Botticelli's girl

Last night I heard a whisper
at my window-
a small child
a little girl,
or so I thought
the night-still
my window ajar
to let in the night breeze
the light of the moon
a shooting star,
or perhaps that wasn’t real
confused
lost in my dreams-
I saw a little girl,
flowing dress
hair in pigtails
lovely-
like a painting
a Botticelli-
angelic
too beautiful to be real
I knew this girl
I was sure,
I’d seen her somewhere before
I called her
not by name-
for that I didn’t know
she looked at me,
I looked at her
yet she continued by

Identity

Like a drop of water
I wait
patiently
sometimes though,
patience has a way of getting away
but time prevails-
one drop
into
two drops
into
three and soon
I am surrounded
no longer alone
no longer afraid
no longer lonely-
and nothing feels like I feel
like I am a body of greatness
there is no one bigger
better
more loved than I am
warmed from the inside-
I fade
into the air
to be once again
an entity unto myself

Winds bring change

Winds bring change
tides
come in
waves crash to the shore-
all those things lost-
found
resurrected-
given new life
if only was simple
loves lost letters bundled
faded red roses
pressed between an old phone book
washed away
the pain of the words that should never
have been said
actions that should have been contained
cheap shallow words
things
washed
time-
time can never be retrieved
a moment passed is lost forever-
time is never what you want it to be
not what you thought it to be-
tide washes in
things
meaningless-
an old pair of shoes
a weather beaten log-
things washed in with the tide
with the winds of change

Maidens of the sea

Days are long
though the nights are longer
the gap is wide
sea distances the memories
and debris floats to shore
and all the while
the sand dances
along the shoreline
to a sea shanty
as old as an old Captain’s beard—
an old maiden’s hemline
beneath the sea
where memories go to lay rest
and ghosts of past sailors
live on
and mermaids bathe
and bask—
on buoys
and rocks
and fallen tree limbs
princesses of the sea
with heavy hearts
and hopes that won't ever come true
and odes dedicated to the sea
awaiting sailors
that will never return

Judgement day

Better to judge on the morning sky
when sleepy eyes
and meek-the sun dances-
shy
seductress
behind a grey veil

Better to judge on the morning sky
when what remains
important
remains
and the rest floats by
wasn’t worth the time

Better to judge on the morning sky
when tempers rested
not flared
smouldering embers
sance fuel to light them up again
and words lose meaning

Better to judge on the morning sky
when restless sleep
leaves black wild dreams
for the antagonist
protagonist free
let someone else judge

I dance...

I dance to the beat of a different drum
I dance to the music no one else can hear
I dance to the melody playing in my head
and no one can intervene
tell me I’m mad
should be locked away
while all the while—
I dance
and laugh
and give not even a—
fleeting care
for what anyone else thinks
I dance to the beat of a different drum
because I can

Pages of Yesterday: Rising sun

Pages of Yesterday: Rising sun