A Strike, A Flame, A Toss

Synchronized

Footsteps to the sound of my wristwatch 

A sputter of fast paced thoughts

My imagination’s firm grip on the handle, a printing press – my mind

Round and round, pages pile up until they teeter and spill to the floor

An open box, a lone match stick, waiting patiently to take hold of the reins

Winds on stand by, to breathe life, at the same time an end

Thumb and finger, a strike, a flame, a toss

Out of the darkness once more

Peace and Slumber

Chipped paint on weathered signs

A reminder of abandoned houses filled with yesterday’s voices

An aged man softly runs his fingers across his cheek

Searching for memories that were once there

 

Black birds fly overhead, singing soft lullabies

Waiting for falling eyelids and the sound of deep breaths

Sleep never comes easily

Even when darkness sits at the doorstep

 

Rustling trees heard through closed windows

Falling leaves find small whirlwinds

A dance with forgiveness

Searching for peace to let slumber in

 

 

 

 

Savor Patiently

Patience, wait for me

Slow molasses melodies

Thick drops, heart beats, in unison

Some things were created with slow motion in mind

 

Linger, stay for a while

The water is warm, waiting

We can sail paper ships made of handwritten letters never mailed

Floating words, by chance to be read, by someone, somewhere

 

Wake me, before drifting away

Shrinking silhouettes, a last chance, a last goodbye

Tomorrows do not exist, at least not like this one, today

Yesterday tastes of sweetness and regret, savored, patiently

Buen Camino Whispers

Searching

Grasping at straws that leave with the wind

Too busy choosing a life, instead of living one

A long walk, spreading ashes along the roadside

And watching sword fights in between hay stacks

Imaginary bulls whisper “Buen Camino” as they pass through red capes

A greeting, a prayer

A hello, a goodbye

Not just one, a blessing of all, but only to those who receive

I hear a voice, fall to my knees and look up at lanterns swinging overhead

Their arc leaving blessed plumes and sighs of crashing waves

This is where I leave it, gently at the foot of the steps

Buen Camino the bull whispers

Buen Camino I whisper back