Starry conversation

     I.

The sun told the moon

'I miss you'

He answered

'come visit me when it's nighttime.

Meet me in the dark'

   II. 

The cat swallowed 

Half the moon the boy threw out of the window

and gave the beams to her staving kittens.

  III.

The half moon played half a song

the half moon talked to half the stars

The other halves 

Beamed jazz in the kitties tummies. 

   IV. 

The full moon rounded,

Like peacocks it cried 

'night's here'

  V.

The sun snorted at nighttime, 

it hated the sound of rustling wind 

Meowing cats and angry teenage boys.

The sun despised the cracks of whips 

and the breaking of vases and jars. 

   VI. 

Then when the moon said I want you 

the sun answered: 

You are plain rock 

noisy and hard

And I am bright fire

my surname is the morning star. 

illustration credit: found on a yoga website via google, not mine. 

Little arguments

What are you saying?
What are you doing?
Why is your sky green and mine blue?
Your seas are purple and your land is drawn in musical notes
Your speech is whimsical and you dream in metaphor
Sometimes, we do not get you
Your gibberish
the world you create for yourself,
'Why? Show me one reason why.' He asked again
Art explains itself, she whispered as
She pulled him by the hand
away from the paint dripping canvas
left to dry
under May's sun.

On loss

Center of the world,                                 

tell me

when does the next train leave

off the edges of the universe?. 

(part of a poem inspired by Frida Khalo's painting bellow) 

Future Fear

No one enjoys

The ride along this but I,

Fear this dream

Flowers! waste again.

Rooster's egg.

Ours they had said Of the roosters egg No, it is ours- their neighbors cried And they both forgot It was never a rooster that laid the egg!

Cycling and poetry

The cyclist he
never sees
eye to eye those who tread
the land at their pace.

Bee yourself

One

is not the exposition of hair breaking 

or scars and mistaking 

Not the effects of leftover alcohol in your soul 

or even your turned out closet.

One is 

What makes of those moments, 

all put together

of breaking hairs and of mornings beyond alcohol 

Spirits are never made to be worn out

One becomes what one puts up 

or lets go off, like decorations

one is collected in attics through the years

and one is vibrantly polished like glass surfaces-

One never stops growing, 

old, but somehow taller, or heavier 

Truthful but somehow leaner 

One's self stretches its wings enough

to fit the world 

yet awes at where other selves start.