Little Weed

He grew up rusted in his tips

Settled between trees

Light brushing his thighs

But always the sweep of machines

cleaved at him.

He look all around

But was far from the top

And the ground, was but around now

“Oh my, please don’t rest me here!”

the afternoon came unbeckoned

His knees, how they seemed so sincere

The shake, was his heart

Filled with unrelenting fear

“I may be unbidden

But I could be just as great, if only you would listen.”

Oh what respect the little weed could earn,

What heartfelt landscapes, what fulfilling existence, what tearful joys

To see skies, and feel his soul burn

To grow and grow unhampered

Such a spell for a plant to be unachored

To be a weed, to be cleaved and bitten,

Is a breed of grit, a befuddled mission

Yet, his heart beat on, row after row more

Why just a bit more light, and he could be at peace for sure.

“I’m growing young, over and over again,

My life is prophecy

My will is made of cement.”

He grew up rusted in his tips

Spreading from his grave

His breath a steady candle

Blown out, time and time again.

Soon, and after time wore thin,

The little plant dropped his chin,

‘‘Twas then, the sun flickered low

And grabbed at him,

“My weed, you must be rather strong within,

For you have kept pushing on,

I shall grant one wish, thereupon,”

“Mother, I have only one wish for you,

Please, grant me a better view.”

“Little weed, I must insist,

You will not love the life, of such blissfulness,

There are others less sturdy than thyself,

Who have more need of such wealth,

Is there not anything else?”

“well no, not really, I am suffering here

This plot, is rather tiring,

Is life not made of more, than fear of expiring?”

He stretched to give his limbs more lease

Such beauty in his rusted peaks.

“My little weed, you are quite the endearing one,

I truly do wish to see you flourish

But you see, I’m uncertain of your wish.

Perhaps there is but one other way,

For you to soar, and not feel such looming grey.”

“Oh, how I long to stretch, to fly

To tickle earth, heavens, and dearest sky.”

“I understand you little dearest,

You, sweet weed, are richest in spirit

Forevermore, you will bloom, and find wings

And shall see all of the wind’s bidding,

She stroked his spine, up and down

His limps gathered high

And then with a snap, he was flying

“You, little weed, are hereby a dandelion.”

With a gust, a twirl, a sweet lullaby

The little weed, at last, could rise and suspire.

100 yards

It was a slow process,

But somewhere you wove into me

our strings together tangled

And our strands together made 100 yards

All balled up and ready

And somehow, they saw.

They said, forget this! Move on from this bunched up, rolled up, intertwined love! You forgot yourselves!

But there was no untangling

And no urge, no desire to see that self again

Only this new 100 yards would do.

We said, we can’t. We do not want to.

This is us. Red and blue together. A purple hue.

300 feet, still growing

Still fusing two worlds and more ready

Together tangled

Intertwined and raveled

Shaking their heads, they looked beyond us

Chewing on the moment

The piteous despair, youth gone,

There were still many torments to come

100 yards can be so sweet

A pair is stronger than a strand, right?

But violet shrinks away

When the years begin to fray the once strong

Twisted together yarn, what can be done

For blue and red, the you and I, long left behind

The Untwined?

The Bellows

The forecast was a low hiss and a high-pitch chuckle

She sat up in bed as the trees wrestled for their upright posture,
The trivial windows of their compact bedroom got punched by bullet shaped droplets
“I left things outside.”

And he tossed over, his hips now facing her.
“Hmm?”

“I left something’s outside. I need to get them so they aren’t ruined. I didn’t know it would rain. It hasn’t for months.”

He lifts himself up
“I’ll help.”

And they rushed into the burdened weep
And the bellow of unrepented furry

As they sought tools in the bleak air
Half-lit, time is a taunting thing

The feeling of glaciers jigging up the bumpy ridge of spines.

But, just as soon as the midnight chore was over,
Their eyes each traveled up from the drunken boots that soiled their feet,
They watched as nearby ponds, lakes, and rivers pour over the other’s bare shape,
And saw in eachother’s eyes this very moment,
Tender and true.
Manically, they begin to burst
To double over,
She careened forward too far and had to catch her weight in the mud with her hands, and the squish was a beep to the phonestheme of rain biting into the dirt, becoming one with the land

The sky wept, and they erupted,
So full was their love, the naked and drenched beyond the marrow kind.

And moments later, when the fit of lively rumbles ceased to leap from the long columns of their throats,

and the globular beads still trickled along the skin, maneuvering over his adam’s apple and down through the valley between his sharp collar bones, and

and as they dug their soiled toes, intertwined, into the twisted sheets again, as the sky quaked and pounded and growled, and rattled,

Their eyes became the shape of soft almonds, their hands became traveling agents wondering miles and miles of vast terrains, and dimly they heard the other say something, an affectionate mumble to disrupted night, the taunting moment between bleaker day-light hours.

Watching on hands and knees, the cloud’s teeth glowed and it locked horns with the heavens.

Meek

bury your demons, little one.

bury your traitors with ashes on their face

bury your skin tags behind your blood

and bury your alien suns.

let the others fall on their swords in the swallow of grass

let their passions be their demise

let their troubles guide the blade through their spine

and up the ridges.

You sit on your hands and silent your thoughts

the meek will inherit the earth

there is a meadow out beyond the frosted window

where the naked worm shivers in the sunlit dew

and you ran there once, a chip on your lip

You swore to the birds in chorus

and they answered brighter, clipping their wings faster

But the sunlight only echoes fears into darknesses

And deep breaths are always wet

You fought your toes into the friction of mud

And sat pondering unrelenting fury

What justifications are there?

What anger is worthy?

Where is righteousness in all this arbitrary landscape

Where no roots will grow

Where water only swirls?

Instead of cascading into the deepest depths.

We wrestle with air,

Just relent.

Knotted in a Bow

"Are you saying yes to the dress?"

"let's put some more white on,"

"no , thank you."

And I stood facing myself down,

spinning in quiet revolt, straining

in a mass of tule,

to elicit the tears, oh ode to joys

of being a bride,

of weaning from the moon alas,

and making love with the sun.

"I'll think about it. Thank you."

But my mind slipped, and I found I was there again,

where the mood turned sour,

Where the white bled as dark as red,

and my mother's lips breathed,

"I just wish, he would find a job."

"I don't understand."

"You will not find my support here."

And as I search up and down these white fields,

For the satin that will cover my skin,

And blanch my impure soul,

I pause.

"And what about this one?"

"What do you think of this neckline, miss?"

I'll never miss the old me,

Whose colors didn’t match my skin,

Without seeing the light through his eyes,

Without the him that makes me whole.

"...engaged..."

"Let's cheers to the new bride."

to being engaged to the present,

to dress shopping, to swarming in white,

dreaming of rainbow petals,

loose giggles dropping from picture frames,

lemon cheer.

But my flute is empty,

and at the bottom, I feel so much.

"and how do you think you will pay for this?"

"How is he going to support you?"

"Is he the reason, you have not finished school?"

It's all tainted with doubt.

engaged...

locked on the eyes of the man I love,

the one that has me floating ,

On the futures , we swam in together,

and I told him,

"I just want to be with you.

I don't care if we have no money,

if we spend half our lives chasing

if our union is in a tent

on a rainy day, in a ripped dress

I'll follow you anywhere."

engaged ...

entangled with the warmth of his heart,

the arrangement of sapphire flakes in his eyes

"You okay, dear?"

"There is no pressure to pick one today."

to pick the me, that is me without my mom,

to choose a style that flatters the me and him,

and not her, the world before him.

"Oh goodness, dear."

"What is wrong, honey?"

in a muddy puddle of white,

drenched to the bone, because

"nothing,"

will be easy,

about becoming new,

with white frill to cover my heart's unease,

at celebrating my future,

without the blessings of my past,

“Do you not love yourself?

Is that why you are with him?

Do you think you can change him?”

I’m lost in white, searing white,

If she coaxed my heart into beating,

If she felt herself in me at all,

Why, could she not see me now?

How tall I had grown under his water

How do I know myself,

When the woman,

I always loved,

With my chin tilted up in her direction,

Cannot be amongst these white horizons,

I see now?

How can I know myself?

Which neckline is me?

Which fabric spells my name,

When she shattered the foundation of me?

Soon I will be married to a harmony,

A man that holds me,

Holds something

That is often adrift in me,

I will clasp his hand, pull on his strength,

And engage with these white moments,

Engage with him,

Where burdens cannot muddy ,

My pure intentions.

“Will you be trying on any more, ma’am?”

“No. Not today.”

This Moon That Knows Me

As I melt into these murky waters,

a meditation on misplacement,

molding my body,

while the moon sprinkles

down, the mellow light,

and I wrestle mindlessly,

a maid to the water,

to the moon light,

and the mercy and might,

of the mirthful serenity, this night.

Can you smooth down the marred

edges of this mangled misery?

Oh moon, can you map this melody

the music this night, of the swift meekness

this magical moment,

where all I hear for miles,

is the mud’s mellifluous melt,

it’s mutterings to the beating ripples,

the marble surface, munificently holding me,

against the mire.

Moreover, I know

my muck will spring up with the sun

and I’ll miss this moon.

This moon that knows me.

My Harbor

I was face down in the mud when you came,

Your arms felt so solid when you lifted me.

"honey, I can't keep doing this."

Your brows were sewn together,

I was submerged in my debility,

My body limp and shaking.

"I know." and my smile was down turned, trembling.

"You have to take your pills."

Your cool voice, the ointment to my wounds.

"You know I can't."

"You have to try. For me."

I felt the tears falling from your cheeks,

Their weight, detonating on my forehead.

The rage harbored in your love,

The perturbation settling slowly, deeply,

My silence stirred the unease.

"You can't keep doing this to me."

Limp to your chest, you carried us.

Inside, where warmth erupted on my skin,

"I can't," my voice a hair of a whisper,

your curse was a wrestle of air.

"last time I tried I..."

"I know. I know. But we can be more careful next time."

through the throb, I felt a beat

my empty womb, still the sting

wincing, I shrugged

"We can have all those things. You just have to believe you can."

Your voice a crackle of fire in the the dark,

You were reading my heart,

thinking you could clean the stains,

the mess I made.

You took the stairs one at a time,

Upward and moving, us,

Your strides secure, stalwart.

"maybe."

My body dragging on upon you

The gnawing was so tender this time.

The world within my eyes,

Wanting, waiting to look into the deepest corners of you,

To tell you, "okay, anything for you."

But the words were unspoken

Instead,

"I love you."

"I love you, too."

The Ripples

The moon cast down blue light
Upon me.
I felt the intake of air
Fill me once more
The sound of ripples
Of water being licked by the lambent orb bright in the black sky
The wind’s caress
We sat there
Still
Thinking and feeling
Each next breath
Limestone beneath our bodies
An echo held my gaze
Like a shiver down my spine.
A peace.
A rather ache of a feeling.
I turned to him
Seeking the whites of his eyes amongst the raven heavens
His blond hair lit on top by the moon
”I don’t know that I want to have children”
”That’s exactly why we should » he said to the water.”
”I’m scared to have children. This world might chew them up and I can’t protect them.”
Egrets drug their toes across the lake in the distance
Disrupting the ripples
A vision of serenity and grace
Their long neck’s elegant shadows
Their wings batting down the gale
He turned to me
And grasped my hands
Bony and callused
They enveloped mine.
”That’s exactly why we should have kids, because the world is going to shit and it needs and will always need the right kinds of people to help straighten it out and hold onto humanity a little longer.”
Something aligned in me as he spoke.
The timber of his voice felt like a balm to my chill
We sat perched on earth
Feeling deep breaths
Fear and abiding hope
And a sliver of something like peace.

waiting

This window is a wall.

I wait behind.

wondering without aim,

where one might find him,

what I imagine he is.

I've spent my life wagering,

constantly pondering,

from my window.

will he walk with purpose?

will he weep with me when the lights dim?

when the moon wanes,

will he carry me to new heights?

unbeknownst to me tonight,

when I stare out this window,

I wonder,

Who will he be?

when he sweeps me up,

will he wake my sleeping heart?

will he wear his heart for me to grab?

will we grow old,

with white hair spilling from our ears?

his whiskers rubbing my skin.

will his eyes crinkle when he finds joy?

does he wonder about me?

what warmth I harbor.

The waves of colors I weave.

Does he want the things I want?

well, I can only wait,

for my window to meet his gaze,

for him to look up and realize,

our worlds were weeding out others.

for these waters.

for years working on us.

years wading through high tides,

we could soar as if we had wings,

or war together over silly things.

so I'll be waiting by my window, my wall

whispering things into the night,

beckoning him this way with all my might.

The Undead

We’ve all seen them
And yet every year they shock us
We’ll be driving down those old country roads
Each turn and weave written onto the inside of our skulls from repetition
Muscle memory
And then a shock of blue
Pulls our pupils from the twin yellow lines
To a pasture of bluebonnets
To a hillside
Of royal blue with Monet-like spots of white.
Our jaws drop.
We slacken our hands on the wheel
The blaring base uneven in our speakers forgotten
Our destination, stress, and sense of time
Likewise forgotten
The mass of wildflowers
Gentle in the wind
Demands a pause from our mundane bustle
as our tires screech to a finish
Our eyes roaming Mother Nature’s paint strokes
The enchantress´ retort to the our calamities
We remember
As children
Our mothers snapping photos
Of us amongst their masses
Our dads’ cautionous voices,
”lookout for snakes!”
And each year since then
As our lives and struggles unfold
In familiar patterns
We are demanded to stop
By these vast patches of sapphire
Their bewildering white eyes on top
Their cheer in the spring sunrays
We stop
As captives to the bluebonnets
And then they die.
And life continues on with its blur
The busy duty
And stir
Of monotony. Of work.
Little fits of laughter and seasons of tears
And every year.
Every spring in Texas.
The ocean appears in the middle of pastures all over the heart of the state
We stop.
Mouth’s agape.
Their persistence in our lives stunning us
They refill our blood
With something native and wild
Something resembling stillness
And comfort.
A seed within the soil
A root in our souls
We stop
Our nostrils flare to accommodate
The saccharine scent that fills the sky
Our hearts suddenly find the righteous rhythm
The one we remember as children
running with the our dog Jo
We stop
And the cobalt and white reminds us
This is home
This is the dirt and horizon
That gives and gives
We stop
And the bluebonnets sing to us
Of lives and spoils
The centuries that have come and gone with their touch
They choked on the iron blood hot from Palm Sunday
Their young ones grow from the hurricanes we name with bitter memories
They remember the sunsets of pinks, and oranges, purples, and blues
And they have seen from their hill tops
The Great Egrets that drag their feet over the calm waters while the moon is on duty in the sky
We stop
And just feel
Because the sun has ways of making us stop
And the seasons paint images that make us breath again
And feel peace again.
One day our children will nestle in their blossoms
Waiting for the click of our camera
And years will go by
we’ll grow old
And need glasses for our film covered eyes
And canes for the hurts in our hips
And when the cerulean wildflowers grow to greet us
We’ll be perched
Waiting for them
Wrinkles and white hairs for all our worries
And our lips will spread wide open
A sunbeam in our eyes
The sea of blue buds
The thumping of our organs
The moments that make up a life
We will sit perched.
Stopped
Still
We’ll lift our heads up
Our hands joined
And thank Texas
Thank the blue and white hues
For the halt in our tires
For the inhalation of home
The wax and wane of peace and thunder
All the setbacks that killed our giggles
The pitch in our voices late at night when money grew tight
The felicity of our baby’s first steps
The tale of the first rock concert that gave us goosebumps everywhere,
And all the summits and wonders that filled our mortal existence
For the reflection of blue fields embedded deep in our eyes
The ups and downs in this mountainous irresistible window we have
Where our eyes will open
And our chests with heave
Our bodies will swing to the symphony of cascadas late at night
And there will come a time when our loved ones and long forgotten peers will look down at our bodies
Laying in our softest silk amongst the dirt
The droplets from their eyes will be the last spring rain upon our cheeks
Before we are gone.
So, we stop.
Where the bluebonnets lure us
We listen to their religious whispers
Year after year
And we feel our kinship
Our cyclical, limitless, weightlessness
The myriad of the entire rear view mirror and the long stretch of road.
Then with a sigh we remember plans
Getting places
Dates and deadlines
The buzz of of our cell phone ringing somewhere
Nagging us back to reality
To real time
To practical matters
We look out the window one last time
And just feel.
Our fill.