Our graveyard;
It beckons,
It bellows.
The crows call.
The raindrops crawl down our coffins.

But I believe in you and me.
Our funeral is a mockery.

They’ll pick up the debris
Of our bones.
But little do they know,
Our devotion is feisty.
Our love is indelible; undying.

So I’ll ask politely.

While you’re clenching cloth napkins
And sighing in strife,
Ready your eyes
For a death
That can come back to life.

Caricature of a truth.
I lay down my wheat and fire iron.
In smoky mirrors, I spread my tail feathers
Alongside the peacock.

When will time be fated to wrist restraints;
When will the Milky Way dance?

If we pick the leaves of the blueberry bush,
Should we ask how she feels of it?
I will dress her in new garb
Before the rooster crows,
If she so wishes.

Why must we play riddles with the unknown?
We poke fun at the things we should practice.
We don’t know the invisible barricade
Unless we paint it.
If we paint it.
Will we paint it?

And when eyes fall,
Of royal silk red,
And swords collide,
Will all be sought?
Have we learned already as people?
Have we forgotten?

Sharpened knife,
And quarterstaff.
The dermis artist before you,
Decorticating all who disobey.
All who fall astray,
Or choose a better tree to climb.
How do we not see?
How do we not see that we are blind?

And when will we learn?
When will we be taught?
Will we ever know,
Will we ever know of what is true and right?
Will we ever know,
The things that we should change,
The things that we should fight,
The things that don’t belong?

The rooster crows.
The rooster’s song is sad,
Because the rooster knows what’s wrong.

Friend.
Until clouds part and world’s end.
I know this.
I know you.
Friend.

Pick-pocket.
And you pick the troubles you pocket.
You thieve me.
You thieve you.
Pick-pocket.

The stench of struggle smells nice to low standards,
But I lack those,
So I take it through the nose
While I wait for a lightbulb moment.
Because a block is a block is a block.
But what lies beneath the rock?

What do you do when the door is locked?
You get in another way.

But if you yell,
And you smash,
And you cry,
And you wail.
And you blame,
And you shame,
And you dread,
And you bail,
The other way doesn’t come.

When you stop,
And you listen,
And you breathe,
And you wait.
When you gather,
And you solve,
And you trust
In your fate,
That’s when the other way comes.

And sometimes through this stillness, through the wait,
The locked door clicks, unlocks and swings open,
And we realize we don’t want to walk through.
Because a door is a door is a door,
But what lies beyond the shore?

"What is beautiful about a woman?"
I asked history.
And he said:
Juno Lucina
The miracle of birth.

"What is beautiful about a woman?"
I asked language.
And he said:
Mami, Morsa,
White flower, white dress.

"What is beautiful about a woman?"
I asked society.
And he said:
She is the good little mother
That I ask her to be.

When they say beauty is on the inside,
Did they mean in the ovaries?
Why is there beauty where babies are made,
But not in the woman that made them?
If she behaves like the perfect, practiced wife
The world cheers along.
But what about her,
Is she beauty alone?

"What is beautiful about a woman?"
I asked art.
"She is beauty,
She is beauty,
She is beauty", she said.

I do not wish to speak for the trees.
I wish for them to speak through me.
If you listen,
Nature’s voice crashes upon the shore,
She whispers at dusk,
And moans through the murky cattails.
How dare we silence such art.
At times,
We paint her playful green a mucky black.
And we expect her whimsical warbling to wash away our worries.
Why do we extort her this way?
Does mother really owe us such things?
Let us lay in the mud and play,
Let us gather her stories, and sway as she sings.
By sitting, waiting, watching.
Holding, pausing.
We will put ourselves aside while she grows.
We will stay long past the sunset glow.
For when dark follows light,
The show does not end.
The show never ends, nor begins.
And we can only know the meaning of life,
When we finally join in.

Your ebullience — my elixir.
Your structure — my realm.
My charmer,
My frolick-footed, arm-in-arm,
My wintertide warmer.
My bicycle bell,
My penny well of unwary wishes.
You capsize my worries,
Choke the vexed fires,
And anchor my fleeting desires.