questions

who
what
where
when
why
and how:
so many questions
with infinite answers.

they soak up the world
with brown eyes
curiously searching,
seeking sense
in a world of sensation.

with eager ears
they take in what’s told,
repeating with rapt
attention, making connections
with constant questions.

spring is eternal
in the heart of children,
growing and reaching,
clamoring for potential,
rising toward the sun,
raising their youthful banner.

it’s a mystery to be unlocked,
everything is a puzzle
riddled with possibilities,
life goes on living
and they lead the way, unafraid.

solid fire

they took their form from
solid earth
and forged their flame through
a river of blood.

it is no mistake
that their essence
is a deep fire
rooted in bedrock.

they maintain balance
in burrowing yet growing,
playing with fire
even while digging.

one for each half,
one for each other,
one for the whole,
for father, brother and mother

after thought

an afterthought,
as if
after thinking
back, retreating
in time to previous
being, seeing
things in other lights,
in a difference, a
diffuse dark retracted,
retracing steps,
retreading paths paved
to this present past
future tenses yet perceived
by these senses.

it makes no sense.

to think, things are
as they need to be.
wants and needs
dissimilar and unfamiliar.
to have left a path
for a different one.
never look back.

black magic

at times, as now,
there is no
magic. only black?
orange glows of sky
in long drawn
out light, slow
as if turning a season,
falling.

some
multitudes, faces,
tits and ass, pass
beyond, yonder
or farther
away, distant
like this
apparent apparition.
some
partitioned mission
to occupy another
space, or time.
but this is not
either of those.

merely
me, or who this
is really is.
possibly, it wasn’t
who you thought,
yet various remains
stain glass houses,
so i throw
stones of forgetfulness.

not remembering
why i try.

self search

searching the self
is like stalking
stones after the surf
recedes, revealing
the strata of strewn
data
that are stones,
sand, seaweed and such,
situated and sorted
according to certain
stories more
or less
sentimental or sensational.

there is no need,
no necessity,
to navigate previous
scenes of splendor
or sorrow. there should
be no certainty
to serve this selfish
penchant for petulant
pondering.

i only wonder,
does the sea remember?