when the words don’t matter

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Sitting by the shoreline,

the water fairly calm,

a sharp breeze enough to

suggest only the time of year.

 

watching seagulls swift past

the eery history of the mast

wondering just when waters

would ever tell me a secret.

 

I could listen for hours

while the sun began to dance

along soft waves of yesterday

sounds around me airily fast.

 

the birds, their legacy staid

by waning summer’s crying lead

in the autumn of these days,

the ones reminding time away.

 

I listen to Bob Dylan, a surreal croon

speaking of wanting ways

wishing time would forever sway,

‘Blood on the Tracks’ seems to say …

 

Inside this visual macabre

Our surreal horizon rob.

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Carpe Diem #903 hot springs

life breathe free

I stand inside a melody

sweet steamy me

~

where is energy

from the ground in symphony

water bathes harmony

~

she said hold rocks

feel nature is an energy

will hold peace

~

inside our Earth

we recognize a new delight

bathe alone in fog

~

a human being

a gift of the land I may feel

delight in hot waters

~

Carpe Diem #903 ‘Hot Springs’

Chosen Fog

A certain peace

a shallow view

misty rain waits

under a cloud of misconception

Unless of course we walk right through.

The bold imagination

a stark contrast to indecision

truly a wonder it might be

to wallow in the atmospheric velvet

of a morning sunlight

just beyond our reach.

~

Play in the mud,

feel the earth seeping,

wet, grainy, aftermath

that cling,

soft mettled reaction

to what just occurred,

what reminders we might have,

to walk away with soiled

naked toes.

~

On a clear day,

an energy pulls upon

our inner soul,

asking us, begging to be free

inside the sunlight’s wondrous

brilliance,

the heat that eats away any

foreboden aftermath

of conscious gravy.

The light only shines

enough to offer a solace.

~

On a journey in the morning,

wetlands teeming with nature’s truth

a slow cloudy mist,

a photographer’s dream

like a droplet of poured paint

on virtual canvas.

~

I did wonder of the isolation,

and hoped the truth might lie

in only the recognition

rather than my disappearing dreams

The Gathering Mist – A Sonnet a Day

fog

Shrouds veil our rise within the morning’s mist,

like pure raindrops suspended in cool air

we are reminded certain moments missed

will walk our day, must we believe it fair?

The mind, a wandering vessel of hope

battles sea worthy giants of despair

with each walk, we tangle a fierce strung rope

that clings to every fiber; hanging there.

We want to believe our hearts are so true

to love, to have compassion, a spirit

in happiness can achieve such sky blue

authority upon our angst’s regret.

With human dignity we walk in shrouds

of mediocrity whilst He sweeps clouds

Quiet Rest Stops

fog

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

~~~

These places exist if we open their doors,

too busy, so afraid, of letting go.

‘My anxiety is nothing like yours;’

sweeping strands become my complacent throes

like winds scream, thunders a prejudice grasp –

Our minds are often sinewy chasms.

When eyes behold our sweet real lives a hasp,

held out hands, breezy thrills, soft orgasms

of heart felt love in the kindness of dreams.

Crawl, explore … a constant lonely surface

of fear persists, always alive it seems.

Shine in torrential rains, alive we face

soft music sharp awaits with beckoned cry:

sooth, glide, strive for love, forget about why.