new day?

today is perhaps
another day
born from the lonesome
dark seed
of the abandoned past.
today is nothing new,
it is an echo coming
through a hidden thicket
where i find myself
entangled in the thorns
of a deceptive rose.

no day passes,
no hour comes
or goes without
repeating the blueprint
for waves walking under
the forlorn moon.

sometimes
the day is dressed
like a mirror
and we rise to greet
each day
like it is new,
and we ritualize our
form in front
of the reflected past,
which isn't there
but imprisoned
behind the smoky mirror,
and some days we see
the light of lovely things
or the twisted form
of time's decomposition:
we repeat, we relive,
trying to outsmart
the blanketing rain,
trying to outlive
our persistent shadow.

today is just like
i dreamed it would be:
oppressive with yellow wind,
beleaguered by desultory tides,
deceptively silent
and bitter with irony.

Where Is Your Blood?

Where is your blood, I ask
Where does it belong?
If it spills, does it consecrate
Or was it desecrated?
Where is it then, and where
Does it belong?
Why does yours flow when
The rest of the world is still?
So then, where, I ask
And where does it belong?

Who among us knows
The fountainhead of their
Primal river,
How many can count the drops
That fell scattered within the bones
Of yesterday, driving forward till today
With rains, driven drops of rain,
With reins, driven by bloody reins
Reigning sovereign over rivers
Running toward tomorrow.

What is this blood that spills, that flows
And oozes and trickles and clots,
Dries and stains hands and sandy lands,
That boils and sinks and explodes upon rising?
Is yours the blood that slips away
As casually as war,
Is yours the blood that fell on deaf ears
When prostrate before your bloody god?
Is yours the blood that was infected
By a careless evening,
Is yours the blood that is cursed
As it pulls the moon from your guts?
Is yours the blood that never satisfies
The lives of the stock,
Is yours the blood of livestock
Barely alive yet bleeding in buckets?

Or is yours the blood that holds the memories
Of why blood relates us all: sacred
Consecrated
Sacrificed

So then, I must ask,
Where does yours belong?

flaming wave

i ride a flaming wave
breaking
taking breaths between
beats
hearts swimming in sync
sinking
becoming hidden treasure
chests
finding seekers of lost
time
waves rippling toward sunrises

sea self

to unwind, to find
the process of me
being my unseen, slow
being, slow like seasons,
precise, like the sea's sons
finding their way back to shore,
shallow surf wading ashore,
surfacing, the faceless deep
facing the sun, shadowed
by the self, still and silent,
silently swimming, seeking,
searching the soul, solitary,
sole and singular, multiplying
inter-dimensionally, intentionally
content, intent upon floating,
free, falling inward, toward
deep feelings, feeling naked,
undressing my mind, naked
as creation itself, clothed
in undersea garments,
dressed for the occasion,
crashing a party,
celebrating my seasonal self.

water's fire

between the sheets and salt
a fire reaches for the water
and a wave upswells like lips
parting, praying for rain
washing down upon the seastacks
steadily riding the crashing rhythm
glistening in the glow of a light,
a salty plume in flight, fleeing tides
escaping the gravity of the shore
coming, going, coming once more
mixing sun and moon,
salt and stone;
bones of the fire wed to water

Knowing

Let’s tend the small embers
Burning the night
Into darkness
Under descending cold
Bitter and biting
Incubating
Dreaming spring into being

Not too fast
We mustn’t rush
When we’ve only
Just met
Spiraling into each other
Summer washing ashore
Falling into each other

Winter is a wonder
A wandering pond
Frontier of falling fronds
Frosty yet on fire
Sweating intense
Feverish touches
Clutching at softness

Whispers at night
Shadows of shapes
Shifting sands of time
Unwinding line by line
Time and time again
Until next time
When we knew

Perhaps we knew all along
There was only one way
To be here now
To know those things
Singing the way
You do when singing
The way you do