a bitter taste behind when over and over again the images of the two remain just that images. As if they are expected to enter the room at the same time but at opposite ends to discover they have unknowlingly accepted an invitation to the same gala--only to leave still alone.

There's an empty cocoon hanging on the ledge and the sunlight is exposing the cobwebs in the corner. It's quite obvious some time has passed since the last visit not to mention the last cleaning. Who spends there afternoon paying attention to such details anyway? The only type of person that comes to mind is supposedly extinct--a domestic of some sort. The real question is where is the creature that has evidently made it's escape and how far can the imagination take him and what adventures will he have upon arrival? It's really three fold and the possibilities are as endless as the summer skies waiting on a fall moon. It's easy to leave when the sun is the highlight of the sky. Just wait and see if there is strength in the limbs when winter's bite is lingering and the air is still as the night.

Cycles

Be leery of the one who is willing to pour out all the contents of his wallet and leave them on the table just because today is Thursday and Wednesday made him want to scream. The skin quickly reacts and wants to join in, but you must tell it to behave. It can not shed and walk around on it's own waiting for another soul; therefore, you are in control! At least until the electricity on the bottom of your feet reaches the intersection of your soul and you want to peel off your skin as if it were a loose garment. It's amazing how freedom is contagious until it must be followed by courage. The courage to walk out and close the door. The door to yesterday because you realize you can't go back no matter how you play the scenes over and over in your mind. Tomorrow is Friday, and yes there is an end in sight, but remember Wednesday will come again.

Joy of Friendship-for Tanya

Friends are not easy to come by. Those willing to accept you as you are--ragged and proud. But when you happen upon one standing on the play ground looking for someone to spill their life's dreams to the connection is powerful. The secrets told as easy as half truths to one another remain hidden underneath the rock that seals the friendship. It's hard to imagine how you managed to cross the street by yourself before, how you seem now to be able to swing a little higher than before. Apparently you didn't know there was such an invention--the existence of such an entity.

There's a silence in the room as if too much has already been said. No one will take the blame for the stench in the air--but it's clear it has been lingering for some time. The reaction to those entering does not appear to be foreign and they pass through quickly not willing to uncover the mold at the edge of the windows.

Time and attention will have to be given to the egg residue left in the pan on the stove. Days have passed and it will probably end up like everything else--discarded as if it never had any value, as if it was nameless.

No one bothers to check the mail and respond to the surveyor's request. They would rather ignore it until they no longer send such correspondence to them. This has worked for them before and for some reason makes them feel superior. But who wants to stop receiving postcards or even holiday greetings. Birthdays come once a year --but at least the card on the table reminds us that someone cares.

Moonless Night

This night has no moon
Hidden as if it has no duty
To warm lovers as they walk
Rekindling the shine in the cool breeze

The fowler with his snare seeks to trap the ignorant walking, eyes covered, ears closed. They trust their betraying flesh. They listen to it rumble allowing it to rise. The fowler sets his trap eagerly awaiting his prey. The lame crawling on his knees waiting for his change. Too ashamed to look up and live, to stand underneath the stains of the tree. He passes out, his mind in agony. Loosed and set free, he feels his leg, the hollow now made whole.

The Wind brought rain
Falling down on me
Filled my empty places

The Wind brought words
Speaking to me
Assured my staggering soul

The Wind brought joy
Over shadowing me
Lifted my head bowed in shame

Tea Party

The days are spent deceiving the ignorant, laughing at the disarmed, chanting after the proud and engaging the foolish. The vomit that fills the mouths of the wicked are now standing in vitrines on every corner. They spill over into the streets mopping up the innocent too blind to realize they are treading among bile. The stench of the waste permeating their garments now clinging to their weakened bodies. Too lazy to reason on their own and too poisoned to own their own minds they collide into one another mocking the caucus floating down at their feet.

Covered

The night slipped away like it had something to go hide.
Only time yet to come will uncover this moon's secrets.
When it's safe to utter what happened under it's watch.
Somehow it has remained hidden as if it was untrue.

The earth covers again allowing the fallen to ask for redemption.
In the meantime it covers, under the sun it still hides.
As if it has unfolded and made a place within.

It will remain swept away like the stars, ushered away at dawn.
It has asked for it's prints to be erased.
Only to be remembered by those who wake up owning the shame.

A Cloudy Dawn

There's a stirring underfoot, a roaring like thunder.
A mind to turn the corner to meet the open door.
Distance can't dim the brightness of the light.

There's a praise rising, overflowing in the soul.
Words to encourage as they leave the tongue.
By standers can't stop the stride of the rhythm.

There's a sweetness in the air, denying the bitter sting.
An aroma sent on the the wind troubling the water.
Weariness can't resist the rest of the promise.

There's a stillness in the air of a cloudy dawn.
Clouds to hide the terrors of the night.
Starry blackness soon forgotten with the sun.

Circles

There are many beginnings along the road. If you can find those along the way that will permit the erasing of the missed turns.

The past sometimes troubles speaking as if it isn't satisfied to stay hidden behind the tree. It can be mistaken for the shadow until it moves in the opposite direction--the unforgettable aged odor stirring.

Those scenes once explored and left behind because they frightened act boldly. Now the way becomes obscure and the same stone marks the beginning again.

Speaking of clay

Breathing clay.
Not on his own.
Walks off the wheel.
The master reproduces the design.
Adding colors, feathers and limbs.

The black hummingbirds are wise.
Living among their enemy.
Too fast for him to catch
They'll have to settle for the ignorant instead.

The clay moves mimicking his surroundings.
Speaking, walking, standing.
The ground now under his feet.