The sailor seeks the harbor’s hush,
Storm-drunk skies in twilight rush;
Hands wear soft with salt and rope,
Anchored gently, held by hope.
Heart is compass—battered, brave—
Pulses tide through calm and wave;
Veins trace currents, azure lines,
Charting truths in coded signs.
Ninety percent answered correctly I read,
I roll my eyes, inhale, and count to three.
One…
Two…
Unheard but felt— nails on the board,
Hands cup my face to play the chord.
Continue reading “In Your Head”
I knock on the door,
clipboard in hand, heartbeat racing.
The cold, hard plastic chair remains—
but I no longer sit in it.
The coats adorned, they’ve never been cleaner,
and so it begins, we’ve never felt keener.
We have our support and new pals too.
We’re starting off slow, ITD we go through.
Continue reading “Such is Life”
All alone in the silence,
the heart on the paper has no strings,
Where thoughts and emotions pass us by,
Never truly walking, yet always near,
Invisible presences, both distant and transparent.
Continue reading “In the Hush of Solitude”
If all we see is our own goodness,
but reject the darkness within,
where does that really put us?
When our side is the only truth,
the world around us crumbles,
and spiritual death takes our youth.
But what if we see our evil,
listen to the figure calling from the dark wall,
the voice who tries to catch us
well before we fall? Continue reading “A Shadow in the Light”
I
The row of pink lines, round faces tousled at every frill and trill by the wind, finds its needs met in you.
II
The shorter friends, purple and yellow bunches tossed not as much by the wind as by the butterflies and bees that leap and jump from their platforms—yes, these too, the flowers and the bright flitting patterns under the sun, find their needs met in you. Continue reading “They Find Their Needs Met in You”
Summer is the time of remembrance.
To know what is coming in the cold winter,
to know what is past in the fresh spring.
New life passes away,
and the cold washes it all away,
prepares the ground for the bulbs to spring up.
Cyclical.
To know one’s passing is to know rebirth.
I speak behind a mask.
I smile with my eyes.
You nod and smile back.
I see it, I surmise.
School is in session,
first week: infection.
Football quarantined for poor discretion.
Weeks passed—
still in class,
risk accepted.
Med Intima 