Along the stone-tipped buildings, glass reflects
The water ripples flowing near, where home’s
A memory uncorked and lost, complex
As photos seen in every road one roams.
Now winter’s worn the road some fifteen years,
The covered clouds are broken by the sun
And wind-whipped rain blows on till pathways clear
With breath blown in from cold where there is none.
Above looms fog that wafts up from the shrubs
Where herons gather in a game of chance
Along a path where holy men proceed to scrub
The frozen customs free in wartime dance.

No Trace

I walk the streets to stray around
As horns hang still, surrounding cars
No people pass, no flowers found
The clouds stay dark, the sun stays far
No light, no sound—a man was hung
These buildings block the burning sun
We take in air with dying lungs
Restored to life against the guns
There is no more, it’s all in vain
Without direction known, unknown
A daydream where it’s all the same
The city cries on buried stones
Forgotten landscapes, desert blooms
A people left by littered gates

A Hundred Excuses

the ocean is calling
waves speak steadily, stealthily
when time beats rhythmically to the end
your voice is always open
it calls me when I sleep
a sweet, hypnotic touch
the flutter of fake eyelashes
the blinking that’s sometimes real—
did you say something that time?
alone on our backs
we listen to the buzz 
to the white in the sky
this is the time for a hundred excuses
Subscribe to RSS - meditative poetry