Bad Dreams

Hang the bad dreams

on the clothesline

to whip in the wind,

stuck in place

as they would do to you,

and iron out

the woe trapped in the wrinkles,

pressing them into

dreams

with look and smell and feel

of summer warmth

Window Dressing

Wouldn’t you, couldn’t you,

shouldn’t you agree

that there’s problems with the site

and not the dressing?

.

.

.

There are quite a few people on WordPress just giving up their sites. Many of the ones I know of (many, not all) are fed up with the app and block editor. I don’t blame them for that–I took a posting hiatus late last year with the same issue. The editor seems to be getting worse these days.

I only bring this up because while that’s getting worse, the font on the Reader has gussied up. That’s great! But in addition to that, every contraction is showing up separated on every post I read. Has that been happening for you all too?

It’s their platform and they can do what they wish with it. I would be upset if I was shelling money out to host this site but fortunately I’m not. I just wish the right person(s) in charge with updating WordPress would value functionality over window dressing.

Here’s a screeshot of the app after this post was published.

Waiting, Wanting, Needing

She dances gracefully

on the wisps

of non-existent memories

in my heart,

spurred on by music box melodies

of songs yet to be written.

I want and I beg

for her to leave,

to trod on the worn-out

welcome mat

on her way out,

but the thought of her leaving

hurts me in another, yet familiar, way.

My head bobs,

my foot taps.

Some pollution of ignorance

still travels through

my veins.

It wants her to go

but

I need her

to stay.

back in time

if i could go back in time

to take back those words i said

in haste

then i would ask for forgiveness

in light of my mistakes

with remorse and all alacrity and

with apology and action, still vulnerable,

because love is still

and it’s always there

as it’s the past’s and future’s present

from one soul to another

in patience, in kindness, in selflessness

to love more each day, your love being

the only thing i’d want . . .

if i could go back in time

“As Lovely as a Tree” (haikus)

The Bonsai

You took sharp objects

and used them like you knew how;

the bonsai remains

* * * * *

The Redwood

Sequoia standing

strong, still insignificant

when compared to you

* * * * *

The Apple Tree

Shade from the sunshine,

beauty in simplicity–

apple of my eye

Ode to the Poets

It must be hard to be a poet

to lay souls bare that you may show it

to a world that may not care

or attempt to meet you there

at words you choose, crafted to fit

your stories that will never quit

Say So

Where are you?

Have you made camp

near lakes and rivers

of the bitter tears you’ve shed?

Are you trapped inside

your head again?

Are you suspended

in the humid air

of deep breaths and sighs

trying to land?

Are you landlocked

in the past

and trying to fly?

I can’t rescue you

but here’s my hand

to grab onto,

a shoulder for leaning,

an ear to hear,

a candle burning–

I’ll look for you

if you wish,

if you say so.

Looking at the Clouds of Rain

The clouds on the horizon look

like snow capped mountains,

something I haven’t seen

in a decade or so.

Their shape is implanted

in my brain.

These clouds are real

but they are not mountains.

The mountains seldom change.

Right? Right?

Perhaps I’ll see them again

one day

if the clouds don’t drown me first–

I know they’re still there.

Breaking the Ice

It’s not that I don’t care

but that

even the languages

we all share in these poetic words

are delicate mirrors

into ourselves and others–

it serves a purpose, let’s us see within,

but it’s imperfect, not quite accurate,

and the slightest disturbance

can shatter it into deadly shards.

It’s not that I don’t care

but that

I get excited to share my imperfect words

and break the thin ice instead.

Intimate Definition

I’m cautious using certain words

when crafting poems

since I have heard repeatedly

how great of a “love poem”

a certain piece is.

But friend,

aren’t they all love poems?

Who ever set in stone

that each one was and had to be

one of romantic love?

Are we not allowed friendship

in this vale of tears?

Are we not able to enjoy

the company of others

without the burning of flesh?

Aren’t all poems about love and lost love?

You can change its meaning

but it will not change;

love or leave

the intimate definitions.