Sleeping with Valor’s Retreat

There are lines to this scarcity.

Hidden obstacles filled with joyless doubt.

Now that I am in…the dead air is coming out!

A covert world we all must go thru…

and, the question remains…

‘Will I have the courage to go without you?’

The grass beaded with dew and the…aromatic earth…

does not quench my soul as it used to.

Lying and dying have become art forms.

A certain style giving unto…laughing…crying.

Courage in the blinding light of day can whisk the unthinkable webs away.

Nonetheless, the night…with its sporadic fits of sleep…

Still begs for valor’s retreat.

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One Day by the River

 

With all the dips and lulls at an impasse…a drought!

No, to transparency…living, life, cloudy with doubt.

One day while praying for rain,

I convinced myself it has always been this way.

Speechless with cotton mouth, dried by the fray…

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One day by the river,

brittle as, burning parchment…

praying for rain.

Empathy receded in silent shame.

If I Were a Fisherman

If I were a fisherman.

Forty days, forty nights, would no longer be pretend.

I could cast my line into a moldy moat.

If I were a fisherman.

I would no longer need a boat.

If I were the rain.

My flesh turning toward water.

My blood thinned by the clouds above.

My tears rearing…the green grass below.

To a life filled with drought.

I would be liquid gold.

If I were the rain.

I would be the only reason for many a season.

If I were a picture.

Worth at least, a hundred words.

I would photograph, all that is foreign and absurd.

I would camouflage all the earth’s treason.

Exposing the hue and contrast of desperation’s sun.

If I were to walk on water.

I would not need worry about the weather.

Encompassing all that is gathering and harsh.

After the ark, I would satiate all that is parched.

 

Lily of the Pond

Now that she has gone…

How was I to know…our affair

was to be so inviting of mirth and muck.

For the most part…

We all become down on our luck.

Seasoned by other droughts.

Encouraged to over eat…

on the sun’s guiding heat.

 

Green and over ripe.

Blessed are the ones who dance for the rain.

Those who imbibe in the slippery terrain.

It isn’t always in vain…

When I loiter over the powder puffs of fine sand.

Nor, is it inclement of me…

to dangle out on the edges of the frothy banks.

Pulling summertime pranks from lily pad water tanks.

 

So, I have been caught…

dirty handed.

Wishing the water away.

Longing for the drops to just scatter at my roots.

Dizzily looking at nature’s bathing suit.