In The Spirit Of

He follows sunlight’s lead,
Rising and falling with the
Hiding and showing of the
Moon, that which circles
’bout, as do his children,
Three, and wife, One.

He races through the weeds,
Laying in the grass when
Reaching a lawn worn thin
By tiny, grown feet; and he
Cares for this canvas, where
Their hearts never stopped
And eyes never ceased
Being open to possibilities.
His hands trace routes in
The green, looking for
Their smiles in his memories,
While all after him holds more
Than what he could have seen.
Stilled, he finds solace in the leaves.

Just Keep Going

The birds, following
Stream to be far away
From what they’ve known,
Trusting few who still
Know the destination,
Give flight to the Way,
And just keep going,
Hopping into breeze
As all slowed pedestrians,
Angry o’er the chanced,
Fall behind to be still where they are.

angles

I
Look around,
Hoping
Your eyes
Find mine,
But the world
Tilts just so
You stare down,
My head rises,
And focus falls
Inward again.

Nothing
Below the shoulders
Moves, as I
Imagine a smile
And widened eyes
Looking back at me;
But, with my head
In the clouds, you
Have no chance of being
In my sight today.

Given a
Tick/twitch/awakening,
My mind winds neck,
A snapping-back to the present,
Where your gaze, though
Lowered, draws me
From across all that’s been
To everything ahead of me;
And you look up,
Drawn by my gravity,
The world spins just so
A hand, on an arm, from a shoulder,
Raises to flushed brow to
Wipe away a hair, the
Only barrier that was left
To keep words, buried, from
Rising and being given life
While lungs fill with you.

Hippo-critical

We fault others for
The follies we
Find ourselves
Doing often enough
To know better.

A poem is a view which an author ever-so-lightly drills behind the eyes[ having known life before & after, and preferring after].

The Pot

I fold,
Not because I give in,
But, because there are many more hands to be held.