Glimpses

The world is made up of

bright colors and sweet soil,

of calm night and harsh day.

Of gleaming pebbles and long stories,

of crystal water and wavering shadows.

We people are made up of

long hair and bright eyes,

of fast-moving lips and tired hands.

Of crude huts and pounding tools,

of cotton wardrobes and stretched skin.

Our galaxy is made up of

infinite stars and black holes,

of tiny organisms and odd materials.

Of gases and liquids,

a balance of supply and demand.

But these are only just glimpses.

Glimpses of the big picture.

A little something sy-fy

There are infinities among

infinities of stars

and galaxies.

And in each solar system

there must be organisms

that feel, that know.

Intelligent life forms

Who knows how many.

Their bodies scattered among

structures so unlike those of the

humans’ creation, yet so closely tied to it.

Therefore, infinities among infinities

of intelligent life forms must exist

and yet we feel as if we are

the only ones, we are all alone.

How, in these infinities,

are we so lonely?

Laugh, little child

Laugh, little child

Your humor will not

hurt you.

As you are carried

away on the carriage

of good intentions,

Only the fool’s plot will

harm you.

So go, dance, be free

but be wary of those who

carry the weight of ignorance.

Resist the smile that melts you

if the mind deceives you.

Small tricks and white lies accumulate

and drown you.

Be wary, but go,

laugh, little child.

And we sang

The roses and buttercups

sang to me.

And I to them.

We sang of the

joyful rains and

the sad sunshine.

Of the springs

and the falls.

We sang of the lilting

waves and sighing moon.

Of soft lambs a-prancing

and breezes a-dancing

And, as the sun hung low,

we whispered our farewells

and tip-toed off, to not

disturb the velvet night.

For we knew we would

sing again.

Winter

White flakes twitter downward.

Vapor from my mouth hangs in the air.

Air like ice water travels down my throat.

The crunch under my boots persistent.

Cold fills my joints and soothes me.

Life at a standstill, stuck in ice.

In the winter we bundle and warm,

instead of what winter’s meant for.

I take off the extra layers

and watch them fall to the ground.

The shock of cold clears my head,

fills my soul.

This is winter.

Broken dreams

The plastic stared

at me. The rot sneered.

Everything in that pit

was garbage.

Once it was a birthday,

a carved pumpkin.

Happy things to fill places with.

But then we threw it away.

We cared no longer.

There would be more fakes

to tend to, but this

is the original.

These were the first.

And the last.

These are the

broken dreams.