Thinking smaller

…As i dipped my arm in a bath of ice
the sensation thrilled my inner child
who then cried out with broken nerves
and bottle rocket screams we learned
meant more than books when books could come
and steal your bike and take the fun
from army games in minature
trenches carved in my backyard
a treehouse leaned against the stars
could make us indians with feathers in our
hair but something evil stole those years
from me, at least,
….i don’t remember clearly
what went on inside my head
when i had less to worry me

Slow to wake

almost on the verge of recounting my dreams
i lay for an hour, still as a flower
in a pot on a porch in a town with no breeze

i focused my eyes on a corner of ceiling
where a cobweb chaotically was strewn on a beam
its features as jagged as cliffs by the sea

what dream was i so laboriously attempting
to bring from the theater of sleep
into the scrutiny of careful recollection?

what was my subconscious trying to tell me
when i was running through Paris’ empty streets
at night in fog as white as angel wings?

i stared at my corner and tried to remember:
wasn’t i searching for another dreamer–
were we to meet under the Eiffel tower?

yes.

finding that clue, and pulling it through–
like unraveling a sweater with one thread exposed
my dream came back like crystal glass

i don’t know if this was a rendezvous
conspired in secret by our subconscious minds
but last night in Paris
we met
and kissed

…so why the fuck did i wake up?

The clouds are coming

The clouds are creeping
crossing paths
and sometimes sleeping
staying still
for minutes more
than we should spend
simply, sweetly,
contemplating
the white
that breaks the blue

someone in seattle
might not be
so bewitched
by passing clouds
or singing storms
drumming on the roof
but inland towns
in mexico
will fall in love
with these wispy
white continents
inverted on
their paths across the blue

we can’t escape
the stoic, cloudless,
unembellished sky
with none of these
white ornaments
to make us sigh
(and want to spend the day outside)
its always here
and we are stuck–
patient prisoners
in our insipid cyan cell

(poetic souls need novelty,
embellishment and decoration
to satiate their appetite
for delicious images
for hearty, lush,
and potent emotions;
so you see why i say
the bland blue sky
is hell!
my soul is starving!)