Storms and sights
After every storm
New plants grow
Old water flows into new
And life lives in some form
Renewed and born again like hopes
Though when there you find yourself
Within the storm
It is you who never knows
The sight
Dedication and building
A man who builds
Only fanciful nothings
In his head
Will be remembered for nothing
Because nothing has neither spine
Nor concrete
Within minds embed
Childhood droplets
Where wishes drop
Like condensation droplets
Spilling over into a new circular form
And down
Into open eyes of upward wonderment
There
Where is nothing else but safe and warm
You can be drenched but not in a storm
Secure and yet never truly born
Of yourself just yet
So when the time comes arise
And dry yourself off unwet
Be me, please
I tell myself that walls I need
Or skies or eyes
Or tempered caffeine
I tell myself most anything
To keep the forward creative dream
Just in front of my dark cinema of eyes
And yet in realizing
See only this sight sighing sight
For its me in the end
Being the only one who keeps
My hands from molding beside riverbeds
Of thoughts most deep, and cool, and free
Be me, please
Old valleys low
Though love persists
For these distant halls
Of memories to which I
A sculpture of rocks
Did once attest and insist upon
Their memoires keeping in granite hewn
Know this
I can not
For any such halls which will not
Nor ever would they or I
Equally ever want to be my own
Call upon more than a memory still
For I waste no carves or cares or concerns
On those whose whose care only for my name
And for what I do or with it do
And by this association keep
Barley as a line of limestone
You will never know me through and through
As my true heart does
And my lover will do
Though I appreciate what I once thought you were
Facile
God is going
In asking and seeing
How his goodness gives
And in your getting found
There ought to be
A certain level of trust
In what is going to be
And how within such scenes
You yourself
Will survive and about
Coffee over apple fritter
Dark glazed bark
On a tree soaked storm of wood
Ripples deep with condensation
And yet with a saturation thin
As a mother natures skin
So also these trees never shimmer but shake
This mositure from their limbs
With an endless breeze and a summers stint
Amidst sunnish whims
No storm can touch these trees again
Once grown
Turning to the see
Somedays you
To the river walk
And then down to the sea
To draw forth water and a drink
But there is nothing to be found
But land
But what you can see
Man unmade
The only true original
Unordained and planned out thing
Here atop this asphalt sea
Is really just me
And my written word to be
ashes atop sanded stones
Old is old
And set like stone
In minds of traditional raising
Like trees
Their roots grow deep unknown
With reach unseen
But wood is wood
And grown is grown
Some seeds will always spread in woods
And amongst the this olding moan of moans
Which echo still above the snow
For nothing changes beneath this hearth
Cept wood and fire
These ashes atop sanded stone
Nothing left, a tanka
There is nothing left
To say or not to stay put
Is a matter of
More than merit or minds eye
For I see no such future
Forevermoreno
Holding fast
A riverbed lifts
A roaring water atop the chest
So I hold you
In a shaking gleaming
Esteem of still
With voracious hunger
I fast for us
And have continued to will
Us safely to the other shore
But know, this is not forever more
No
Mortal needs
The worst kind of life
In imagination or mind
Is that which leaves
The self to being
In a ever present state
Of be
We need purpose
We need work
We need faith
We need brown and green neath trees
Yes
Please
To such walking
We humans walk around
Like little fires atop a candle
With warming hearts
And chilling minds
And weary feet
Which age but no longer grow
With time
To see such walking
Inspires me
To feed my stomach
Squint my eyes
And smile back at this stubborn life
You think the wind
Cares at about your flame of being?
As surely as I write to you
No snow will hold a single flake for thee
Or day an hour
Or tree a leaf
As we human beings should be just that
Being
Sculpting a home
Demands of self
And expects of time
Make me wonder if
I am truly free
Of anyone or anything
Or any being bound to me
As this earth grows up
Beneath my feet
And I a timeless ageless beast
Wish flowers fall
And mountains climb
When not at home
Yet also resistant to leave
We are trees of trees
And sand of rocks
And rivers of cutting
Neath valleys to be
When home is not
Yet resistant to change
Lonesom, fast, thoughts
Self reasoning states
That something is
A someone of value
Worth time to keep
When my mind instead
In its most selfish fit
Thinks only of the invested time
To which I myself can never be
Truly me
When there for you
I feel not alone
And that bothers me
True fear
True fear haunts
Not in the words of knows and musts
But feasts on ought to
And the meat of should
The fat of was
And the cost of lost
Forget not then
The truth of you men
That none can
But will and ought
For you keep only yourself
At the end of the day
And no self remains
Remember your place
Boss
No look for find
There comes a time
When man commits
Himself instead
Of gawking gaudy
Moral crimes
Even if offered up
By a society of eyes
Which praises skin
And stretching thin
Such men reject
This fleshy wish
For all the fish
In the see of seas
Instead you will find
An inward turning in
And a solemn mind
To forever bind
Yourself to these is kind
We were born to love
No look for find
Freecom, a tanka
To escape is fine
To be free is to not mind
The self which now pleads
Not to be returned to me
But to freedom ever be